Chapter 220 Chapter 219
Chapter 220 Chapter 219
Logan POV
For the longest time, neither of us said anything.
My mom simply kept her hand resting over mine while the kitchen settled into that familiar kind of silence that only exists in old family homes. The clock above the stove ticked steadily. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower hummed a few streets over. The breeze drifted through the open kitchen window, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass.
It was ordinary.
Comfortably ordinary.
And maybe that was exactly why the words I’d been carrying around for weeks finally found their way out.
“I’m scared.”
I hadn’t planned on saying it.
The words just… happened.
Mom didn’t look shocked.
She didn’t immediately ask why.
She only squeezed my hand a little tighter.
“I know.”
I let out a humorless laugh.
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Her expression stayed calm.
“You think you’re going to lose hockey?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“You think you’ll disappoint the scouts?”
Another shake.
“You think you’ll disappoint your father.”
That one landed.
I looked down at the table.
“I don’t know how to stop trying.”
My voice sounded rough.
“I keep telling myself I don’t care what he thinks.”
I laughed bitterly.
“But every time I step onto the ice…”
“…I hear him.”
The words came faster now.
“If I miss a pass…”
“I hear him.”
“If I don’t score…”
“I hear him.”
“If I have one bad practice…”
“I hear him telling me somebody else wants it more.”
I rubbed both hands over my face.
“I can’t shut him off.”
Mom stayed quiet long enough that I finally looked up.
There were tears in her eyes.
Not dramatic tears.
The kind that had probably been waiting a very long time.
“I’m sorry.”
I frowned.
“For what?”
She took a slow breath.
“For not protecting you better.”
My stomach tightened immediately.
“Mom…”
“No.”
She shook her head gently.
“I need you to let me say this.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“When you were little…”
A sad smile crossed her face.
“…you loved everything.”
“Hockey.”
“Baseball.”
“Fishing.”
“You wanted to build tree forts.”
“You wanted to learn guitar for about three weeks.”
I laughed quietly.
“I was terrible.”
“You were awful.”
She smiled.
“But you were happy.”
Her eyes drifted toward the window.
“You couldn’t wait to wake up every morning because every day felt like an adventure.”
The smile slowly faded.
“Then hockey became more serious.”
I already knew where this was going.
“Your father wanted to help.”
She emphasized the words carefully.
“And at first…”
“…he did.”
I nodded.
“He taught you discipline.”
“He taught you commitment.”
“He taught you to never quit.”
She sighed.
“But somewhere along the way…”
“…winning stopped becoming something you celebrated.”
“It became something you needed.”
The room felt smaller.
“I saw it happening.”
She looked at me with heartbreaking honesty.
“I just didn’t realize how much of you it was taking.”
I swallowed hard.
“You tried.”
“I did.”
“I remember.”
She smiled sadly.
“I remember telling your father that you needed days off.”
I laughed softly.
“He said champions don’t take days off.”
She nodded.
“I remember.”
Another silence settled between us.
Then she surprised me.
“You know the only time your father and I ever had a real fight?”
I frowned.
“I thought you fought all the time.”
She smiled.
“We disagreed.”
“I’m talking about a real fight.”
I waited.
“You were fifteen.”
My eyebrows pulled together.
“The regional championship?”
She nodded.
“You scored twice.”
“We won.”
“I remember.”
“So do I.”
Her voice became quieter.
“When we got home…”
“…I heard your father yelling.”
I looked at her.
“He wasn’t yelling because you’d played badly.”
I frowned.
“He was yelling because after the game…”
She smiled through her tears.
“…you stayed behind to sign autographs for little kids.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“He told you scouts didn’t care whether children got your autograph.”
The memory came rushing back all at once.
I’d forgotten about it.
Or maybe…
I’d buried it.
“I told him those kids waited outside for an hour.”
“You did.”
“I said they deserved a minute.”
“You did.”
“And he…”
I couldn’t finish.
Mom nodded slowly.
“He said your job wasn’t to make children happy.”
“It was to become a professional.”
I stared at the table.
“I forgot that.”
“No.”
She reached across and gently touched my arm.
“I think you chose to forget.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“Do you know what I remember from that night?”
