Chapter 14 Chapter 13
Logan POV
The rink’s colder in the mornings—before the music, before the chatter, before anyone starts pretending they have their lives figured out.
Just the scrape of blades, the slap of sticks, breath fogging in the air.
Usually it’s my favorite part of the day. Clean. Predictable. Safe.
The one place nothing can get inside my head.
Except today, everything already has.
I dig in harder, sprinting across the ice. Each stride burns. Each turn feels like punishment. The repetition should clear me out: stride, cut, stop, pivot. Again. Again.
But all it does is bring her back.
Harper.
Standing in that kitchen, eyes sharp, lips trembling just enough to notice.
“You don’t get to decide who talks to me.”
I hit the boards too fast and curse.
“Easy, Captain.” Cole’s voice cuts through the echo. “You trying to take the whole damn rink down with you?”
“Just pushing speed.”
“Yeah?” He smirks. “Looks more like you’re running from something.”
“Same thing.”
Cole lets out a low whistle and blows the drill horn. “Breakout drills. Let’s go, boys.”
The team forms up. Pucks fly. Sticks crack. The sound should drown her out, but it doesn’t. I’m a half-second late on every pass, a half-beat behind every play.
When Jimmy misses one, I bark his name too loud, too sharp.
“Shaw!” Coach’s voice booms from the bench. “You done screaming, or do I need to make you skate suicides until you find your head?”
“Fine,” I bite out. “I’m fine.”
Cole skates by, muttering under his breath. “You really gotta find a better word.”
I ignore him and bend for the next face-off, focusing on the puck like it’s the only thing left that makes sense.
⸻
Practice runs long. When the last whistle blows, everyone scatters for the locker room, loud and laughing.
I stay behind, skating slow circles until the ice reflects the ceiling lights like water.
The echo of last night won’t quit. Harper in that red dress. Harper laughing at Cole. The look she gave me when she said I was jealous.
And the worst part?
She wasn’t wrong.
I stop at center ice, chest heaving, throat dry.
Jealousy’s a rookie emotion. Sloppy. Weak. Not me.
I don’t get jealous. I don’t do that.
She’s not even my type.
My type has curves and fire, sun-brown skin and that soft, rolling accent that sounds like heat. Latina girls—the kind who flirt like they mean it and don’t flinch when I push back. They’re confident. Easy to read. They don’t get under my skin; they get in my bed and out of my head.
Harper’s none of that.
She’s clean lines and careful words, buttoned-up and infuriating. All logic, all control.
Except when she’s not.
Except when she looks at me like she’s ready to start a war.
I slam my stick against the glass. The sound cracks through the empty rink, sharp enough to sting.
⸻
In the locker room, steam fogs the mirrors. The air smells like sweat and soap.
Cole’s already showered, towel around his neck, hair dripping.
“You were off today,” he says, not bothering to make it a question.
“I’m fine.”
He smirks. “Man, that word’s losing all meaning coming from you.”
“Long night,” I mutter, unstrapping my pads.
“Yeah, I noticed.” He leans against the bench across from me. “You and Harper, huh?”
I look up, hard. “There is no me and Harper.”
“Right.” He draws the word out, slow and smug. “Then why’d you look like you wanted to throw me through a wall when I talked to her?”
“Drop it.”
He chuckles. “You think nobody noticed? Half the team saw it, dude. You’ve got that look every time her name gets mentioned. That ‘one wrong word and I’ll break your stick over your knee’ thing.”
I slam my locker shut. “We’re done talking about this.”
Cole doesn’t flinch. “You really gonna sit there and pretend you don’t like her?”
“I don’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not—” I stop myself before it comes out as a yell. “She’s not my type.”
“Your type?” He snorts. “Man, your ‘type’ is whatever has an accent and a pulse.”
“Exactly.”
Cole blinks. “You just proved my point, genius.”
“She’s not what I want, Cole. She’s not—” I rake a hand through my hair, searching for words that make sense. “She’s not what I do.”
Cole’s grin sharpens. “You sure about that? Because last night you looked ready to climb out of your skin just watching her talk to me.”
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“Right. And I don’t notice when you’re about to punch someone.”
“I said drop it.”
He shakes his head. “You keep lying to yourself, man. Just don’t drag the rest of us down when it blows up.”
“I’m not looking for a damn relationship,” I snap. “So knock it off.”
That shuts him up. For half a second, anyway.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice dripping sarcasm. “You’re doing a great job convincing me.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads out, leaving me with nothing but the hiss of the showers and my own breathing.
⸻
I sit there long after everyone’s gone, half-dressed, staring at the wall.
The silence should help. It doesn’t.
Her voice plays on a loop in my head—sharp, sure, impossible to tune out.
“You don’t get to decide who talks to me.”
She was right.
She shouldn’t matter.
But somehow she does.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. Stupid. I shouldn’t even have her number saved.
I shove it back into my bag and stand.
⸻
Later that afternoon, I end up at the campus café for caffeine and distance. It’s quiet, warm, normal—the kind of place that should knock the noise out of my head.
I’m halfway through my coffee when the door opens.
She walks in.
Ponytail. Gray sweater. Jeans. No makeup, no performance, just Harper.
And my chest tightens like I’ve been hit.
She doesn’t see me at first. I should leave. I should. But then she glances up, and our eyes lock.
There’s no smirk. No attitude. Just that flicker of surprise—and something I can’t name.
I nod once. She hesitates, then gives a small nod back before walking to the counter.
I tell myself not to look again, but I do. Every movement pulls at me—the way she rolls her sleeves, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, bites the inside of her cheek while she waits for her drink.
I shouldn’t notice any of this.
I shouldn’t care.
She sits near the window, laptop open, head bent over her screen. I watch her fingers move across the keyboard and hate how something that simple feels… intimate.
I stare into my coffee, waiting for it to cool. The silence buzzes. The more I try not to look, the more I do.
She glances up once, catches me. Through the reflection in the glass, our eyes meet again.
Just a flicker. Barely a second.
But it’s enough to drag every piece of last night back to the surface—the fight, the look, the way she smelled like citrus and danger.
I push back from the table so fast the chair legs scrape. Drop a few bills. Walk out before I can do something even dumber.
⸻
The rink lights are already on when I get back. The team’s warming up, voices echoing across the ice. I grab my stick and step out, blades hitting the surface with a hiss.
The puck drops. I chase it down, body to body, muscle to muscle. Contact makes sense. Pain makes sense.
Everything else? Not so much.
I move faster, harder, trying to sweat her out of me. But she’s still there—Harper in my head, Harper in my blood.
Every stride. Every breath.
She’s the noise I can’t skate off.
And for the first time in years, the game isn’t enough to drown it out.