Chapter 96 Chapter 95
Logan POV
I don’t drive away.
I should.
That’s what I usually do — leave, disappear, let distance clean up whatever I don’t know how to sit with.
But tonight, my hands stay on the steering wheel and my eyes stay on the house.
Harper’s house.
I watch her walk up the steps, her shoulders a little tense, her pace steady like she doesn’t want to give herself time to hesitate. The porch light flicks on, casting her in yellow for just a second before the door opens and the noise spills out — laughter, music, voices layered over each other in that chaotic, living way that sorority houses always sound.
She doesn’t look back.
I don’t blame her.
The door closes.
The porch light clicks off.
And just like that, she’s gone.
The truck feels too quiet.
Too small.
I lean back in the seat and stare at the windshield, my reflection faint in the glass. I look… tired. Older than I should. Like someone who’s been bracing for impact his whole life and forgot how to stand normally.
Harper’s voice slips back into my head, soft but firm.
Fear can be the biggest enemy.
I swallow hard.
I hate that she said it like it wasn’t an accusation.
Like it was something she’d already accepted about me.
I rub a hand over my face and let out a slow breath. The kiss replays against my will — the way it started gentle, the way it almost tipped into something deeper, the way I stopped it.
Not because I didn’t want her.
Because I did.
Too much.
Stopping it felt automatic. Instinctive. Like muscle memory.
Like training.
I straighten in my seat, jaw tightening.
That realization sits ugly in my chest.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through the quiet like a blade.
I don’t look at the screen.
I don’t have to.
My stomach already knows.
The vibration buzzes against my thigh, insistent, impatient, like whoever’s on the other end expects obedience just for calling.
I let it ring twice longer than I should.
Then I answer.
Before I can say anything, his voice comes through, rough and already irritated.
“You still out on your date?”
My shoulders tense immediately.
I close my eyes. “How did you even know I was on a date?”
There’s a pause.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Just certainty.
“I know,” he says.
The casual confidence in that answer makes something cold slide down my spine.
“Why are you on a fucking date?” he snaps. “A relationship isn’t going to get you fucking drafted.”
The words hit exactly where he intends them to.
I grip the steering wheel harder. “It’s not a relationship.”
“Bullshit.”
“It was organized by the school,” I say. “It’s for the charity auction. Publicity.”
“I don’t care what excuse they wrapped it in,” he fires back. “It’s a distraction.”
I exhale sharply. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” he says. “You’re skating tight. You’re hesitating. You don’t do that unless something’s in your head.”
My jaw clenches.
“That’s not because of a date,” I say.
“Then what is it?” he demands.
I hesitate.
That’s all it takes.
“That pause?” he says. “That’s how I know I’m right.”
I swallow. “It was just for publicity.”
He scoffs. “Publicity doesn’t win games.”
“And neither does pretending you don’t have a life,” I snap before I can stop myself.
The line goes quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
I stare straight ahead, heart pounding.
“You want to talk about publicity?” I continue, the words spilling out now that the dam’s cracked. “You used that word all the time when I was growing up.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he says sharply.
“I’m talking about how you used to tell Mom you were ‘doing publicity’ every time she found lipstick on your shirt.”
The sentence lands heavy.
Final.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the low hiss of the connection.
Then his breathing changes.
“That’s enough,” he says, voice low and warning.
“No,” I fire back, pulse racing. “It’s not. You don’t get to lecture me about distractions when hockey was your excuse for everything.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he snaps.
“I watched it,” I say. “I watched you choose the league over us and call it dedication. Over and over again.”
“That’s the job,” he says flatly.
“No,” I reply, voice tight. “That was your choice.”
The silence stretches again.
He exhales slowly, controlled, the way he always does when he’s trying not to explode.
“This conversation is over,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, heart hammering. “It is. Because I’m done pretending this is about focus.”
Another pause.
Then, cold and clipped: “Get your head straight, Logan. Or you’ll throw everything away.”
The line goes dead.
No goodbye.
No acknowledgment.
Just the echo of his voice and the hum of my engine.
I lower the phone slowly and drop it onto the passenger seat.
My hands are shaking.
I don’t remember the last time I talked back like that.
I don’t remember the last time I let myself be that honest.
Harper’s face flashes in my mind again — the way she looked at me in the truck, steady and sad and knowing all at once.
Fear can be the biggest enemy.
I finally understand what she meant.
It’s not fear of failing.
It’s fear of choosing something different than what I was raised to believe mattered.
Fear of wanting more than hockey.
Fear of admitting that I don’t want my entire life to be a performance with a jersey number.
Fear of becoming the kind of man who leaves damage behind and calls it sacrifice.
I look back at the house.
At the dark doorway she disappeared through.
And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel abstract.
If I keep letting fear make my decisions, I won’t just lose a draft spot.
I’ll lose her.
I lean back in the seat, staring up at the night sky, chest tight with anger and regret and something dangerously close to resolve.
Because if fear really is the enemy…
Then maybe the fight isn’t on the ice.
Maybe it’s right here.
And maybe, for once, I’m ready to stop running from it.