Chapter 94 Chapter 93
Logan POV
Harper looks at me like I just said something in another language.
Not angry.
Not judging.
Just… baffled.
“Logan,” she says slowly, “did you forget something?”
My chest is still tight. My head still full of static.
“Forget what?” I ask.
She studies my face for a long second, like she’s deciding how gently to handle something fragile.
“I grew up with you,” she says. “I know… stuff.”
Her voice drops on the last word. Not dramatic. Not accusing. Just honest.
I stare at her.
She sighs, and it’s the kind of sigh you make when someone you care about is missing something obvious.
“Okay,” she says. “You’re not going to hear me in here. Not like this.”
She glances around the café, then back at me.
“Did you drive here?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
“Good,” she says, already standing. “Come on. You can drive me back to my house.”
“What—why?”
“Because,” she says, grabbing her bag, “you look like you’re about to either shut down or bolt, and I’m not doing this conversation in public.”
I hesitate.
Then nod.
We don’t talk on the walk to the parking lot.
The air outside feels colder than it should. Or maybe that’s just me.
We get into my truck.
I start it.
Still don’t move.
Harper puts her seatbelt on and looks straight ahead for a second, like she’s organizing her thoughts.
Then she turns to me.
“I know you don’t want people to know who your dad is,” she says quietly.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
I exhale. “I never told you that.”
She gives me a look. “You never had to.”
I swallow.
“It was bad in middle school,” I admit. “When everyone knew. When he was still playing for the Penguins. Everyone suddenly wanted to be my best friend.”
I huff out a short, bitter laugh. “They didn’t want me. They wanted access.”
She nods. “I remember.”
“You remember?”
“Logan,” she says gently, “I was there.”
That lands harder than I expect.
“People would ask me about him,” I continue, the words coming out like they’ve been waiting. “What he was like. If he’d come to games. If he could get them tickets. Or a signed stick. Or just… a picture.”
My jaw tightens. “It was never about me.”
She watches me.
“And then,” I add, “he got harder.”
Her expression softens.
“He always expected more,” I say. “Better. Faster. Stronger. If I had a good game, it was ‘what did you do wrong?’ If I had a bad one, it was a lecture.”
I shake my head. “Nothing was ever enough.”
She’s quiet.
“You always got this look,” she says finally.
I glance at her.
“This one,” she continues. “The one you have right now. Like you’re bracing for impact even though nothing’s actually happening.”
My chest tightens.
“That’s how I know,” she says softly. “That it was him who called.”
I stare at her.
“…How?”
“Because you only look like that when you feel like you’re about to be evaluated,” she says. “Measured. Found wanting.”
Something in me shifts.
I didn’t realize how much she saw.
Or how long she’s been seeing it.
“You used to sit two desks behind me in eighth grade,” she says, a faint smile touching her mouth. “And every time your dad came to pick you up from practice, you’d go completely silent for the rest of the day.”
I blink. “You noticed that?”
“I notice things,” she says simply.
The truck is too quiet.
I feel exposed in a way I’m not used to.
“You don’t like talking about him,” she continues. “You don’t like people connecting you to him. You don’t like anyone treating you like you’re part of a legacy instead of a person.”
She looks at me. “You’ve been running from that since you were twelve.”
I swallow hard.
“I didn’t think anyone remembered.”
“I did,” she says.
We sit there for a moment.
“I don’t talk about him because every time I do,” I say slowly, “it feels like he gets to be in the room again.”
She nods. “And when he calls…”
“I turn into a version of myself I don’t like,” I admit. “A version that’s smaller. Tighter. Quieter.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
“And the worst part?” I add. “He doesn’t even have to yell anymore. He just has to… remind me what’s at stake.”
I laugh once, humorless. “And I fold.”
Harper’s voice is very gentle when she says, “That’s not folding. That’s surviving something you grew up inside of.”
I look at her.
Really look at her.
And for the first time, it hits me how much of my life she’s been a quiet witness to.
“You don’t act like this with anyone else,” she says. “Only when he’s involved. Only when you feel like you’re about to be graded.”
I close my eyes for a second.
“I hate that he can still do that to me.”
She nods. “Of course you do.”
“I hate that I let him.”
“That’s not hate,” she says. “That’s fear.”
The word lands clean and sharp.
I don’t argue.
She shifts in her seat, turning toward me a little more.
“You know why I said it was him?” she asks.
“Why?”
“Because you came back to that table like you’d just been reminded who you’re supposed to be,” she says. “And it wasn’t the version of you that was sitting with me.”
My throat tightens.
“I don’t want to be that guy,” I say quietly.
“Then don’t be,” she says.
“It’s not that simple.”
“I know,” she replies. “But it’s also not impossible.”
We sit there, the engine idling, the world moving around us.
“I didn’t realize you knew all this,” I admit.
She gives me a small, sad smile. “You didn’t realize how much I was paying attention.”
That… might be the most unsettling part.
“And you still came anyway,” she adds. “You still tried.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She looks at me for a long second.
“Next time he calls,” she says, “you don’t have to turn to stone.”
“I don’t know how not to.”
“Maybe,” she says, “you start by not pretending you’re alone in it.”
Something in my chest shifts.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
But… less isolated.
I start the truck properly and pull out of the parking lot.
We drive in silence for a bit.
Not awkward.
Just… thoughtful.
As I turn toward her street, it hits me how much she’s always known.
And how much of myself I’ve been hiding in plain sight.
When I stop in front of her house, she doesn’t get out right away.
“Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not asking you to fix this overnight,” she says. “But I am asking you to stop pretending it isn’t there.”
I nod. “That’s fair.”
She opens the door, then pauses.
“And for the record?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to be him.”
Then she gets out and shuts the door.
I sit there for a long moment after she’s gone.
Because for the first time, I’m not just scared of becoming my father.
I’m starting to believe I don’t have to.