Chapter 4
Chapter four
The difference between loyalty and yacht-party betrayal
Logan
Skating the ice should be enough.
Down and back, sharp pivots, push until my thighs burn. The rhythm is supposed to clear my head, with the same drills I’ve been running since I was old enough to lace skates without help. Edge work, clean and mechanical.
But my head won’t clear.
She keeps slipping in; sunlight through blinds I can’t shut.
Lulu on the porch, the movers tripping over themselves just because she laughed.
Betty, leaning on the railing and calling her a beautiful creature, and cackling about my thighs.
Then the kicker—warning me not to smash her mirror or it’d create seven years of bad luck for our inevitable marriage.
Jesus Christ.
Meadow’s been fake-marrying us off every other Sunday at brunch, and now Betty’s in on the conspiracy. At this rate, we’ll be sending out save-the-dates by Halloween.
I dig harder, lungs pulling sharp against the cold, blades carving deep.
These thoughts aren’t supposed to be part of the plan.
I was raised on plans. My parents had calendars before I could spell.
Trainings blocked out, tutors, camps. Every edge mapped, every outcome strategized.
All the gear, all the resources, all the quiet determination to make sure their only kid made it here.
They loved me in their own way. A schedule instead of a hug, a new stick instead of someone cheering in the stands. Warmth wasn’t in their playbook.
So I don’t know what the hell to do with Lulu Parnell in my head.
She’s been there ever since Eli’s wedding last year, all sparkle and bare shoulders and that laugh that rings through my brain every time I hear it. And she hasn’t left since. Showing up at brunch, in the neighborhood, at our games.
Now she’s across the street, with her boxes and movers and that mirror that nearly killed me on her staircase.
This isn’t my problem. She is not my problem. I’m just stuck in the splash zone because Eli asked me to keep an eye on her. That’s it.
Except Eli can’t—or won’t—see it. How sharp she is under all that sunshine. She doesn’t even seem to realize half of it herself, and that’s what sticks. That’s what won’t shake.
I cut a tight turn, faster than necessary, trying to scrape her out of my head. All I get is the sound of her chuckle as she promised to keep the curtains closed, and the way it lingered longer than it should have before Eli’s knock ruined it.
Jesus.
Two years in the league, trying to prove last season’s disaster wasn’t all on me, and my dad still calls after every game with a list of everything I need to improve on. I don’t need this. I don’t need her grin, her curves, or the way her voice goes soft when I look her in the eye.
She’s not part of the plan.
I curse under my breath, lower my head and push harder, hoping speed alone can put her back where she belongs—on the other side of the glass, not in my chest.
“Jesus, Miller,” Jake calls as I blow past him, his stick rattling when he misses a poke check. “You running from something or training for the Olympics?”
“Both,” Chase says, skating lazy circles around us. “Pookie’s terrified he won’t get home in time to catch the new season of Summer Shoreline.”
I grunt. “The hell is that?”
“The show Zoe’s obsessed with,” Chase replies, smug. “She made me watch a couple episodes. It’s trash. Scripted, fake tans, the guys cry more than the girls—”
“Couple episodes?” Jake snorts, cutting him off. “Buddy, you gave me a full recap last week, complete with character arcs.”
Chase scowls. “You’re just jealous you don’t know the difference between loyalty and yacht-party betrayal.”
Ryan, our captain, glides through the neutral zone. “Wait, Tyler actually picked yacht-party girl over Ashley? That was bold!”
“That was bullshit,” Chase fires back indignantly. “Ashley deserved better.”
Jake wheezes, nearly dropping his stick. “Listen to you. You sound like Charlie when she yells about the Grey’s Anatomy musical episode.”
“Fuck off,” Chase mutters.
“I’m with Walton,” Ryan says. “Ashley got screwed.”
“Yacht-party girl wasn’t even on Tyler’s radar till episode four,” mutters Reid without looking up, tapping his stick in an even rhythm across his crease.
Doesn’t matter if we’re having informal skate, practice or an actual game, he has the same crease routine every time he sets a blade on the ice. And he is very particular about it.
Eli glides by with a shrug. “Madison’s winning. She’s been playing the long game.”
The boys erupt, jeers bouncing off the glass as they shout over each other about who’s making it to finale week. Apparently, this show is a big deal.
“Please,” Jake says, still laughing. “The only one with a shot is Kelsey, and she hasn’t even—”
“Oh my god,” Chase crows, pointing his stick at him. “You’re watching it too!”
Jake freezes, then clears his throat. “Charlie had it on in the background, okay? She was crying, and I—fuck, I brought her tissues. I can’t stand it when she cries!”
“Uh-huh,” Eli deadpans. “Background. Crying. Sure.”
