Chapter 6 Chapter 5
Harper POV
The first week of senior year is chaos wrapped in caffeine.
My planner looks like a war map — highlighted blocks of time, arrows connecting meetings, reminders to eat. Between running Alpha Chi, prepping for recruitment, and coordinating the charity clinic with the hockey team, I’ve had exactly three hours of peace since Monday.
And apparently, I’m a masochist, because I signed up for Sports Media and Communication as my elective. I need it for my PR minor, but I didn’t think I’d actually have to enjoy it.
The classroom’s cold, half the seats already filled when I walk in. Hockey jerseys, sorority sweatshirts, the usual crowd of campus overachievers pretending they’re laid-back.
I pick a seat near the middle. Close enough to look engaged, far enough not to get volunteered.
“Morning,” a voice drawls behind me.
I freeze. I know that voice.
Of course.
Logan Shaw.
He slides into the seat directly behind me like the universe is mocking me personally.
“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” he says, all innocence.
I turn halfway in my chair. “Do you follow me, or is this just karmic punishment for last week?”
He grins — that slow, lazy grin that makes my stomach tighten even when I wish it wouldn’t. “If this is punishment, I’ll take it.”
I glare. “This class requires actual attendance and effort. You sure you’re in the right room?”
He leans forward just enough for his breath to graze my shoulder. “You’d be surprised what I can do when I’m motivated.”
My pulse skips. I hate that he knows it.
Before I can respond, Professor Kellner walks in — a middle-aged man with a love for metaphors and too much coffee. “Welcome, everyone. This course explores how athletes and teams build image through media narratives.”
Perfect. Because what I really want is to analyze the PR machine of the man currently sitting behind me.
⸻
For the first thirty minutes, I focus on my notes, or at least pretend to. But Logan’s presence is magnetic — quiet, steady, impossible to ignore. He doesn’t fidget or whisper or check his phone. He just… listens.
It shouldn’t surprise me. But it does.
When the professor splits us into pairs for a “mini-project,” I silently pray for divine intervention.
Of course, there is none.
“Shaw and Lane,” Kellner calls. “You’ll start us off. You’ll be analyzing how team image affects fan perception.”
I close my eyes. “Of course we will.”
Logan smirks. “Guess we’re stuck together, Madam President.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say automatically.
He leans back, amused. “You prefer Harper, then?”
I hesitate. “In class, it’s fine.”
He says it once, quietly. “Harper.”
The way my name sounds in his voice is a problem I refuse to acknowledge.
⸻
We meet later that afternoon in the student union to work on the assignment. I bring my laptop, notes, and an iron determination to get through this with zero distractions.
Logan brings coffee. Two cups.
“Peace offering,” he says, sliding one across the table.
“Is this your new thing now? Caffeine diplomacy?”
“Seems to work better than sarcasm.”
He’s not wrong. I take a sip — black with cinnamon, somehow exactly how I like it. I hate that he remembered.
We start talking about the project. He’s unexpectedly articulate, analyzing headlines, recalling stats about public scandals, media pressure. I can’t help watching him when he talks — the way his brow furrows slightly when he’s thinking, how his voice drops when he gets serious.
He’s different from the loud, cocky version of himself I remember.
“Why communications?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He shrugs. “You’d be surprised how much of hockey is PR. People don’t just want wins — they want stories. The golden boy, the comeback, the rivalry. It’s all a game off the ice, too.”
“That’s… oddly self-aware.”
He chuckles. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not. Just—impressed, maybe.”
He looks at me then, really looks. “That’s a first.”
I break eye contact, pretending to scroll my notes. “Don’t get used to it.”
⸻
We work for another hour, mostly in silence, until I catch him studying me.
“What?” I ask.
He smiles, faintly. “You really hate being looked at, don’t you?”
“I don’t hate it. I just prefer it for the right reasons.”
“And what are the right reasons?”
“When someone’s listening, not judging.”
He nods slowly, like he gets it more than I want him to. “For what it’s worth, I’m listening.”
I feel that sentence like a touch.
Dangerous.
⸻
When we finally pack up, I stand, gathering my things. “Thanks for not being useless today.”
“Thanks for not biting my head off.”
“Don’t make it sound like an invitation.”
He laughs under his breath. “No promises.”
As we walk out of the student union, the late afternoon sun cuts through the glass, spilling gold across the floor. For a second, we fall into step — his hand brushing mine just enough to make me aware of every inch of air between us.
I step back, fast. “You don’t have to walk me.”
“I wasn’t. Just headed this way.”
“Good.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Relax, Harper. I’m not trying to ruin your reputation.”
“You couldn’t if you tried.”
He tilts his head, amused. “We’ll see.”
And then he’s gone, walking toward the rink, hands in his pockets, leaving me standing in the sunlight with a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to behave.
⸻
That night, I’m in my room, laptop open, trying to finish our write-up. But the words blur. I keep thinking about him — about the way he said my name like it meant something, about the steadiness behind the arrogance.
It doesn’t fit. Logan Shaw isn’t supposed to listen. He’s supposed to flirt, win, leave. That’s the pattern. He’s the definition of temporary.
And me? I don’t do temporary.
I tell myself that’s the difference. That’s why this will never be anything. Because Logan only ever belongs to himself — a lone wolf pretending he’s fine with it.
And I’m not the girl who tries to tame that.
At least, that’s what I keep repeating as I type his name in our project file —
“Shaw & Lane: Image, Identity, and the Illusion of Control.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
⸻
Two days later, I walk into class again, armed with coffee and armor. Logan’s already there, lounging back like he owns the room. He catches my eye and gives a small, knowing smile.
It’s not cocky this time. It’s quieter.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because now I don’t just see the athlete. I see the man beneath it — smart, intense, guarded. The kind who makes you want to peel back every layer even when you know better.
I sit down, keeping my gaze on the board, pretending I don’t feel the pull between us.
It’s not attraction, I tell myself. It’s tension. Pure, academic tension.
I don’t believe it for a second.