Chapter 60 Chapter 59
Logan POV
Game days usually flip a switch in my head.
Noise disappears. Doubt disappears. Everything narrows down to ice, puck, angles, timing.
Today?
Today my brain is a war zone.
I tape my stick too tight. Retie my skates twice. Rip my helmet on harder than necessary.
Across the locker room, Cole is laughing about something Marco said, easy and relaxed like he didn’t just light a fuse in my chest this morning.
You want her? Figure it out. Or someone else will.
I don’t look at him.
If I do, I might swing.
“Shaw.”
Coach’s voice cuts through the room. “Eyes up. You’re the captain. Act like it.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
We file out.
The rink is loud. Packed. Banners, lights, music, energy buzzing through the air like static.
I should feel it.
I don’t.
The puck drops and I explode off the line like I’m trying to outrun my own thoughts.
Bad idea.
I hit too hard. Skate too fast. Take shots I shouldn’t.
“Easy!” Cole snaps as I overshoot a pass.
I ignore him.
The other team starts chirping early.
“Someone wake up the golden boy!”
“Careful, Captain, you’re gonna cry!”
I check one of them into the boards hard enough to rattle teeth.
The ref’s arm goes up.
Great.
In the box, I stare at the ice, chest heaving, blood roaring in my ears.
Get it together.
We kill the penalty.
I jump back out like I’ve been shot from a cannon.
Still too hard. Still too reckless.
Halfway through the first, I miss a pass I never miss.
Coach slams the bench door. “Shaw! You want to throw this game away?”
I grit my teeth and keep skating.
Second period is worse.
I’m not thinking. I’m reacting.
And then—just for a second—as I circle near the boards, my eyes flick up.
To the stands.
I shouldn’t look.
I don’t mean to.
But I do.
And I swear to God I see her.
Red sweater. Hair pulled back. Leaning forward in her seat like she always does when she’s focused.
Harper.
My heart slams so hard it throws my timing off.
I almost lose the puck.
What the hell is she doing here?
The thought hits sharp and ugly.
She’s here for Cole.
The idea detonates in my chest.
My next shift is pure violence.
I chase down their left winger and hammer him into the boards. He swings back.
I swing harder.
Gloves hit the ice.
The crowd roars.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and fists.
It’s not even about him.
It’s about the image in my head.
Harper watching Cole.
Harper smiling at him.
Harper sitting there because of him.
I land one good punch before the refs haul us apart.
The walk to the penalty box feels like a march to execution.
Coach doesn’t even look at me.
In the box, I finally look up again.
Scan the crowd.
My chest tightens.
I don’t see her.
Did I imagine her?
Was it just my brain torturing me?
The idea that she might be here—might be watching someone else—makes my stomach twist.
You don’t get to suddenly care now.
Cole’s words echo like a curse.
Good.
We’re down by one.
I sit there, hands clenched, watching the clock bleed.
When I get out, something in me flips.
Not rage.
Not jealousy.
Something colder.
Focused.
Mean.
I take the puck at center ice and drive straight through two defenders like they’re made of smoke.
Shoot.
Goal.
The crowd explodes.
I don’t celebrate.
I just skate back to center with my jaw tight and my heart still pounding like I’m running from something.
Third period.
Tie game.
Everything matters now.
I play smarter. Harder. Cleaner.
But my eyes keep drifting to the stands.
Looking.
Searching.
She’s not there.
I tell myself that’s good.
It doesn’t feel good.
Two minutes left.
We’re on a power play.
Cole passes to me at the blue line.
I hesitate.
Just a fraction.
Then I see her again.
Or I think I do.
This time I’m not sure.
I don’t care.
I shoot.
Top corner.
Goal.
We win.
The horn blares.
The team piles on me.
Sticks banging. Shouts. Celebration.
I feel… nothing.
In the handshake line, my eyes go to the stands again.
Empty.
No red sweater.
No Harper.
Just noise and lights and people who aren’t her.
In the locker room, Marco is yelling about the fight.
Zack is replaying the goals.
Cole is quiet.
I don’t look at him.
I can’t.
Because the worst thought in my head isn’t:
Was she there?
It’s:
Why did I want her to be?
And the answer scares the hell out of me.
Because if Harper Lane is in my head when I’m on the ice…
I’m already in deeper than I know how to get out of.