Chapter 49 Chapter 48
Cole POV
I know something’s wrong with Logan before he even opens his mouth.
It’s the silence.
Logan Shaw doesn’t do silence. He does sarcasm, trash talk, or strategic brooding with a side of arrogance. Today he does… nothing. Just sits at the kitchen counter in the Ice House, staring at his coffee like it personally betrayed him.
Marco and Zack are still asleep. The house is quiet in that weird, hollow way it only gets after a game night and too much adrenaline.
I pour myself coffee and lean against the counter across from him. “So,” I say lightly, “what did you do? Commit a felony or finally develop a conscience?”
He doesn’t look up. “Go away.”
“Ah. Definitely conscience, then.”
Still nothing.
I study him. The jaw is tight. The shoulders are tense. He looks like a guy who didn’t sleep and hates himself for the reason why.
An idea forms.
A terrible, beautiful idea.
I smirk. “What, did you sleep with Harper or something?”
He looks up.
And in that half-second before his face slams back into neutral, I see it.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
I straighten slowly. “You did.”
He looks away.
“Logan.”
“Don’t.”
“You slept with Harper.”
“Drop it.”
“You slept with Harper,” I repeat, because apparently today is the day I enjoy watching him suffer.
He stands and starts pacing like a trapped animal. “It was a mistake.”
I blink. “Wow. Didn’t even warm up to that one.”
“Cole.”
“That’s your opener? Not ‘it just happened’ or ‘it’s complicated’ or ‘don’t freak out’—just straight to ‘mistake’?”
He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m not a relationship guy.”
“That’s not a personality, that’s a coping mechanism.”
“I’m not a relationship guy,” he repeats, sharper. “I’m a one-and-done guy. I have to be. That’s how you make it to the NHL. You don’t get tied down. You don’t get distracted. You don’t—”
“You don’t catch feelings,” I finish. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve been giving yourself that TED Talk for years.”
He glares. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. And here’s the problem.” I point at him. “Harper Lane is not a one-and-done person.”
He exhales hard. “I know.”
“Good. So now explain to me,” I say calmly, “why you whipped your dick out for her.”
He freezes like I just shot him.
Turns slowly.
Stares at me like he might murder me.
“…Can you not phrase it like that?”
“No,” I say. “Because you don’t get to sleep with a girl like Harper and then pretend this is just another Tuesday.”
He looks away. “I didn’t plan it.”
“Congratulations. Neither did most people before they detonated their own lives.”
He snaps, “It didn’t mean nothing.”
“Then what did it mean?”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Runs a hand through his hair.
That silence tells me everything.
I sit down across from him. “You’re in trouble.”
“I’m not.”
“You are so in trouble.”
He shakes his head. “She’s not my type.”
There it is.
I almost laugh. “Oh my God, you’re actually going to use that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Really?” I lean back in my chair. “Because last I checked, your ‘type’ has been ‘hot and available.’”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You mean she’s not Latina.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said without saying it.”
He crosses his arms. “I have preferences.”
“You have a pattern,” I correct. “And you’re hiding behind it.”
“She’s not—” He stops. “She’s not what I usually go for.”
I laugh, short and sharp. “That’s a fucking excuse.”
He glares. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting.” I lean forward. “You’ve pigeonholed yourself into this ‘I only hook up with Latinas’ thing like it’s some unbreakable law of physics. Guess what, man?”
He says nothing.
“It seems Harper is your type. So deal with it.”
His mouth opens. Closes.
“Bullshit,” he says. “She’s uptight. Structured. Bossy. She color-codes her life.”
“And you’re obsessed with her.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been skating like garbage, punching walls, and staring at your phone like it owes you money.”
“That’s not—”
“You slept with her,” I remind him. “And not in a ‘drunk hookup’ way. In a ‘my entire personality just malfunctioned’ way.”
He looks away again.
I press. “You don’t get like this over girls. Ever. You don’t get careful. You don’t get weird. You don’t get… guilty.”
“I’m not guilty.”
“You didn’t sleep.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Thought so.”
He drops back into the chair. “She deserves better than me.”
That… is new.
I blink. “Okay. That’s not the line I expected.”
“I mean it,” he says quietly. “She’s not built for my kind of chaos.”
“No,” I agree. “She’s built for someone who actually shows up.”
He flinches.
“Then why did you do it?” I ask.
He looks up at me, and for once there’s no ego, no shield.
“Because I wanted her.”
Not because he was drunk.
Not because it was easy.
Because he wanted her.
I sit back. “Yeah. That’s the part you’re screwed by.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” I admit. “Mostly because you finally found the one thing you can’t outskate.”
He rubs his face. “I don’t know how to not ruin this.”
“Start by not pretending she was a mistake.”
He swallows.
“And stop acting like she’s some anomaly in your system instead of a person you actually care about.”
“I never said I—”
“You don’t have to,” I cut in. “You look like a guy who just realized his entire rulebook is bullshit.”
He stares at the table.
“Also,” I add, “if you hurt her?”
He looks at me.
“I will never let you hear the end of it. Ever.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. “You already don’t.”
“True. But this would be biblical.”
We sit in silence.
Then he says quietly, “She’s pulling away.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what happens when you make someone feel like a mistake.”
He nods once.
And for the first time since I’ve known Logan Shaw, he looks like a man who realizes he might actually lose something he doesn’t know how to replace.