Chapter 7 Chapter 6
Logan POV
The sound of skates carving into the ice usually centers me.
Today, it’s just noise.
The puck ricochets off the boards and I’m half a second late. It bounces past my stick, slipping between my skates like it’s mocking me. Cole scoops it up with an easy flick and fires it back to the blue line.
“Wake up, Shaw,” he calls, grinning. “You playing in slow motion today?”
I force a smirk, breath heavy against my mouthguard. “Just keeping it interesting.”
“Yeah? You’re making it easy for me to steal your spot.”
The chirping should roll off me, but it hits different today. My rhythm’s shot, my timing’s off, and every time I blink, I see Harper Lane—crossed arms, unreadable eyes, that way she says my name like it’s both an insult and a warning.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the rink. “Shaw! You skating or sightseeing?”
I bite my lip, nod, and dig in harder. My blades screech, muscles burning, lungs straining for focus that won’t come.
It’s like she got into my bloodstream.
⸻
Practice ends in a cloud of steam and exhaustion. I rip my gloves off, throw them against the wall, and drop onto the bench. Cole’s already stripped to his undershirt, towel slung around his neck, grinning like he knows exactly what’s wrong.
“Rough day, huh?”
“Don’t start.”
He smirks. “Can’t help it. You’re practically broadcasting it. You keep zoning out like that, Coach’s gonna start checking you for a concussion.”
“Just tired,” I mutter.
Cole leans back, studying me like a puzzle. “Tired, sure. Or maybe distracted by a certain sorority president who can’t stand you.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t.”
“Relax, man. I saw her on campus this morning. She looked good—real good. You two got some serious history I don’t know about?”
“No.” The answer’s too quick.
He raises an eyebrow. “Because I was thinking about asking her out.”
That stops me cold.
Cole’s expression doesn’t change, but the air shifts. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“She’s not your type,” I say flatly.
He grins wider. “What’s my type then?”
“Not her.”
“See, that’s the thing—she might be exactly my type. Smart, sharp, got that ‘don’t mess with me’ look. I like a challenge.”
My jaw flexes. I grab my towel, stand, and shove my helmet into my bag a little harder than necessary.
Cole’s voice follows me. “You’re so hung up on appearances, man. You want everything perfect—perfect face, perfect body, perfect image. Real connection? You wouldn’t recognize it if it hit you with a stick.”
I stop, shoulders tight. “You done?”
“For now.” His grin fades just enough to show he means the next part. “But seriously, Shaw—whatever’s going on in that head, you’d better figure it out before it screws your game.”
⸻
The locker room empties out.
I sit there a minute longer, elbows on my knees, watching condensation drip from the ceiling.
He’s right.
And I hate that he’s right.
Harper Lane isn’t like the girls I usually chase. She doesn’t laugh at my jokes or hang on every word. She looks at me like she already knows every version of me I try to hide.
I pull on my hoodie and head out before I can think too hard. The rink door closes behind me with a hollow thud, and the cold hits my face like clarity.
I don’t even know where I’m going until I see her—outside the student center, sitting on the steps with a coffee cup and her laptop balanced on her knees.
Hair pulled back, oversized sweater, glasses sliding down her nose. Focused, composed, untouchable.
I tell myself to keep walking. I don’t.
⸻
“Harper.”
She looks up, surprise flashing for half a second before she smooths it away. “Logan.” Her tone’s polite enough to sting.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m kind of busy.”
I nod at the empty space beside her. “Two minutes.”
She sighs, closes her laptop, and sets it aside. “Fine. Two minutes.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, words tangling before they even form. “About the other day—at the rink—I didn’t mean to come off like—”
“Like what?” she interrupts. “Arrogant? Insufferable? Pick one.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t pull punches, do you?”
“Not when I don’t have to.”
There’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes, quick and sharp, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to push back.
“I was trying to say sorry,” I mutter.
She studies me for a long second, then tilts her head. “You don’t usually apologize, do you?”
“Not often.”
“Then maybe save it for someone who needs to hear it.”
The words land soft, but the meaning hits hard. I open my mouth, but before I can respond, someone’s voice cuts through the air.
“Harper!”
Cole. Of course.
He’s walking toward us with that easy, careless grin. He gives me a nod, then focuses on her. “Hey, you left your notebook in the library. Thought I’d play knight in shining armor.”
Harper stands, smiling—genuinely this time—and takes it from him. “Thanks, Cole. That’s actually really sweet of you.”
“Anytime,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to me. “You two good here?”
“Fine,” I answer before she can.
Cole’s grin widens like he can feel the static between us. “See you later, Harper.”
When he walks off, she exhales and gathers her things.
“You done?” she asks quietly.
“With what?”
“This little… whatever it is. The apology. The ego trip. The weird territorial thing you just did.”
My hands curl into fists inside my pockets. “It’s not—”
“Save it,” she says. “You don’t owe me anything, Logan. We’re fine.”
She picks up her laptop and coffee, turning toward the steps. For a second, I catch her scent—vanilla and something sharper, like citrus and steel. She doesn’t look back.
⸻
By the time she disappears into the building, my pulse is still pounding in my ears.
I drag a hand over my face, half a laugh slipping out, low and humorless.
Cole’s voice echoes in my head: You wouldn’t recognize something real if it hit you with a stick.
Maybe he’s right.
But that doesn’t stop the thought that hits me like a check into the boards—
if Harper Lane’s not my type, then why can’t I stop thinking about her?