Chapter 47 Chapter 46
Logan POV
By noon, my head is a war zone.
I’ve been to class. Technically. I sat in the back row, took zero notes, and spent fifty minutes staring at the same paragraph in a book without reading a single word.
I’ve been to the rink. Technically. I lifted, ran drills, nodded at Coach, didn’t get yelled at. Which somehow feels worse than getting yelled at.
And all of it feels like I’m walking around inside someone else’s body.
Because I woke up this morning with Harper in my arms.
Because she was real.
Because she didn’t disappear.
Because she didn’t pretend it didn’t happen.
And because I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.
My phone buzzes for the tenth time in an hour.
Group chat. The guys. Celebrating last night’s win like it’s still happening.
I mute it.
Cole catches me in the hallway outside the locker room, coffee in hand, eyes sharp.
“You look like hell.”
“Good,” I mutter. “That means I’m consistent.”
He studies me. “So. You alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Did she kill you or something?”
I stop walking. “Don’t.”
He raises a brow. “Did she?”
I glare at him. “I’m not doing this.”
“Not with me, you’re not,” he says calmly. “But you’re definitely doing it in your own head.”
I don’t answer. I just keep walking.
He follows.
“You don’t get to blow up your life and then pretend nothing happened,” he says. “That’s not how this works.”
“I didn’t blow up anything.”
He laughs. “Buddy, you lit a match in a fireworks factory.”
I stop and turn. “What do you want from me?”
He holds my gaze. “I want you to stop acting like she’s some problem you accidentally stepped in.”
“She’s not a problem.”
“Then why do you look like you’re bracing for impact every time someone says her name?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Because the truth is ugly.
Because Harper isn’t a hookup.
She isn’t simple.
She isn’t temporary.
She isn’t someone I can put in a neat little box labeled fun and forgettable.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I leave him standing there and head into the locker room.
The room smells like sweat and detergent and coffee. Normal. Familiar. Safe.
Zack’s at his locker, Marco’s on a bench scrolling his phone.
Marco looks up. “Hey, Captain. You look like you fought a bear.”
“Did you win?” Zack asks.
“Define win,” I mutter.
Marco snorts. “That bad, huh?”
I shoot him a look.
He holds up his hands. “Hey, you’ve been in a mood since yesterday. I’m just observing.”
“Observe quieter.”
Zack glances between us. “You coming to the PR thing later?”
My stomach drops. “What PR thing?”
“The gala meeting,” he says. “The one where you and Harper get paraded out like prom king and queen.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “I don’t get paraded.”
Marco grins. “Sure you do. Just usually in pads.”
I grab my bag. “I’m not going.”
Zack blinks. “Uh. You kind of are.”
“They already sent the schedule,” Marco adds. “Photo ops, press, donors, whole circus.”
Great.
Just what I need.
Harper.
In public.
With witnesses.
With expectations.
With a giant spotlight aimed directly at something I don’t understand yet.
I leave before they can say anything else.
⸻
The rest of the day crawls.
Every hallway feels like it might spit her out at me.
Every time my phone buzzes, my heart jumps like an idiot.
She doesn’t text.
Good.
Bad.
I don’t know.
By the time the PR event rolls around, I’m already wound too tight.
The conference room is too bright. Too clean. Too full of people who care way too much about optics.
Banners. Flyers. Coffee. Smiles.
And then—
Harper walks in.
My chest does something stupid and traitorous.
She looks… normal.
Too normal.
Hair pulled back. Jacket. Calm face. Professional posture.
Like she didn’t spend the morning in my bed.
Like she didn’t look at me like something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
Like she isn’t currently the center of my entire internal crisis.
Our eyes meet.
Just for a second.
Her expression flickers—something cautious, something unreadable—and then she looks away.
And somehow that hurts more than if she’d looked angry.
I take a seat at the table, far end.
She sits at the other.
Distance.
Good.
The PR guy starts talking. Numbers. Timelines. Bids. Smiles.
“The highlight of the evening,” he says, gesturing between us, “will of course be the joint appearance by Logan Shaw and Harper Lane.”
Everyone claps.
I don’t.
Harper’s hands fold in her lap.
“We’ll have a short introduction, then the bidding opens. You two will present the final segment together.”
Together.
I feel her glance at me.
