Chapter 56 Chapter 55
Harper POV
The more I sit there, the worse it gets.
At first I try to go back to my homework. I really do. I stare at the numbers like they might reorganize my life if I just concentrate hard enough.
They don’t.
All I can hear is Lila’s voice in my head.
Zack called me to ask what you did to his captain.
What did you do to him.
Like I’m some kind of emotional wrecking ball.
Like Logan Shaw is out there bleeding all over the ice because of me.
I press my pen harder into the page until the ink nearly tears through.
I didn’t ask for this.
I didn’t ask for him to sleep with me.
I didn’t ask for him to act weird afterward.
And I definitely didn’t ask for his teammates to start calling my sisters like I’m some kind of problem they need explained.
My chest tightens.
The numbers blur.
I snap the book shut.
“That’s it,” I mutter to the empty room.
I grab my jacket off the back of the chair and shrug it on like armor. I don’t even bother fixing my hair or checking my face. I’m not going there to look pretty.
I’m going there to get answers.
The walk to the Ice House feels longer than usual, like my thoughts are dragging my body behind them.
By the time I get there, my pulse is already pounding.
I knock once.
The door swings open, and Marco is standing there with a drink in his hand.
He takes one look at my face and winces. “Whoa. You look pissed.”
“Is Logan here?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. He’s in his room.”
He steps aside, holding the door open for me.
No questions. No jokes.
Just… sympathy.
“Thanks,” I say, already moving past him.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Halfway up, I hear it.
A girl’s moan.
Soft. Breathless. Definitely not coming from the TV.
My stomach drops like I missed a step.
For one horrible second, my brain supplies an image I don’t want—Logan with someone else, already back to normal, already back to that.
I almost turn around.
Almost.
But then I remember what Marco said.
He’s in his room.
And Marco would never have sent me upstairs if Logan had company.
Still, my chest feels tight when I reach his door.
I don’t knock.
I shove it open.
Logan is stretched out on his bed, one arm behind his head, a textbook open in his other hand.
He looks up, startled.
“Harper?”
“Sit up,” I snap.
He blinks. “Hi to you too.”
“I’m not here to be polite.”
He sits up slowly, watching me like he’s trying to figure out which version of me this is.
I close the door behind me and cross my arms. “What the hell are you telling people about me?”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“My sorority sisters are getting phone calls,” I say, heat rising in my chest. “Your teammates are calling them asking what I did to you. What did I do to you, Logan? What story are you telling over here?”
He stares at me for a second, then pushes the book aside. “I didn’t tell anyone anything.”
“Then why is Zack calling Lila asking why you’re losing your mind on the ice?”
His jaw tightens. “Because I’ve been playing like shit.”
“And why do they think that has something to do with me?”
He looks away.
That’s all it takes.
“Oh my God,” I laugh, sharp and humorless. “You did say something.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t— I didn’t say that. I didn’t tell them details.”
“Details?” I echo. “So you did tell them something.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “They’re not stupid, Harper. They can see I’m off.”
“And that automatically equals me?” I step closer. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for my friends to get calls like that?”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“You never do,” I say, my voice shaking. “You never mean for things to happen, and they just… do. And somehow I’m always the one standing there dealing with the fallout.”
He stands up.
Now we’re on the same level.
The room suddenly feels smaller.
“I didn’t blame you,” he says quietly.
“Then what did you do?”
He hesitates.
That hesitation feels like a confession.
“I told Cole I had a lot going on,” he says. “That’s it.”
“And what does ‘a lot going on’ mean to you, Logan?” I ask. “Because apparently it means my name gets passed around like an explanation.”
He looks at me, really looks at me, and something in his expression shifts.
“You’re angry,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you’re hurt.”
I scoff. “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just… seeing it.”
“Congratulations,” I snap. “You see things now.”
He flinches like I slapped him.
We stand there, staring at each other, the air between us buzzing.
“You don’t get to act like this is my fault,” I say. “You don’t get to sleep with me and then act weird and then let everyone think I broke you.”
“I never said you broke me.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Everyone else is doing it for you.”
He takes a step closer.
“So what do you want me to do?” he asks. “Go tell them you’re not the problem?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “I want you to stop making me part of your mess.”
He huffs a short laugh. “You’re already part of it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
We’re close enough now that I can see the shadow of stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him.
My heart starts doing stupid things.
“Why are you really here?” he asks.
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Because the honest answer is dangerous.
“Because I’m tired,” I say instead. “I’m tired of mixed signals. I’m tired of feeling like I did something wrong when I didn’t. And I’m really tired of you acting like you don’t know what you want.”
His eyes darken.
“You think I don’t know?” he says.
“I think you’re in denial,” I shoot back. “And I think you’re taking it out on everyone else.”
We’re inches apart now.
I don’t remember either of us moving.
“You’re not exactly making this easy,” he says.
“Neither are you.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
The air gets heavier.
“This is a bad idea,” I say, even as my pulse starts racing.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
Neither of us moves away.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“I know.”
“Harper—”
“What?” I snap, because his voice is doing something to me.
He hesitates, then says quietly, “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Standing this close and pretending you don’t know what it does to me.”
My breath catches.
“That’s not my problem.”
He laughs softly. “See? That. That’s the problem.”
We’re so close now I can feel his breath.
My anger is still there, but it’s tangled up with something else. Something hotter. More dangerous.
“You’re infuriating,” I say.
“You came all the way here to tell me that?”
“No,” I say honestly. “I came here to tell you to stop dragging me into your drama.”
“And now?”
“And now I’m here,” I say, and hate how that sounds like a confession.
He looks at me like he’s fighting something.
So am I.
“Logan,” I say, my voice softer despite myself, “you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep pulling me in and then acting like you don’t know what to do with me.”
“I know exactly what I want to do with you,” he says.
My stomach flips.
“Then why don’t you?” I challenge.
Silence stretches.
He looks at me like I’m a bad decision wrapped in a pretty package.
Then he says, very quietly, “Because I’m afraid if I do, I won’t be able to stop.”
My breath stutters.
“That’s not my responsibility,” I whisper.
“I know.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not careful.
It’s like he’s been holding it back all day and finally lost the fight.
I should shove him away.
I don’t.
My hands come up without permission, fisting in his shirt.
His hands slide to my waist like they know exactly where to go.
For a few seconds, there’s no anger. No confusion. Just heat and need and the familiar, dangerous pull between us.
Then reality crashes back in.
I break the kiss, breathless. “This doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know,” he says, just as breathless.
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
He looks at me, eyes dark and honest in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Because I don’t know how to stay away from you.”
That’s the problem.
That’s always been the problem.
And as much as I hate it… I don’t know how to stay away from him either.