Chapter 9 Chapter 8
Logan POV
The harder I skate, the louder my thoughts get.
Every stride cuts through the ice like I’m trying to carve her name out of my head. The sound of my blades is sharp, punishing, but it’s not enough. Nothing is.
“Focus, Shaw!” Coach barks.
I can’t.
Because every time I blink, I see her. Harper Lane. The girl who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fawn, doesn’t even look twice at me. The one who makes me feel like I’m the joke she already heard.
Maybe she’s right.
When practice ends, I tear my gloves off and throw them hard enough to echo. My chest burns. Cole catches the look and reads it instantly—captain-to-captain empathy that only makes it worse.
“You’re skating angry,” he says.
“Just skating.”
He smirks like he knows better. “You keep telling yourself that.”
⸻
That night, the Ice House is alive—music thumping, laughter rolling, lights flickering gold across the floor. It’s the kind of chaos I’ve always liked: messy, loud, distracting.
I down one beer, then another, until the noise settles into a dull hum behind my eyes. If I can’t get Harper out of my head, I’ll drown her in someone else’s scent.
And then I see her.
Dark hair, bronze skin, gold hoops that catch the light when she turns. Her smile hits me like muscle memory—familiar, easy, uncomplicated. She’s exactly my type. She’s safe in all the ways Harper isn’t.
I move toward her like I’ve done this a hundred times—because I have. I hand her a drink. She laughs, low and warm, and it slides under my skin like a song I know the words to.
We dance. Her body fits against mine like temptation was tailored for me. Every sway, every brush of her hip, pulls me further from the edge I’ve been living on. Her perfume clings—sweet, dizzying—and I let it take me under.
Somewhere between the music and the neon haze, my thoughts blur. I stop hearing the bass, stop caring who’s watching. My hands find her waist, then her hair, then everywhere they shouldn’t linger.
By the time the door shuts behind us, the party’s a faint echo.
The only sound left is our breath, shallow and quick.
I tell myself this is what I need—heat, noise, nothing that means anything.
⸻
Morning hits too bright.
Light slices through the blinds, falling across tangled sheets and the quiet shape beside me. She’s sleeping—peaceful, beautiful—and I should feel something like satisfaction. But the ache in my chest says otherwise.
I sit on the edge of the bed, scrub a hand over my face. My head pounds with the hangover, but it’s not the beer making me sick—it’s everything else.
She stirs. “Leaving already?”
“Early practice,” I lie, voice flat.
She smiles, still half-asleep. “Had fun, Logan.”
“Yeah.” The word tastes hollow.
I dress fast and get out before I can think too much. The morning air bites cold against my skin, cutting through the leftover warmth of her. I tell myself this is who I am. This is what I do.
But it doesn’t feel like victory—it feels like rot.
⸻
Practice blurs.
My body goes through the motions—pass, check, shoot, miss—but my head’s somewhere else. Cole skates up beside me, tapping his stick against the ice.
“Rough night?” he asks.
“Didn’t sleep much.”
He studies me a second too long. “You look like you’re trying to convince yourself you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
“Sure,” he says quietly. “Keep telling yourself that.”
He glides off, leaving me in the cold silence of my own lies.
⸻
Later, the locker room hums with laughter I can’t feel. My head hangs between my hands, sweat dripping into the cracks of my palms.
I should feel satisfied—I proved I can still be the guy who doesn’t care, the one who keeps it casual, who never lets anyone in.
But the thing about walls—they don’t stop the noise inside.
And every time I try to drown her out with someone else, I see the same face waiting in the dark behind my eyes.
Harper Lane.
The locker room empties, but I don’t move.
The clang of sticks fades until it’s just the hiss of the showers and the pulse in my temples. I should feel lighter after practice, but the ice didn’t burn anything out of me.
My phone buzzes on the bench.
A text lights the screen: Round two?
Same girl from last night—brown skin, gold hoops, the easy smile that promised no strings.
I stare at the message until my reflection stares back from the black glass. I should delete it.
Instead I type, On my way.
Because maybe if I keep repeating the same mistake, it’ll finally feel like control.
⸻
The dorm smells like coconut lotion and cheap wine. A string of fairy lights runs along the wall, blinking soft and gold. She’s barefoot, oversized tee hanging off one shoulder, and she’s already smiling like she knows how this ends.
“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” she teases.
“I needed a distraction,” I tell her, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She steps closer. Her perfume hits first—sweet, dizzying—and then her hands slide up my chest, slow and certain. The rest happens on instinct: breath mixing, backs finding walls, heat building fast.
Her laugh catches when I kiss her. She tastes like rum and sugar, and for a heartbeat it’s enough—the noise, the motion, the rush of blood drowning everything out.
But Harper’s face flashes behind my eyes again—those cool, steady eyes, the tilt of her mouth like she’s unimpressed by every move I make.
A low growl escapes before I can stop it. I kiss harder, needing to erase the image, needing her gone. My hands grip tighter, too tight, like I can hold the anger still.
The girl gasps, half-surprised, half-pleased, and it jolts me back. I soften the hold, mutter something that sounds like an apology, and keep moving, chasing the heat before the thoughts return.
Inside, though, the fury keeps building—at Harper for invading my head, at myself for letting her. Every time I blink she’s there, and the harder I fight it, the more she owns the space I swore no one would touch.
⸻
Morning filters through the blinds, pale and too honest. She’s curled beside me, peaceful, unaware of the storm she helped me start.
I sit up, rub my face. The anger’s gone now, replaced by that same hollow ache.
“Leaving already?” she murmurs.
“Early skate,” I lie.
She smiles. “Had fun, Logan.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
The word sounds like defeat.
Outside, the air bites through the leftover warmth clinging to my skin. I shove my hands into my pockets, jaw clenched.
No matter how many times I try to bury her, Harper Lane keeps clawing her way back.
And that—more than anything—makes me furious.