I shook my head.
“You came into the kitchen.”
“You were still wearing your medal.”
She smiled.
“You took it off…”
“…set it on this exact table…”
“…and asked me if maybe you weren’t a nice person anymore.”
My chest physically hurt.
“I said that?”
She nodded.
“You were fifteen.”
“You thought kindness was making you weak.”
A tear rolled down my cheek before I could stop it.
“I failed you.”
The words barely came out.
“No.”
Mom’s voice was firm now.
“You did not.”
“I let him convince me that hockey mattered more than…”
I couldn’t even finish the sentence.
She stood from her chair and walked around the table before kneeling beside me.
She took both of my hands in hers.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“I need you to hear something.”
She waited until she knew she had my full attention.
“I loved watching you score goals.”
“I loved cheering in the stands.”
“I loved every championship.”
Her smile grew.
“But do you know what I was proudest of?”
I shook my head.
“The way every freshman who ever joined your team said you made them feel like they belonged.”
Fresh tears blurred my vision.
“The way your teachers told me you stayed after class to help other students.”
“The way little kids followed you around after games because you always stopped to talk.”
She laughed softly.
“You’ve been somebody worth admiring for a very long time.”
“It was never because of hockey.”
Those words settled deep inside me.
Because they were everything I’d spent my life needing to hear.
She brushed a tear from my cheek just like she had when I was little.
“I met Harper’s mother at the grocery store a few months ago.”
I looked up in surprise.
“You did?”
She nodded.
“We talked for almost twenty minutes.”
“And?”
A knowing smile spread across her face.
“She talked about you.”
I laughed.
“That can’t be good.”
“Oh, it was wonderful.”
She squeezed my hands.
“Do you know what she said?”
“What?”
“She said Harper has been quietly in love with the same stubborn hockey player since middle school.”
Heat rushed into my face.
“Mom…”
She laughed.
“Oh, don’t act surprised.”
“I’ve known for years.”
“You knew?”
“Logan…”
She smiled.
“The way that girl looked at you?”
“I would’ve had to be blind to miss it.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“I never knew.”
“I know.”
Her smile became softer.
“But she never asked you to become somebody else.”
She tilted her head.
“She simply waited until you were ready to become yourself.”
Those words hit me harder than anything else we’d talked about all afternoon.
Coach had reminded me why I loved hockey.
Cole had reminded me to stop doubting myself.
Harper had reminded me I was worth loving even without hockey.
Now my mother had reminded me of something I’d forgotten a long time ago.
I wasn’t choosing between my dream and the woman I loved.
I was choosing what kind of man I wanted to become while chasing that dream.
Mom stood, walked to the counter, and returned holding my old state championship medal.
I’d completely forgotten she’d kept it.
She placed it in my hand.
“I don’t want this.”
I looked at her.
“It’s yours.”
She smiled.
“No.”
She closed my fingers around it.
“This belongs to the little boy who thought hockey was magic.”
She looked me straight in the eye.
“I think it’s time you found him again.”
I stared down at the medal resting in my palm.
For years I’d believed it represented the beginning of my future.
Now…
It felt like a reminder of who I’d been before the pressure.
Mom kissed the top of my head the way she always had.
“You should go.”
I frowned.
“So soon?”
She smiled knowingly.
“The charity formal is tomorrow.”
I blinked.
“How did you—”
“I’m your mother.”
She laughed.
“I know everything.”
Then her expression turned serious.
“Don’t you dare miss it.”
“I have Chicago.”
“You leave the next day.”
She crossed her arms.
“Your future will still be waiting for you tomorrow morning.”
Her eyes softened.
“But moments?”
She gently touched my cheek.
“Those don’t wait.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“One day…”
She smiled through happy tears.
“When you have children of your own…”
“…they’re not going to ask you how many scouts came to your games.”
A small tear escaped her.
“They’re going to ask you to tell them the story of the girl who stole your heart.”
She squeezed my hand one last time.
“So go make sure the next chapter of that story is worth telling.”
As I walked out of the house, the old championship medal rested in my jacket pocket.
For the first time in years…
It didn’t feel like a reminder of what I had to become.
It felt like a reminder of who I already was.