21. Sloane #2
Not by a blowout—by a gritty, fought-for margin that feels like we earned it in blood and sweat. Jade hits a clutch shot. Blakely pulls down a rebound like she’s mad at gravity. I sink two free throws at the end with my hands shaking, but I make them.
The final buzzer sounds, and the gym erupts.
Jade screams in my ear, “BIRTHDAY WIN!”
I laugh breathlessly, adrenaline buzzing through my veins.
Coach hugs me quickly, rare for him, then murmurs, “Good job, Rhodes.”
I nod, still dazed.
The team gathers at half-court for the postgame handshake line. Fans start filing out. Music blares. Someone shouts my name.
But my eyes are already searching the stands again.
Pops is standing—slowly—walker in front of him. Logan is at his side, one hand hovering just behind Pops’s back like a safety net he refuses to admit he’s being.
Pops looks smaller under the fluorescent gym lights.
More tired.
He’s smiling, but there’s a faint slackness at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t there last month, like holding the smile takes effort.
I jog over, heart hammering.
“Hey,” I say, breathless.
Pops’s eyes shine. “Hell of a game.”
I grin, then it wobbles. “I’m glad you came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, voice rougher than usual.
Logan clears his throat. “We should head out before the crowd crushes.”
Pops nods, then grips the walker handles.
He takes a step.
Then another. Slow. Measured.
Every movement is deliberate.
My chest tightens with helpless anger.
I fall into step on Pops’s other side without thinking. “I’ve got you.”
Pops scoffs. “I’ve got me.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
Logan’s mouth twitches faintly, but his eyes are serious.
We move through the gym together—my father between Logan and me, my number on his chest, a walker in front of him, and my world reduced to the sound of rubber tips on the floor and my own heartbeat.
Outside, the night air is crisp—California winter crisp—cool enough to raise goosebumps on my damp skin.
Pops exhales like the air feels good. “Whew.”
Logan guides him toward the car, moving carefully, like he’s practiced this already.
I hate that he has.
I also—quietly—love that he has.
When Pops is settled in the passenger seat, Logan shuts the door gently.
Then he looks at me.
“Good game,” he says.
I cross my arms, trying to protect myself from how full my chest feels. “You already said that.”
Logan’s mouth curves. “Still true.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did Cameron make you wear that shirt?”
Logan glances down at the CSU logo. “He offered.”
“So you took it,” I say.
Logan shrugs. “Felt right.”
My throat tightens.
Because it did.
Because he’s choosing us in tiny ways that feel dangerous.
I force my voice back into bite. “Don’t get sentimental.”
Logan’s eyes hold mine. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Pops clears his throat loudly from inside the car. “Are we flirting out here or leaving?”
I choke. “Dad!”
Logan snorts softly.
Pops looks delighted with himself.
I glare at Logan. “This is your fault.”
Logan lifts a brow. “How is this my fault?”
“Because you encourage him,” I hiss.
Logan’s smile is small. “He doesn’t need encouragement.”
I hate that my mouth smiles back.
—
Back home, the house feels warmer—dim lights, familiar walls, the quiet hum of everything continuing even when I want it to stop.
Cameron isn’t here yet—probably at his own gym, probably doing Cameron things, probably being the golden boy while our dad sits in a car with a walker and pretends he isn’t exhausted.
Logan helps Pops into the house, slow and steady, one hand hovering near Pops’s elbow without grabbing unless Pops allows it. Pops pretends not to need him. Logan pretends to believe him.
I trail behind, swallowing the lump in my throat.
When Pops finally makes it to the recliner, he lowers himself like it takes every ounce of energy.
He leans his head back, eyes closed.
I go still.
“Dad?” I ask softly.
His eyes open. He smiles faintly. “Just catching my breath.”
Anger surges hot and sharp.
Because he shouldn’t have to catch his breath after walking from the car to the recliner.
Because he used to run drills in this living room just to annoy us.
Because this is wrong.
Logan’s voice is quiet. “You want some water?”
Pops waves him off. “Later.”
I step closer and touch Pops’s shoulder lightly. “Happy I won?”
Pops’s smile warms. “Always.”
I nod, throat tight. “I’m going to shower.”
Pops nods. “Okay, kiddo.”
I retreat down the hall before the emotion can spill over.
I grab my things before rushing to the shower, peeling off my clothes, and letting the hot water wash away the day. I shower quickly, drying off quickly and slipping into an old, oversized shirt before going back to my room.
I stand there in front of my bed for a second, breathing hard, trying to feel like a person and not a bundle of nerves.
And that’s when I see it.
A small gift bag sitting on my bed.
Plain and simple, a piece of tissue paper peeking out.
My heart stutters.
I stare at it like it just might bite me before picking it up and looking inside.
A small box with a note nestled next to it.
My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper.
Happy birthday, Rhodes.
Just a little reminder that you don’t have to carry everything alone.
—L
My throat burns.
I open the box with hands that don’t feel like mine.
Inside is a simple bracelet—thin, leather braid, with a small metal charm: a basketball on one side…and my number on the other.
Not flashy.
Not expensive-looking.
Just…thoughtful. Specific. A way to show me that he knows me. That he notices things about me that no one else does, without using his words.
I swallow hard, the emotion hitting so fast it makes me dizzy.
Because this isn’t Logan being cocky.
This is Logan being careful.
This is Logan leaving something on my bed like he didn’t want to hand it to me and watch me deflect.
Like he didn’t want to make it a moment I could ruin with anger.
I sit on the edge of my bed and press the bracelet to my palm.
My stomach flips.
I stand up so fast my head spins.
