Chapter 138 Chapter 137
Logan POV
The arena is loud before I even step onto the ice.
The kind of loud that settles into your bones.
Music blasting. Fans already buzzing. The echo of skates carving into fresh ice during warmups.
It should feel normal.
It always does.
But today—
Everything feels sharper.
Like every sound is turned up just a little too high.
I step onto the ice and the cold hits instantly, grounding me in something familiar.
This is where things are supposed to make sense.
This is where everything else fades.
But my head is still loud.
You’re distracted.
You’re not fast enough.
Stay out of the pocket.
I push off harder than I need to, skating a fast lap around the rink, feeling my edges bite into the ice.
Focus.
That’s the job.
I catch a pass during warmups and fire it without hesitation.
The puck snaps into the net.
Clean.
Sharp.
Exactly how it’s supposed to be.
“Okay,” Marco calls out behind me. “Who are you and what did you do with Shaw?”
I ignore him, skating back, grabbing another puck.
Shoot again.
Top shelf.
“Jesus,” Marco mutters.
Cole skates up beside me, slower, more observant.
“You’re either about to have your best game,” he says, “or you’re about to get a penalty in the first five minutes.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that like you’re not.”
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t want to talk about it.
Because I already know what’s fueling this.
And I don’t want to admit it out loud.
Cole glances toward the stands.
Then back at me.
“…She here?”
I exhale slowly.
Didn’t even take him five minutes.
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
Cole grins.
“Yeah. That tracks.”
I shove off, skating away from him before he can say anything else.
But I still look.
I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t.
But I do anyway.
And there she is.
Harper.
A few rows up.
Wrapped in a sweater, leaning forward slightly, watching the ice like she’s trying to follow everything.
Watching me.
Something in my chest tightens—
Then settles.
Just enough.
Coach blows the whistle.
“Let’s go! Lock it in!”
I skate to the bench, rolling my shoulders once, forcing everything else out.
Game mode.
The puck drops.
And everything snaps into place.
⸻
The first shift is fast.
Physical.
The other team comes out aggressive, trying to set the tone early.
I don’t let them.
I close the gap on their winger before he even gets comfortable, stick checking hard and forcing him to dump the puck.
“Good pressure!” Coach shouts.
I pivot, chasing the puck behind the net, battling along the boards.
Shoulder hits shoulder.
Stick against stick.
The puck squirts loose.
I grab it.
Turn.
Push.
“Shaw, left!” Cole calls.
I don’t even look.
I already know where he is.
I send the pass across the ice.
Clean.
Tape to tape.
Cole drives forward, drawing both defenders.
Exactly what we practiced.
I cut inside, accelerating, calling for it—
“Now!”
The puck comes back to me.
Two defenders closing.
No time.
No hesitation.
I shoot.
The puck slams into the goalie’s pads, rebounds out hard.
Marco crashes the net—
“GOAL!”
The arena explodes.
I skate past the crease, adrenaline hitting instantly.
Marco slams into me, yelling something I don’t even hear.
Because my eyes go up.
And there she is.
Harper.
On her feet.
Smiling.
And something in my chest hits harder than the goal.
Cole skates by, bumping my shoulder.
“Lucky charm,” he mutters.
“Shut up.”
But there’s no bite behind it.
⸻
The game picks up speed.
Second shift.
They adjust.
Try to push harder.
More physical.
I take a hit along the boards, absorb it, keep control of the puck.
Stay out of the pocket.
I shift my position slightly.
Create space.
Move the puck before I get trapped.
Smart.
Fast.
Controlled.
Not because of him.
Because I know what I’m doing.
I cycle the puck back to the point, then cut toward the net again, fighting for position.
“Screen him!” Marco yells.
I plant myself in front of the goalie, blocking his view.
Shot comes in.
Deflection.
Just wide.
“Reset!” Cole calls.
We regroup.
I skate back, resetting the play.
Breathing steady.
Focused.
But every now and then—
My eyes drift.
Just for a second.
And she’s still there.
Still watching.
And it pulls me back in every time.
⸻
Second period.
We’re up by one.
The other team’s getting frustrated.
You can feel it.
Their passes get sloppier.
Their timing off.
That’s when mistakes happen.
And I’m waiting for it.
It comes at center ice.
A bad pass.
Too soft.
Too obvious.
I jump on it instantly.
Breakaway.
The crowd rises.
Everything narrows.
Just me.
The puck.
The goalie.
Don’t hesitate.
I don’t.
I push forward, closing the distance.
The goalie squares up.
I fake left—
Pull right—
Lift.
The puck snaps into the top corner.
Goal.
The arena erupts.
Teammates crash into me again, shouting, laughing, adrenaline everywhere.
But all I feel—
Is that clarity.
Because I didn’t hesitate.
Because I didn’t think about him.
Because I didn’t second guess.
I skate past the glass again.
And my eyes find Harper.
She’s laughing.
Shaking her head slightly.
Like she knew.
Like she expected it.
And that—
That hits different.
⸻
Third period.
We don’t let up.
Coach doesn’t let us.
“Close it out!” he shouts from the bench. “No stupid mistakes!”
We lock in.
Play tighter.
Cleaner.
More disciplined.
I block a shot.
Take a hit.
Push through it.
Everything feels sharper.
Like my body is moving faster than my thoughts.
Like I’m finally just playing.
Not proving anything.
Not chasing anything.
Just playing.
Final minutes.
They pull their goalie.
Extra attacker.
Pressure builds.
“Stay tight!” Cole calls.
The puck comes loose near the blue line.
I grab it.
Look up.
Empty net.
I fire.
The puck slides clean across the ice—
And into the net.
Final goal.
Game over.
The buzzer sounds.
The arena explodes.
Gloves in the air.
Sticks hitting the ice.
Teammates yelling, celebrating.
Coach shouting something about execution.
But I barely hear it.
Because I look up.
And she’s still there.
And for the first time—
It doesn’t feel like I’m playing for anyone else.
Not my dad.
Not the scouts.
Not the expectations.
Just—
Me.
And maybe a little for her.
⸻
Cole skates up beside me as we head off the ice.
“Well,” he says. “I’m officially convinced.”
“About what?”
He smirks.
“You need to keep her around.”
I shake my head.
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. That was your best game all season.”
I don’t argue.
Because he’s right.
And that’s the problem.
Because if she makes me better—
Then she’s not a distraction.
She’s the opposite.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
But I know one thing.
As I head toward the locker room—
I’m not done with her.
Not even close.