I don’t look back.
I’m not being cruel.
I’m being careful.
Or cowardly.
Probably both.
“Any questions?” the PR guy asks.
Harper raises her hand, calm and composed. “Yes. We’ll need to coordinate schedules for rehearsal and media.”
She’s all business.
Professional.
Untouchable.
It shouldn’t bother me.
It does.
“Logan?” the PR guy says. “Does Tuesday work for you?”
I hesitate half a second too long. “Yeah. Sure.”
Harper writes it down without looking at me.
And something in my chest twists.
⸻
After the meeting, people linger.
Harper stands, gathering her folder.
I stay seated.
She walks past me.
Doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t speak.
That’s fine.
That’s probably for the best.
Except my body doesn’t agree.
I stand before I can talk myself out of it.
“Harper.”
She stops.
Turns.
Her face is carefully neutral. “Yes?”
God, she’s good at that.
“We should… talk,” I say.
Her brow lifts slightly. “We just did. For an hour.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
She studies me for a moment. Then: “Now’s not a good time.”
That stings.
“When is?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know.”
I nod, even though I don’t like that answer. “Okay.”
Silence stretches.
People walk past us.
She shifts her weight. “Is there something else?”
A thousand things.
All of them dangerous.
“No,” I say instead. “That’s it.”
She nods once and walks away.
And I stand there feeling like I just watched something slip through my fingers without even trying to hold it.
⸻
That night, the Ice House is loud.
I’m not.
Marco notices first. “Dude, you’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Brooding like a Victorian poet.”
Zack laughs. “He’s been weird all day.”
Cole watches me from the kitchen.
Knows exactly why.
“You going to survive this?” he asks.
“Survive what?”
He gestures vaguely. “Your own emotions.”
“Barely,” I mutter.
Marco flops onto the couch. “You know what your problem is?”
“No one asked,” I say.
“You don’t commit,” he says. “You either don’t care at all or you care too much and panic.”
I glare at him. “When did you get insightful?”
“TikTok,” he says solemnly.
Zack snorts.
Cole doesn’t laugh.
“Just don’t hurt her,” he says quietly.
That lands harder than anything else today.
I look away.
⸻
Later, alone in my room, I stare at the ceiling.
I keep seeing her face.
Hearing her voice.
Remembering the way she looked at me this morning—uncertain, but not regretful.
And that’s the problem.
She didn’t regret it.
Which means now it means something.
And I don’t know how to carry that.
⸻
The next time I see her is two days later.
Campus.
Daylight.
Public.
She’s standing outside the student center with Lila and two other girls from her house, laughing about something.
She looks relaxed.
Happy.
And something ugly and possessive twists in my chest.
I shouldn’t walk over.
I do anyway.
“Harper.”
She turns, surprise flashing across her face before she schools it again. “Logan.”
The group goes quiet.
Lila watches us like she’s front-row at a tennis match.
“Hey,” I say, then immediately hate how stupid that sounds.
“Hey,” she replies.
Silence.
Awkward.
“So,” one of the girls says brightly, “we were just talking about the auction!”
Great.
Perfect.
Harper shoots her a look. “We were leaving.”
They scatter.
Lila lingers a second longer, eyes flicking between us. “Try not to kill each other.”
Then she’s gone.
Now it’s just us.
In the open.
With people walking by.
Harper crosses her arms. “What do you want?”
The bluntness throws me.
“To… not be weird,” I say.
She blinks. “You’re already failing.”
Fair.
“I’m trying,” I say.
“That’s debatable.”
I exhale. “Look. About the other morning—”
Her jaw tightens. “Logan, we’re not doing this here.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want an audience.”
I glance around. She’s right.
“Okay,” I say. “Then when?”
She hesitates.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m still figuring out what I want this to be.”
That makes two of us.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say quietly.
She looks at me, really looks at me. “Then stop acting like you’re halfway out the door.”
I don’t know how to argue with that.
“I’m not good at this,” I admit.
She exhales. “Neither am I.”
Another silence.
Charged.
Unfinished.
“I’ll see you Tuesday,” she says finally.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Tuesday.”
She walks away.
And I stand there knowing one thing with terrifying clarity:
I don’t know what I want.
But I know I don’t want to lose her.
And that might be the most dangerous place I’ve ever stood.