Chapter 88 Chapter 87
Logan POv
My father calls at exactly the wrong time.
I’m sitting in my car in the stadium parking lot, engine off, hands still on the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
Daniel’s voice is still in my head.
You’re not ready.
You can’t handle being a brand.
They’ll replace you.
My phone lights up on the passenger seat.
Dad.
Of course it is.
I don’t answer it.
It rings out.
Then rings again.
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose before picking it up.
“What.”
“Nice to hear from you too,” he says. “You done with practice?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d it go?”
“Fine.”
He snorts. “That usually means it wasn’t.”
I don’t respond.
He fills the silence the way he always does. “Your coach texted. Said you’re skating tight.”
“That’s because he talks too much.”
“That’s because you’re thinking too much,” my dad corrects. “Thinking gets you hurt.”
I stare at the dash.
He keeps going. “You hear about the scouts coming next week?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he says. “About time.”
There’s a pause.
Then: “You keep your nose clean?”
My jaw tightens. “What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t give them reasons to not draft you.”
I think about Daniel’s office. The photos. Harper’s face.
“I’m not doing anything stupid.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, not believing me for a second. “Because this is the part where kids screw it up. Not on the ice. Off it.”
I don’t answer.
He doesn’t need me to.
“I didn’t bust my ass for fourteen years in the league so you could throw this away because you got distracted,” he says.
There it is.
The real point.
“I’m not distracted,” I say.
“You better not be,” he replies. “You know what this takes.”
Yeah.
I do.
I grew up in locker rooms. In hotel hallways. In arenas that smelled like sweat and coffee and old tape.
I grew up watching my dad smile for cameras after losses and ice his knees in hotel bathtubs.
I grew up watching my mom learn how to pretend she liked being alone.
I know exactly what the pros are.
“You need to want it more than anything,” he says. “That’s how you make it. That’s how you stay.”
“I do want it.”
“Then act like it.”
The call ends not long after.
He says he’s proud of me.
He always does.
It never sounds the way I want it to.
⸻
I don’t go back to the Ice House right away.
I drive.
I don’t even know where at first.
I just need the noise in my head to shut up.
Harper’s voice keeps getting in.
So you can’t even fake-date me by yourself?
Stop treating me like I’m something you regret.
I hit a red light and rest my forehead against the steering wheel.
I don’t regret her.
That’s the problem.
⸻
When I finally do go back, Cole is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like he’s been waiting.
“You look like you just lost a fight with a ghost,” he says.
“Something like that.”
“Daniel or your dad?”
I glance at him. “How did you—”
“Lucky guess,” he says. “Those are your two natural predators.”
I drop into a chair.
“He called,” I say.
Cole winces. “Oof. Which one?”
“My dad.”
“Double oof.”
I rub my face. “He thinks I’m screwing up my draft chances.”
“Are you?”
I don’t answer.
Cole watches me. “Okay. New question. Are you screwing up things that actually matter to you?”
That lands harder.
“I don’t know how to do both,” I admit.
“Both what?”
“Be what everyone expects,” I say. “And… not lose her.”
Cole’s expression softens.
“Logan,” he says, “you’re not scared of the NHL.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I’m scared of becoming him.”
My dad.
The man who lived for hockey and treated everything else like background noise.
The man who doesn’t understand why my chest feels like it’s splitting in half over one girl.
“I don’t want my whole life to be a performance,” I say.
“Too late,” Cole replies gently. “It already is. The question is whether you’re the one choosing the script.”
I stare at the table.
“Daniel’s right about one thing,” Cole adds. “You can’t keep hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You brought me on a date like I was a crash helmet.”
“…Okay. I might be hiding.”
He snorts. “Progress.”
⸻
Later, in my room, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling.
My phone is on my chest.
Harper’s name is right there.
I don’t touch it.
Because if I do, I’ll have to stop pretending this is just about timing.
Or pressure.
Or the draft.
It’s about choice.
And I’ve been putting that off for a long time.