Chapter 4 Chapter 3
Logan POV
The rink smells like detergent, cold metal, and fresh ice—the only three things that ever calm me down.
We’re setting up for the Welcome Week Mixer, which is really just code for sanctioned chaos with better lighting. Cole’s got a clipboard, barking orders like this is the NHL Draft instead of a campus event.
“Shaw, get the speakers wired. And don’t let Mikey near the soundboard again.”
“Why, because last time he thought volume eleven was a personality?”
Cole glares. “Exactly.”
I plug in cables, the sharp scent of plastic mixing with the chill from the rink. The team’s in good spirits—music testing, tables set for charity sign-ups, banners half crooked.
It’s weird, though. I can’t focus. Every few minutes, my brain reroutes to the same person.
Harper Lane.
President of Alpha Chi.
The girl who looked me straight in the eye last night and told me I was still full of myself.
She wasn’t wrong. But she also didn’t walk away fast enough.
⸻
By seven, the rink’s transformed. Lights string across the stands, music thrums low and steady, and the crowd filters in—hockey jerseys mixing with pastel dresses. Admin calls it a “partnership.” We call it “good PR for bad behavior.”
Cole’s working the crowd like a politician. I stand near the penalty box, drink in hand, pretending not to scan the entrance.
Then she walks in.
Harper.
A fitted navy blazer, crisp white blouse, Alpha Chi pin catching the lights. She’s got a clipboard, a headset, and a presence that makes people part without realizing it. Even from across the rink, I can see the curve of her mouth tighten into that professional smile that hides everything she’s actually thinking.
“Someone looks focused,” Mikey mutters, nudging me.
“Event management’s serious business.”
“Sure. You gonna tell her that before or after you flirt with her in front of the Dean?”
“I don’t flirt.”
Mikey snorts. “You are the flirt.”
⸻
Harper’s giving directions to her girls by the check-in table, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pen tucked behind her ear. She’s not the same girl I used to know. She’s sharper now—every word measured, every movement efficient.
I take a sip of my drink and start toward her before I can think better of it.
She spots me halfway there, eyes narrowing like I’m a quiz she’s already prepared for.
“Mr. Shaw,” she says, smooth and cool. “You actually showed up on time. Impressive.”
“I live here half the year. Hard to be late to your own rink.”
She hums, checking something off her clipboard. “Try not to turn it into a frat party before the guests even get their name tags.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Really? Because history says otherwise.”
I grin. “History’s biased.”
Her eyes lift to mine, steady and unimpressed. “You always were good at rewriting it.”
There’s something electric in the air between us. It’s not warmth—it’s friction. The kind that burns if you touch it too long.
“Relax, Lane,” I say. “I’m on my best behavior tonight.”
“That’s exactly what worries me.”
She turns and walks off before I can answer. I watch her go, fighting a smile that won’t quit.
⸻
An hour later, the rink’s buzzing. Music loud, lights reflecting off the ice, everyone talking at once. The charity tables are overflowing, and Cole gives me a look that says see, we’re respectable.
Harper’s at the microphone near center ice, ready to kick off the formal part of the night. She waits for the room to quiet.
“Good evening, everyone. On behalf of Alpha Chi and Hartwell Hockey, welcome to the annual Welcome Week Mixer. Tonight’s event raises funds for the Children’s Cancer Foundation—so while you’re enjoying the food and music, remember that your donations make a difference.”
Polite applause. She continues, composed, rehearsed.
And maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I never do.
I call out, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear: “You sure you’re not running for mayor, Lane?”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd. Harper pauses, jaw tightening.
Without missing a beat, she smiles sweetly into the mic. “Thank you, Mr. Shaw. I’ll keep that in mind if I ever want a career in public relations—or damage control.”
The crowd laughs again, harder this time, but the victory’s hers. She plays the room better than I do.
Cole leans over, muttering, “You trying to start a war?”
“Just a friendly scrimmage.”
“Don’t make it personal.”
Too late.
⸻
Harper POV
Of course he heckled me.
Logan Shaw has never met a boundary he didn’t test. The rink echoes with laughter, and I smile through it, keeping my voice calm as I finish the announcements.
When I step down, Becca whispers, “You roasted him. I swear he liked it.”
I exhale. “He likes attention, not consequences.”
Still, I feel the pulse of adrenaline under my skin—the strange mix of irritation and satisfaction. He wanted a reaction, and I didn’t give him the one he expected.
As I weave through the crowd, I catch snippets of conversation. Everyone’s buzzing about the event, the turnout, the cause. It’s working. My plan, my organization, my schedule.
Then I hear his voice again.
“Nice speech, Madam President.”
I turn. Logan’s leaning against the rail, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, the kind of picture that makes people forgive bad behavior before it even happens.
“Glad you approve,” I say.
“Oh, I didn’t say that. Just nice delivery. You’d make a killer press secretary.”
“Funny. You’d make a terrible one.”
He laughs, low and warm. “You’ve been thinking about my career path?”
“Only when it intersects with property damage.”
He smirks. “You’re feisty tonight.”
“I’m busy.”
“Can’t be both?”
“I don’t multitask with hockey players.”
That hits something in him—a flicker across his expression, gone too fast to name. “Still got that edge.”
“Still have a clipboard,” I counter, holding it up like a shield.
⸻
The rest of the night blurs into conversations and photo ops, but I can feel him somewhere nearby. Always in my periphery. Laughing with teammates, shaking hands with faculty, and somehow still aware of me.
It’s infuriating.
He’s every headline cliché: co-captain, record scorer, rumored NHL prospect. Girls whisper his name like it’s a secret spell. And yes—he still has his type. Every photo on social media, every date I’ve seen him with, the pattern’s the same.
Hispanic girls.
And me? I’m not that. Not his type, not even in the same hemisphere. I remind myself of that whenever my heartbeat does something stupid in his presence.
It’s almost comforting, knowing the boundary’s built-in.
Except it doesn’t stop me from watching him when I shouldn’t.
⸻
Halfway through the event, I’m at the donation table when Logan joins me, holding two cups of punch. He offers one.
“Peace offering.”
I raise a brow. “Is it spiked?”
“Would I do that to you?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. “Fair. It’s clean. I think.”
I take it, sip carefully. It’s just fruit punch, too sweet. “So what’s the occasion? Feeling guilty about the mayor comment?”
“Guilty? No. Impressed, maybe.”
“Because I didn’t crumble under public humiliation?”
“Because you owned it.”
I study him. “You surprise me, Shaw.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good luck with that.”
He tilts his head, smiling. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like me?”
I set the cup down slowly. “You ever get tired of assuming you’re irresistible?”
The air between us goes still, stretched tight like a pulled thread. I see the flicker in his eyes—part amusement, part curiosity, something that wasn’t there before.
Then Cole calls him from across the rink. Logan steps back, expression unreadable. “Duty calls.”
He walks away, and I tell myself I’m relieved.
I’m not.
⸻
When the night ends, I’m alone by the doors, clipboard under my arm, watching as the hockey guys finish cleanup. Logan’s laughing at something Cole says, and for a second, he looks younger. Less legend, more human.
He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring.
I look away too late.
He raises his hand, mock salute, grin easy. I shake my head and pretend it means nothing.
Because it should.
But the truth is—it doesn’t.
Not anymore.