Then I do the thing I never do.
I walk straight to Logan’s room.
His door is cracked.
I knock once anyway, because I’m not a barbarian.
No answer.
So I push it open.
Logan is sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt off, brace visible, ice pack balanced on his knee. He looks up sharply, surprised.
His gaze flicks to my face, then down to my hand—where I’m gripping the gift bag like evidence.
“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately.
I narrow my eyes. “Did you put this on my bed?”
Logan stills. “Yeah.”
My throat tightens. “Why?”
He blinks, like the question is obvious. “Because it’s your birthday.”
I glare. “Don’t act like you didn’t write a whole speech on that note.”
Logan’s mouth twitches faintly. “It was two sentences.”
“It was annoying,” I snap, because it’s easier than admitting it made my chest ache.
Logan watches me for a beat, losing the battle of controlling the smirk that’s taking over his face. “So you liked it?”
I hate that my face warms. “It’s fine.”
Logan snorts softly. “Sure.”
I step closer, then stop in the doorway like there’s an invisible line between us.
“Just like you keep leaving the water on my nightstand.” I grip the gift bag tighter. “Why do you do that?”
Logan’s eyes lift back to mine. They’re steady. Honest. “Because you wouldn’t let anyone take care of you if they asked permission.”
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
“And because…” he adds, quieter.
I freeze.
Logan’s gaze drops to my bracelet, then back to my face. “Because you take care of everyone else. All the time. And for some reason, you think you don’t deserve someone to take care of you.”
The words hit like a punch, my eyes instantly burning with tears that want so badly to break free.
I blink hard, doing my best to clear them away. “You don’t know me.”
Logan’s mouth twitches faintly, but his eyes don’t smile. They’re full of sadness. “Yeah. I do.”
I swallow. “You don’t get to—”
“I’m not trying to make you do anything,” he cuts in gently. “I’m not asking you to say thank you.”
My pulse spikes because of the way his voice drops on that last word, like he knows exactly where my brain wants to go and he’s trying not to push it there.
He leans back slightly on the bed, careful with his knee, still giving me space even in his own room. “I just didn’t want you waking up dehydrated on a day you had to pretend you were fine.”
My throat burns.
I look away, because if I look at him too long, I’ll do something stupid.
Like cry.
Or step closer, maybe even hug him.
And that would be a terrible, terrible choice right now.
When I look back, Logan’s gaze is fixed on my face like he’s waiting for me to bolt.
I swallow hard. “You’re…annoying.”
Logan’s mouth curves faintly. “Happy birthday.”
My lips twitch despite myself.
It’s small, just a crack. Logan sees it, and something warm flashes in his eyes.
Then he sobers, voice quiet again. “You played amazing tonight.”
My chest tightens. “I almost missed that free throw.”
“You didn’t,” he says simply.
I swallow hard, then lift the bracelet slightly. “This is…thoughtful.”
Logan’s brows lift. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
I glare. “Don’t make me regret it.”
His smile is small. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Silence settles, charged and thin.
My gaze flicks to his bare chest before I can stop it.
To the line of his collarbone. The faint bruise near his shoulder. The way his skin rises and falls with his breath.
I hate how my body responds to him.
Logan’s gaze drops to my mouth like it has a mind of its own too.
My pulse kicks. He doesn’t move; instead, he waits.
And him doing that feels like the most intimate thing he’s ever done.
I swallow hard and force my voice back into bite. “My eyes are up here.”
Logan’s blue eyes meet mine instantly, and I can see the heat swirling in them, which I know matches my own.
I hesitate, then whisper, “You were looking at my mouth.”
Logan’s gaze holds mine. “And you were looking at mine.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
I should leave.
I should retreat back to my room and lock the door and pretend this never happened.
But my feet don’t move.
Instead, I take one slow step closer—just enough to be dangerous.
Logan goes very still.
His voice is low. “Sloane.”
My throat tightens. “What?”
His eyes flick to the bracelet again. “Put it on for me?”
I blink. “What?”
“The bracelet. Put it on,” he repeats quietly. “Let me see.”
The request is small.
It shouldn’t feel like a cliff.
It does anyway, because putting it on means accepting it, and accepting it means admitting he matters.
My hands tremble slightly as I slide the bracelet around my wrist and try to fasten it, but fail.
Logan’s gaze tracks the movement, then lifts to my face. For a second, his expression softens completely—like he forgot how to be guarded.
He reaches up and takes the clasp in his fingers, carefully fastening it on my wrist. My arm erupts in goosebumps from the simple touch.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s…you.”
My chest aches.
I swallow hard. “Sounds like someone is getting a bit sentimental.”
Logan’s mouth twitches faintly. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”
I stare at him, throat tight, heart doing stupid things.
Then, quietly—so quiet it barely counts—I say, “Thank you, Logan.”
Logan stills like the words hit him physically.
His eyes soften. “You’re welcome.”
Silence stretches again.
I back up a step, because I need oxygen.
“I’m going to bed,” I mutter.
Logan nods once, controlled. “Okay.”
I pause at the door.
Then I glance back at him, voice sharper than the emotion in my chest. “If you ever sneak into my room again—”
“I made sure you weren’t in there,” he reminds me, amused.
“If you ever appear in my room again,” I correct, “I’ll break your other knee.”
Logan’s smile turns real. “Noted.”
I leave before I can do something worse—like smile back and mean it.
But as I walk down the hall, my wrist feels heavier in the best way.
And for the first time in a long time, the house doesn’t feel like it’s only filled with endings.
It feels like there’s still something…starting.
Even if neither of us is brave enough to name it yet.