Chapter 124 Chapter 123
Logan POV
The first thing I notice when I wake up the second time is that Harper isn’t in my arms anymore.
For half a second my brain panics—stupid, automatic—like she vanished and last night was just adrenaline and bad decisions.
Then I hear it: the faint rush of the shower down the hall.
Relief loosens something in my chest.
Right.
She’s still here.
In my room.
At the Ice House.
I sit up slowly, blinking against the bright streaks of morning light cutting through the blinds. My sheets are twisted, my head is heavy in that way that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with emotions I don’t know how to store.
Flashes of last night come back in messy pieces.
The auction. The spotlight. Harper’s face when I raised my paddle.
Five thousand.
Her eyes locking onto mine like she didn’t know whether to bolt or fall apart.
The roar of the room when she bid back on me—like she’d grabbed the narrative and yanked it toward her with both hands.
The way my father’s name lit up my phone right after and I silenced it without thinking.
The quiet afterward, when the noise died and Harper was close enough that I could hear her breathe.
The drive back.
My room.
Her laugh when she saw the pile of gear on my chair like I lived in a locker room.
The way her laughter softened when it stopped being about anything funny.
The way her hand found mine like it belonged there.
I stare at my empty pillow for a second too long, then drag a hand through my hair and grab my phone off the nightstand.
It vibrates immediately.
A text.
From Dad.
Of course.
I don’t even have to unlock the screen to feel my stomach drop.
Answer your damn phone, Logan. We’re discussing that $5,000 stunt you pulled right now.
My jaw tightens hard.
There it is.
Not a question.
Not concern.
A command.
The same tone he used when I was fourteen and missed curfew because I stayed late at practice.
I stare at the text until the screen dims, then unlock it again. Another buzz. Another text stacking behind it like he’s trying to force my hand through the phone.
I don’t read the second one.
I already know the message.
Obey.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
No point delaying it. If I don’t call him, he’ll call the coach. Or Daniel. Or someone else who can reach me.
He always finds a way.
I hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then—
“Logan.”
No hello. Just my name. Sharp. Controlled.
“Morning,” I say.
He doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Explain the five thousand dollar charge.”
Straight to the throat.
“It was a charity auction,” I say evenly.
“I know what it was,” he snaps. “I watched it.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
Of course he did.
My father watches everything that involves hockey. And I’m hockey to him.
“You watched the whole thing?” I ask.
“I saw enough.”
There’s a pause, and I can hear his breathing—steady, contained, like he’s choosing to stay calm.
That calm never means peace.
It means he’s about to cut.
“I asked why you spent that amount,” he continues.
“It was a fundraiser,” I say. “The money goes to youth programs.”
“That’s not the point.”
His voice sharpens.
“The point is you stood up in front of boosters, donors, and—yes—scouts, and you turned yourself into a spectacle.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“It was for charity.”
“It was attention,” he snaps back.
My teeth grind.
“And that girl.”
There it is.
Not her name. Not a person.
Just that girl.
“Harper,” I correct before I can stop myself.
Silence.
Then—
“Yes. Harper.”
The way he says it makes my jaw clench like the syllables taste bad.
“You don’t even know her,” I say.
“I know enough.”
“Oh yeah?” My voice is tighter now. “Like what?”
“That she’s a distraction.”
The word hits like a punch.
“She’s not—”
“You’re weeks away from scouts making final evaluations,” he cuts in, voice rising. “Teams study everything, Logan. Performance. Discipline. Focus.”
“I know.”
“And relationships,” he adds, like it’s a disease.
My grip tightens.
“What about them?”
“They complicate things.”
I stare at the ceiling. Try to breathe. Try not to picture Harper stepping onto that stage.
Try not to picture the way she looked at me when I took her hand in front of everyone.
“You think I can’t handle both?” I ask quietly.
“I think distractions derail careers.”
Harper isn’t a distraction.
But telling him that feels impossible—like trying to convince a man who only believes in stats that something can matter without being measurable.
“You don’t know her,” I repeat.
“I don’t need to.”
“That’s convenient.”
His tone turns colder.
“Logan—”
“No,” I say, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
There’s a beat of silence on the line.
It’s small, but it’s real.
My father doesn’t like being interrupted.
“Careful,” he says softly.
The warning is familiar.
My stomach tightens.
I swallow.
Then he speaks again, and his voice is almost casual—almost worse.
“Didn’t she go to your high school?”
The question catches me off guard.
I blink. “What?”
“I’ve seen her before,” he says. “At one of your games. Years ago. She was in the stands a lot.”
My chest tightens.
Of course she was.
Harper grew up with me. She was there for everything.
But my father saying it out loud makes it feel like he’s already turning her into a file.
A fact.
A variable.
“And then the photos started showing up,” he continues.
My jaw clenches. “What photos?”
“The publicity ones,” he snaps. “From that fake date the university arranged.”
Daniel’s stupid PR plan.
“You and her all over their social media,” he continues, clipped and furious. “Walking into restaurants. Smiling for cameras.”
His voice turns sharp.
“So this isn’t even new.”
“It wasn’t a real date,” I say tightly.
“That’s not how it looks,” he barks.
I close my eyes.
Because he’s right.
It didn’t look fake.
And my father doesn’t care what something is. He cares what it looks like.
“You’re appearing in publicity photos with the same girl you just spent five thousand dollars on,” he says. “And you expect me to believe this is nothing?”
