Chapter 15 Chapter 14
Logan POV
The Ice House is too loud when I get back from the rink.
Bass rattles the floors. Laughter ricochets off the walls. A girl squeals somewhere upstairs—the sound of someone pretending she wants to be caught.
Typical Thursday night.
I drop my gear bag by the door, kick off my sneakers, and stretch the stiffness from my legs. The drive from the rink wasn’t long, but it’s enough to make the ache settle deep.
The air reeks of beer, cologne, and whatever perfume clings to the puck-bunny parade.
Chaos wrapped in neon light.
It used to feel like home.
Now it just feels like static.
I cut through the hall. Marco’s half-buried under a girl in one of our jerseys. Zack’s filming until I glare at him. By the time I reach the kitchen, another couple’s tangled against the counter. I look away, jaw tight.
Welcome to the Hartwell Playground.
The fridge light blinds me when I open it. I grab a beer, take a long pull, let the cold bite settle somewhere under my ribs.
Then—
“Didn’t think you’d make it back before midnight.”
Cole’s voice slides in behind me.
He’s leaning against the doorway, grin crooked, hair damp, shirt half-tucked like he got dressed in the dark.
“Thought you were busy with some blonde,” I say.
He smirks. “Still am. She’s upstairs taking selfies in my jersey. Said she needed to ‘hydrate.’ I told her to pace herself.”
“Hydrate,” I mutter. “That what we’re calling it now?”
“Hey, I’m all about safety. Fluids and electrolytes.” He raids the chip bag, pops one into his mouth. “You look like hell, man. Bad skate?”
“I’m fine.”
“There it is.” He points a chip at me. “The most overused word in the English language.”
“Drop it, Cole.”
“Not a chance.” He grins wider. “You come home looking like you fought the blue-line by yourself, and you’re fine. Right. That’s your new meditation style? ‘Brooding with cardio’?”
I shoot him a flat look. “You done?”
“Almost. Unless this mood’s got a name.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Sure about that?” His grin sharpens. “Because it kinda looks like a certain sorority president’s name.”
“Try again.”
He laughs, low and easy. “Man, you really suck at lying.” He drains his beer, sets it down with a clink. “Anyway—speaking of people who can’t stand you—”
“Oh good,” I say. “My favorite topic.”
He chuckles. “You’ve got company. Apparently you missed an appointment.”
I blink. “What?”
He folds his arms, enjoying this too much. “Harper.”
The bottle nearly slips from my hand. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. She’s upstairs. Said something about the charity gala, budgets, schedules—stuff I stopped understanding halfway through. Looked ready to strangle you.”
“You let her into my room?”
“Relax. She’s at your desk, not on your bed—yet.”
“Cole.”
He raises both hands, laughing. “Hey, the longer you make her wait, the more pissed she’s gonna be. So unless you want her storming down here to lecture you in front of the guys, you better go handle it.”
⸻
The hallway hums with bass and laughter. I take the stairs two at a time, jaw tight.
Light spills under my door.
Typing—fast, impatient.
I knock.
“Come in.”
I push the door open—and stop.
She’s there. Harper.
My hoodie draped on the chair, her heels kicked off, laptop open amid a storm of papers. Hair pulled up, a few strands loose against her neck. Completely out of place, completely in control.
“About time,” she says, not looking up.
“You’re in my room.”
“You weren’t answering your texts. The gala committee needed numbers tonight.”
“So you broke in?”
“I knocked,” she says evenly. “Zack let me in. He’s… very friendly.”
Of course he is.
She glances up, catches my expression. “Don’t worry. I handled it.”
I believe her. That’s what gets me. She always looks like she can handle everything—except maybe me.
I move closer. “You really came here for paperwork?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s for the charity, not you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Her fingers still on the keyboard. “You’re impossible.”
“Depends who you ask.”
She turns, facing me. The lamplight hits her face, catches on the curve of her mouth. “You think this is funny?”
“No.” My voice drops without permission. “I think you walking into my room is dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” she echoes, chin lifting. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“I think you should be.”
Her eyes narrow, daring. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably.”
The word hangs between us—reckless, electric.
She stands slowly, crossing the space between us until the desk presses against her hips. The air tightens. One more step and I could reach her, touch the pulse fluttering at her throat.
“You really shouldn’t look at me like that,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to decide if you want to kiss me or run from me.”
My breath catches. “Maybe both.”
Her laugh is quiet, shaky. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
She looks up, and for a heartbeat neither of us moves. The noise from downstairs fades. All I can hear is her breathing—and mine, rough and uneven.
I reach past her for the edge of the desk, just close enough that our arms brush. The touch is nothing. The spark is everything.
She doesn’t step back. “This isn’t high school anymore,” she whispers.
“Good,” I say. “Because I wouldn’t have survived you then, either.”
Her breath catches. For a second, we hover on that line—too close, too aware, too far gone to call it harmless.
Then she blinks and the moment breaks. “Budget’s in your inbox,” she says, voice soft but steady. She grabs her bag, slipping her heels back on.
“That’s it?”
“That’s all you need.”
She heads for the door. Instinct moves faster than thought; I catch her wrist. The contact is brief, but it hits like a jolt.
“Don’t show up here again,” I say. The warning comes out rougher than intended.
She glances down at my hand, then up at me, eyes bright. “Then answer your damn phone next time.”
Her pulse beats against my fingers once, twice—then she pulls free and walks out. The scent of her stays, citrus and something warmer, lingering long after the door clicks shut.
⸻
I stand there, staring at the empty doorway.
She’s not my type.
She isn’t.
My type’s easy—tan skin, bold laugh, no strings. Not Harper. Not a girl who gets under my skin with one look and ruins the quiet I used to live in.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, drag a hand through my hair, and laugh once—short, low, defeated.
Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself, the truth’s already sitting in my chest like a bruise:
She’s the last person I should want.
And the only one I can’t stop thinking about.