Chapter 87 Chapter 86
Logan POV
The call comes in while we’re finishing drills.
Not a text.
Not a message.
An actual call.
Which means it’s bad.
I’m peeling my gloves off when my phone vibrates in my locker.
Daniel Meyers.
I stare at it for a second, then answer.
“Yes?”
“My office,” he says. “Now.”
Then he hangs up.
I exhale slowly and sit there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the floor.
Cole stops in front of my locker. “That looked ominous.”
“Daniel.”
He winces. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
We don’t talk on the walk through the stadium halls. The building feels different away from the ice—quieter, heavier. Offices instead of locker rooms. Carpet instead of concrete. The business side of things.
The side I hate.
When I push open Daniel’s door, I stop short.
Cole is already sitting in one of the chairs.
He looks up and blinks. “Wow. So this is your fault. I haven’t been called to the principal’s office since I got caught sneaking out sophomore year.”
Daniel doesn’t even look at him.
“That’s enough,” he says flatly. “This isn’t a joke.”
Cole shuts up immediately.
That alone tells me how bad this is.
Daniel stands, walks to the printer behind him, and comes back with a stack of glossy photos.
He drops them onto the desk.
Hard.
“I can’t use any of these.”
I look down.
My stomach sinks.
They’re from last night.
Me, Harper, and Cole walking into the restaurant.
Us at the table.
Cole talking.
Harper looking like she wants to disappear.
Me looking like I’m being interrogated.
Every single one is wrong.
“These were supposed to go to donors,” Daniel says. “Alumni. Board members. People who decide whether your program gets new facilities and better travel budgets.”
He taps the stack. “Instead, I have evidence that you don’t know how to behave like a normal human being in public.”
“I did behave.”
“You brought a third wheel.”
“I brought him for a reason.”
“Yes,” Daniel snaps, “and that reason is the problem.”
He turns to Cole. “Why are you here?”
Cole lifts a hand. “Emotional support?”
Daniel just stares at him.
“…I was told to be here,” Cole corrects.
“Correct. Because you were part of the disaster.”
Cole opens his mouth.
Daniel holds up a finger. “Do not.”
He turns back to me. “Do you know what this looks like?”
“Like dinner.”
“It looks like an argument,” he says. “It looks like a negotiation. It looks like you’re afraid of the woman sitting across from you.”
I don’t answer.
“These photos were supposed to say: confident. Charming. Golden Boy. Instead they say: emotionally constipated and supervised.”
He flips one around. “In half of these, she looks miserable. In the other half, you look like you want to vanish.”
Cole shifts in his seat.
“That was not the assignment,” Daniel continues. “The assignment was simple. Show up. Smile. Don’t implode.”
“I didn’t implode.”
“You brought backup.”
Silence.
Daniel rubs his face and sits. “Let’s talk about your future.”
My spine stiffens.
“You want to play in the pros,” he says. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what pros do?”
I don’t answer.
“They do PR,” he says. “Constantly. They smile for cameras. They sit through donor dinners. They fake enthusiasm for things they don’t care about. They pretend they’re happy. They pretend they’re normal. They pretend they’re not exhausted.”
He leans forward. “They sell a version of themselves.”
I clench my jaw.
“And if you can’t even get through a staged date without panicking,” he continues, “what makes you think you’re ready for the NHL?”
That hits.
Hard.
“You think the pros care how you feel?” he asks. “You think they care if you’re uncomfortable? If you’re scared? If you don’t trust yourself?”
He shakes his head. “They care if you can handle being a brand.”
Cole glances at me.
“You don’t get to be private and famous,” Daniel says. “You don’t get to be awkward and sponsored. You don’t get to hide and be the face of a franchise.”
He gestures at the photos. “This tells me you’re not ready.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
I look away.
“Why did you bring him?” Daniel asks quietly.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Cole watches me.
“…Because I didn’t trust myself,” I say.
Daniel studies me. “To do what?”
I don’t answer.
“That,” he says, “is the only honest thing you’ve said all morning.”
He stands. “You don’t get to half-commit. Either you play the part, or you stop pretending this is about PR.”
He looks at me hard. “Because right now? You’re using optics as an excuse to hide.”
He turns to Cole. “You’re done being a buffer.”
“Yes, sir,” Cole says.
We’re dismissed.
We walk in silence down the stadium hallway.
Finally, Cole says, “You know you hurt her.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
I stop walking.
“You’re scared,” he says. “Not of PR. Not of donors. Of wanting it.”
I stare at the floor.
“…Yeah.”
He nods. “Then maybe it’s time you stop running.”
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is:
I don’t know how.
And for the first time, I’m scared it might cost me everything.