“It’s not—”
“I watched the way you looked at her,” he cuts in flatly. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Logan.”
My throat tightens.
His voice drops, controlled again.
“This is exactly how young players lose focus.”
The old rage rises in me—hot and familiar.
“You built your career by ignoring everything else in your life,” I say.
The words hang in the air like a grenade.
Silence.
Longer this time.
The kind of silence that makes my skin tighten.
Then my father speaks, very quietly.
“You carry my blood, Logan,” he says. “Whether you like it or not.”
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
“I’m not trying to be you,” I say.
He exhales through his nose.
“You want the career I built.”
“I want my own career.”
“You don’t get your own career by throwing money at a girl because she looked good under a spotlight.”
My chest burns.
“She’s not—” I start.
“A girl like that will ruin you,” he says, voice suddenly brutal. “You don’t see it because you’re in it.”
I freeze.
My hand tightens around the phone.
“A girl like what?” I ask, voice dangerously low.
He ignores the question.
“You’re too close to the draft for this nonsense,” he continues. “You have one job.”
“Hockey,” I say flatly.
“Yes.”
His tone is iron.
“Everything else comes second.”
“And if it doesn’t?” I ask.
There’s a pause.
Then:
“Then you’re making a mistake.”
His certainty is infuriating.
Like he owns the future.
Like he owns me.
My father’s voice shifts again, practical and cold.
“Is she a secret,” he asks, “or is she public?”
I blink hard.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
My stomach twists.
“You can keep her private,” he continues. “Or you can make her part of your public life.”
A pause.
“But you don’t get to pretend she’s both.”
And there it is.
The impossible question dressed up like logistics.
Secret or public.
Like she’s an accessory.
Like she’s a brand strategy.
I want both.
That’s the truth.
I want Harper in the quiet. In the mornings. In the moments no one sees.
And I want hockey. Draft night. The life I’ve been chasing since I could stand on skates.
And the reason I want both—why the question makes my chest feel like it’s splitting—has nothing to do with Harper.
It’s because of him.
Because my father built a world where everything has to be one thing.
Controlled.
Categorized.
Useful.
And Harper doesn’t fit into his categories.
Which means he wants her gone.
The shower stops down the hall.
My pulse ticks faster.
Then the bathroom door opens behind me.
I turn slightly.
Harper steps into the room, hair damp, wrapped in one of my shirts like it’s nothing.
Like this is normal.
Like she belongs here.
She smiles softly when she sees me awake.
And my chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
My father is still on the line.
“So,” he says.
“Which is she?”
Harper’s smile fades slightly as she reads my face.
She doesn’t speak. She just stands there, waiting.
I stare at her.
And something shifts in me—something stubborn, something furious, something tired of being told who I’m allowed to want.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say tightly.
My father exhales, slow and disapproving.
“You better,” he says. “And you better do it soon.”
Then, colder:
“If she’s temporary, keep her quiet.”
My jaw clenches.
“And if she’s not?” I ask.
A pause.
Then:
“Then you make sure she doesn’t cost you everything.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly.
For a moment, the room is silent except for the faint hum of the Ice House waking up outside.
Harper takes a small step closer.
Her voice is gentle.
“Was that… bad?”
I swallow hard and set the phone down on the nightstand like it weighs fifty pounds.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly.
Harper’s eyes flicker with understanding.
She doesn’t ask what he said.
She doesn’t press.
She just comes closer, slow, careful, like she’s approaching an animal that might bolt.
Then she climbs back onto the bed beside me and sits with her legs tucked under her.
Her hand finds mine.
Simple.
Steady.
And the fact that she does it without hesitation—like she isn’t scared of my mess—makes my throat tighten.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?” My voice comes out rough.
“For… being part of the pressure.”
I shake my head once, sharp.
“You’re not the pressure,” I say.
She looks up at me.
My chest aches.
I don’t know how to explain that the pressure has had my father’s voice for my entire life.
That hockey was never just something I loved—it was something I was trained to earn.
That every time I think I want something for myself, I hear him asking what it costs.
I squeeze her hand gently.
“He wants me to decide if you’re a secret or public,” I admit.
Harper stills.
Her eyes search mine.
“And what do you want?” she asks quietly.
I stare at her.
The truth is immediate.
Terrifying.
I want her.
But wanting her isn’t the same as being brave enough to choose her when it’s inconvenient.
I swallow hard.
“I want both,” I admit. “And I hate that I do.”
Her expression softens, but there’s pain there too.
“Because you think you can’t have both.”
Because my father spent my whole life teaching me that if you want something badly enough, you sacrifice everything else.
And Harper looks like the kind of thing you don’t sacrifice.
Harper’s thumb rubs lightly over my knuckles.
“You don’t have to answer him today,” she says softly.
I let out a rough laugh.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “He thinks I do.”
She studies me for a long moment.
Then she leans in and presses her forehead gently to my shoulder, like she’s grounding herself.
Or grounding me.
“I don’t want to be your secret,” she whispers.
The words hit hard.
I close my eyes.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t want you to be either.”
Her breath shudders.
I wrap my arm around her again, pulling her closer.
She comes willingly, resting against my chest like she belongs there.
And my phone sits silent on the nightstand, a reminder that the world is still waiting.
My father is still waiting.
Scouts are still watching.
But Harper is here.
Warm and real and impossible to categorize.
And for the first time in my life, the question isn’t whether I can make the NHL.
It’s whether I can stop letting my father decide what I’m allowed to want once I get there.