Chapter 137 Chapter 136
Logan POV
The door clicks shut behind her.
And just like that—
The room feels different.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
I stand there for a second, staring at the door like she might walk back in.
She doesn’t.
Of course she doesn’t.
Harper Lane doesn’t linger when things get complicated.
That’s my job.
Or at least—it used to be.
I drag a hand down my face and exhale slowly.
Get it together.
It was one night.
One mistake.
One—
Yeah.
I don’t even believe that.
Because nothing about last night felt like a mistake.
And that’s the problem.
I move around the room, grabbing clothes, trying to focus on something normal.
Routine.
Game day.
That’s what matters.
That’s what always matters.
I pull on a shirt, grab my phone off the nightstand—
And it lights up immediately.
Dad
Of course.
Right on schedule.
He always calls on game day.
Always.
My jaw tightens as I stare at the screen.
I don’t answer.
Not right away.
I let it ring.
Because I already know how this goes.
He’ll talk.
I’ll listen.
He’ll point out everything I’m doing wrong.
Speed.
Positioning.
Focus.
“Stay out of the pocket, Logan. You’re not thinking two steps ahead.”
Same script.
Every time.
The phone stops ringing.
I exhale.
Then—
It buzzes again.
Dad
I close my eyes briefly.
Yeah.
Not optional.
Never optional.
I answer.
“What.”
No hello.
No patience.
A beat of silence.
Then—
“You almost let that second line slip past you last game.”
No hello.
No how are you.
Just criticism.
I lean against the dresser, already feeling the tension building in my shoulders.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
There it is.
I run a hand through my hair.
“I handled it.”
“You recovered,” he corrects sharply. “That’s not the same thing.”
I don’t respond.
Because arguing that point is useless.
He keeps going.
“You’re still hesitating on your reads. You’re not as fast as you should be.”
My jaw tightens.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
His voice hardens.
“You’re distracted.”
There it is.
The word lands heavier than anything else.
I push off the dresser, pacing slightly.
“I’m not distracted.”
“You sure about that?”
Something in his tone shifts.
More pointed.
More knowing.
And I don’t like it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A pause.
Then—
“I saw the photos.”
My stomach drops slightly.
Of course he did.
The auction.
The date.
Harper.
All over the university pages.
All over the promo.
“You had a date already with her,” he continues. “She’s all over those photos. You and her.”
I don’t say anything.
Because I don’t trust what’ll come out if I do.
“She looks familiar,” he adds. “Didn’t she go to your high school?”
My grip tightens on the phone.
“…Yeah.”
A beat.
“Huh.”
Not curiosity.
Not interest.
Judgment.
“That’s what you’re doing now?” he says. “Revisiting old connections?”
“It was a charity event,” I say flatly. “School thing.”
“I know what it was.”
His tone sharpens.
“And I also know what it looks like.”
I laugh humorlessly.
“You want to talk about image? You’re the one who always said that matters.”
“It does,” he snaps. “Which is why I’m calling.”
I stop pacing.
Because here it comes.
“That $5,000 stunt you pulled?” he continues. “That wasn’t strategy. That was impulsive.”
“It got attention.”
“It got the wrong kind of attention.”
My jaw tightens harder.
“It made you look distracted.”
There it is again.
Distracted.
Like it’s the worst thing I could possibly be.
“Scouts are watching you, Logan,” he says. “Every move you make matters.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” he shoots back. “Because right now it looks like you’re more focused on some girl than your career.”
Something in my chest snaps slightly.
“She’s not—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off sharply. “Don’t sit there and tell me she’s not a distraction.”
Silence stretches between us.
Heavy.
Because he’s waiting for me to agree.
That’s how this works.
He says something.
I fall in line.
But this time—
I don’t.
“She’s not a distraction,” I say.
The words come out low.
Controlled.
But firm.
There’s a pause on the other end.
Longer this time.
Then—
“She is if she’s taking your focus off the ice.”
“She’s not.”
“You stayed with her last night, didn’t you?”
My stomach drops.
“How the hell would you—”
“I know,” he says coldly.
That’s all.
No explanation.
Just control.
Just certainty.
I laugh under my breath.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You think I don’t pay attention?” he continues. “You think I don’t know what’s going on with you?”
“I had one night—”
“That’s how it starts.”
His voice hardens.
“First it’s one night. Then it’s more time. More distractions. Less focus.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” he snaps.
The question hits.
Because I don’t have an answer.
And he knows it.
“You want to play in the pros?” he continues. “You want to get drafted?”
“Yes.”
“Then act like it.”
His voice drops lower.
Colder.
“Because right now? This tells me you’re not ready.”
That lands.
Hard.
“You don’t get to say that,” I fire back.
“I absolutely do.”
“No—you don’t.”
My voice rises before I can stop it.
“Because you don’t know what this is.”
“I know exactly what it is,” he says. “It’s a distraction that’s going to cost you everything if you let it.”
My chest tightens.
Because part of me—
Hates that it sounds familiar.
“That’s not happening,” I say.
“Then prove it.”
Silence.
Heavy.
“You’ve got a game today,” he continues. “So go out there and show me you’re still focused.”
Still controlled.
Still his.
“Or don’t,” he adds. “And we’ll know exactly where your priorities are.”
The line goes dead.
Just like that.
I stare at my phone for a long second.
My grip tightening around it.
Breathing harder than I should be.
Because it’s always like this.
Pressure.
Control.
Expectation.
No room for anything else.
No room for—
Her.
I drop the phone onto the dresser.
Run both hands through my hair.
And try to shake it off.
Game day.
That’s what matters.
That’s what always matters.
But for the first time—
That doesn’t feel as clear as it used to.
Because now—
There’s something else in the way.
Something real.
Something I don’t want to ignore.
And as much as I hate it—
As much as I know what it could cost me—
I already know one thing.
I’m not walking away from Harper.
Not this time.