I glance over at Reid, who’s still focused on his crease. “You got a fifty on who’s gonna win, Hutchy?”
He stabs his stick into the ice and shakes his head once. “I don’t waste my time on garbage.”
“Right,” Chase says, eyes gleaming. “Then how’d you know yacht-party girl didn’t show up until episode four?”
Reid doesn’t flinch, just takes a long swig from his water bottle, eyes narrowed behind the cage of his helmet. “Because you idiots won’t shut up about it.”
The boys howl, sticks rattling the ice in unison. Jake starts skating circles around the crease, and Chase keeps chirping until Reid finally raises his glove, palm out.
“And,” he adds flatly, “Kelsey won’t make top three. She’s allergic to shellfish, and they foreshadowed it at dinner.”
Suddenly, everyone’s shouting, rapping sticks, and losing their shit.
“Oh no, no, no, Hutchy,” Chase crows, barreling toward the crease. “You’re watching it too, admit it!”
“Stay the fuck out of my crease,” Reid snaps, stick jabbing out to hold him off.
But it’s too late. Jake cuts in from the side, Ryan right behind him, Eli grinning like a maniac as they swarm.
“I just finished my routine!” Reid bellows, trying to fend them off with his blocker while they pile on. “Took me thirty minutes! Thirty! Get out of here!”
Jake hooks him around the middle, Chase makes a grab for his pads, and Ryan slams a glove against the net. Eli’s doubled over laughing as Reid goes down in a tangle of gear and curses.
“Shellfish allergy!” Jake yells triumphantly. “He knew!”
“Fuck you all!” Reid shouts from the bottom of the dogpile. “I just finished my crease, and now it’s ruined!”
The boys are wheezing, still clambering on top of him. Reid thrashes once, then goes statue-still under the weight of the boys, his voice deadly calm as it floats out.
“You think this is funny,” he says evenly, flexing his blocker glove from under Chase’s thigh. “But I dream in slow-motion replays of every puck you’ve ever lost in the slot.” A pause. “And I wake up smiling.”
The pile freezes, then detonates into laughter so hard Ryan actually topples sideways as a chorus of “What the actual fuck?” and “You’re insane!” and “That’s why he’s a goalie!” rings out.
Hutchy sits up slowly, unbothered, mask askew. “Get off my crease,” he mutters, dragging his blade back into the same groove and starting his routine again as if nothing happened.
I glide past, coasting slow enough to look casual. “You psychos do realize you’re grown men arguing over yacht parties, right?”
“Shut up, Pookie,” Chase fires back immediately, pointing his stick. “You’re out here skating like it’s Game Seven in September. Kinda obvious there’s drama in your life.”
“You want drama, Walton?” I angle a puck toward his skates, grin sharp. “I could just tell Coach Benson about what I walked in on in the equipment room last week. Pretty sure Zoe’s back was against the stick rack.”
“That was private!”
I hum slowly, drawing it out. “Seemed pretty public to me…”
Jake chokes so hard he has to clutch the boards, howling. Ryan’s doubled over, Eli wheezing. Reid doesn’t even look up, still tracing his crease lines.
Chase jabs his stick at me. “You keep your mouth shut, Miller.”
“Then shut yours,” I fire back, still grinning as I push off.
I don’t give a shit about this TV show and yacht-party girl or Kelsey or shellfish allergies. Because while the guys are losing their minds over fake drama, even when I’m supposed to be drilling patterns into muscle memory, she’s still there.
Lulu.
And I don’t have a goddamn clue how to skate her out.
***
The air in the locker room is heavy with sweat and damp gear, that familiar funk of unstrapped pads and steam still clinging to the walls.
Someone cracks open a fresh can of Zyn, and the sharp bite of mint cuts through the musk.
Tape tears somewhere behind me, that tacky-sweet smell of wax mixing with wet laces.
This is the part nobody glamorizes. No cameras, no fanfare—just steam, stink, and guys chirping each other until the walls shake.
I sit on the bench, toweling off my hair, head still buzzing from the skate. I should feel wrung out and empty, my usual signs of a great informal skate ahead of the season starting. Instead, I’m on edge, pulse still twitching like I left laps unfinished.
Jake groans from his bench. “Charlie’s baking this weekend.”
Nobody looks up.
“For Lulu.” He drags out her name. “Housewarming brownies. Which means no brownies for me.”
The boys laugh, Ryan shaking his head. “God forbid your fiancée bakes for someone else, Brooks.”
“She does it every Sunday,” Jake insists, pointing at Eli. “One tray. One. And I usually get the leftovers. But no, your sister moves into a new house, and suddenly I’m cut off.”
“Sounds like Lulu’s got her priorities straight,” Chase says, smirking.
Eli snorts. “Damn right she does. Always has.”