Chapter 38 Chapter 37
Harper POV
I told them I didn’t want to come.
I told them I had a paper due, an inbox full of chapter emails, and zero interest in watching a bunch of sweaty hockey players bash each other around on ice.
But somehow, here I am—front row at the student section, wearing a Titan sweatshirt I borrowed from Lila and holding a foam finger like it’s a weapon.
The arena buzzes with energy—cold air, thumping music, lights flashing off the boards. Students stomp their feet in rhythm, chanting, shouting names I only halfway recognize.
And then they announce his.
“Number 17, Captain Logan Shaw!”
The sound is a gut punch.
I feel it before I can think about it—the way my pulse stutters, the way my breath goes shallow.
He skates onto the ice like he owns it.
Helmet on, visor low, that perfect balance of strength and ease that used to make high school girls trip over themselves in the bleachers.
Lila elbows me. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look like you just saw your midterm grade.”
“I said I’m fine.”
She smirks. “Sure, President Fine.”
I roll my eyes, but my throat feels tight.
The whistle blows, and the game starts.
Logan takes control early—he always does.
He moves like he was born with blades instead of feet, all precision and power. The puck sticks to his stick like it’s magnetized. He doesn’t hesitate; he commands.
It’s unfair how good he is.
How everything he does looks effortless.
How the whole damn arena leans in when he moves.
“God, he’s hot,” one of the freshmen behind me sighs.
I stiffen.
“Don’t drool on me,” I mutter, half under my breath.
“Sorry, but have you seen him?” she says. “That hair, that jawline—he’s like hockey’s answer to sin.”
I grip my cup of hot chocolate tighter. “He’s also an egomaniac.”
“Still sin,” she says cheerfully.
Lila laughs beside me, whispering, “You’re glaring holes through the ice, Harp. You sure you don’t want to confess something?”
“Like what?”
She gives me a look. “Like how you’re still in love with him.”
“I’m not.”
“Uh-huh.”
I turn back toward the rink before she can press more, but the word love echoes like static in my head.
The truth is, I’m not even sure what I feel anymore.
Anger, maybe. Frustration.
And something else that burns low in my chest whenever I watch him move.
Halfway through the first period, Logan steals the puck near the blue line, slips past two defenders, and breaks toward the net.
The crowd roars.
My body reacts before my brain does—leaning forward, breath catching, pulse sprinting.
He shoots.
The puck sails clean through the goalie’s legs and slams the back of the net.
The horn blares.
The arena explodes.
And I—God help me—smile.
It’s instinct, years of muscle memory watching him win.
He throws his arms up, teammates crowding him, helmets smacking together, laughter breaking through the noise.
I shouldn’t feel proud.
I shouldn’t feel anything.
But I do.
Because for all his flaws, when he’s on that ice, he’s magic.
The boy who used to show up at the high school rink before dawn just to skate laps until the janitor kicked him out.
The boy who’d stay after practice helping freshmen tie their laces right.
The boy who once kissed me in a dark closet just to save face—and left me thinking about it for a year.
I remember that kiss now.
The hesitation.
The way his lips brushed mine like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want to.
And then I remember this week’s kiss—rough, certain, hungry.
The way his hands held my face like he couldn’t help himself.
The way my body forgot every reason I had to hate him.
The crowd chants his name again, snapping me out of it.
My cheeks burn.
God, what is wrong with me?
He’s skating by the glass now, helmet off, sweat glinting on his neck, eyes scanning the stands.
For one split second, I swear he looks right at me.
My breath stops.
Then the play resumes, and the moment’s gone.
Lila leans close. “He totally saw you.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did.”
“Drop it.”
She just grins. “You know, you could congratulate him after the game. Presidents do that sometimes. Builds campus unity.”
“I’m not congratulating him for existing.”
“That’s not what your face says.”
I glare. “Remind me why I let you talk me into this?”
“Because you needed to remember that life exists outside of charity meetings and gala prep,” she says, sipping her Coke. “Also because deep down you wanted to see him skate again.”
“I did not.”
“Mmm. Keep telling yourself that.”
I sink lower in my seat, muttering something about caffeine withdrawals, but my pulse still hasn’t slowed.
Every time he’s on the ice, I can’t look away.
Every move, every stride—it’s all him.
And somewhere between the second and third period, my imagination betrays me.
I picture what I’d say if I were waiting for him after the game.
How he’d look, hair damp, smile cocky, jersey clinging to sweat-slick skin.
How I’d step close, whisper something teasing like nice goal, Captain,
and how his hand would find my waist like it used to.
How he’d kiss me again, but slower this time.
How it’d taste like adrenaline and confession.
The fantasy hits so fast it makes me dizzy.
I blink, shaking my head. No.
I am not that girl.
Not one of the puck bunnies who hang by the tunnel hoping to be noticed.
Not a cheerleader waiting for scraps of his attention.
Not the backup plan he kisses when the lights go out.
I’m the sorority president.
The woman planning the charity event that will determine our entire semester’s funding.
The one who refuses to be another line in his highlight reel.
So why does it still feel like he’s the only thing in focus?
When he scores again late in the third, the roar is deafening.
Everyone jumps up, screaming.
I don’t.
I sit there, hands clasped tight in my lap, pretending I’m immune to the chaos.
Pretending the sight of him skating past the bench, grinning that impossible grin, doesn’t undo every ounce of composure I’ve built.
But my heart’s pounding hard enough that Lila notices.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
“Yeah.”
“You’re gripping the railing like you’re in a horror movie.”
“I’m fine.”
She studies me for a moment, then just nods. “Sure you are.”
The final buzzer sounds.
Game over. Titans win.
The arena explodes again—music, cheers, bodies spilling toward the exits.
I stand, tugging on my jacket, forcing my heartbeat into something manageable.
Lila nudges me. “Want to wait by the tunnel? The guys are doing autographs for fans tonight.”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Because the truth is, I can’t see him again. Not yet. Not like this—sweaty and perfect and oblivious to the chaos he’s left in me.
We push through the crowd, and I glance back once—just once—toward the rink.
He’s still there, helmet tucked under his arm, laughing with Cole.
Cole says something that makes him roll his eyes, but there’s tension in his shoulders—like whatever Cole said wasn’t funny.
Then he looks up again, scanning the stands, that same restless energy in his eyes.
I turn away before he finds me.
Outside, the cold hits hard, sharp and sobering.
My breath clouds in the air as I walk toward the parking lot, Lila talking beside me about how good the team looked. I nod in the right places, but my mind’s still trapped in that split second when his eyes almost met mine.
When I climb into her car, the first thing I notice is the glitter from the pom-poms stuck to my sleeve.
I brush it off, but a few specks stay—tiny, stubborn reminders of a night I swore I wouldn’t care about.
As we pull away from the arena, I glance back once more. The lights fade behind us, but the ache in my chest doesn’t.
Because no matter how much I try to reason my way out of it, one truth keeps echoing:
He’s still under my skin.
And I hate that part of me doesn’t want him to leave.