Chapter 26 Sloane
SLOANE
The problem with winning is that everyone expects you to celebrate it.
As if you can carry overwhelming grief and joy in the same body but selectively choose which one will have the upper hand at any given time.
As if you can rewire your brain into thinking that every good thing your hands touch won’t be ripped away in the blink of an eye.
I try to keep moving like normal after the game—shower, food, homework, sleep. The checklist version of me that works best when she doesn’t stop long enough to feel.
But the house is quieter tonight in the way it always is when Pops laughs too hard and then pays for it later.
When I step out of my room, hair still damp, I can hear the TV in the living room is turned down low. Not because anyone is watching. Because silence feels like a threat.
Logan is on the couch with an ice pack on his knee, hoodie on, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it too much.
He looks up when he hears me.
And I hate the way my stomach flips like it’s a teenage girl with no survival instincts.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer, like I’m not still tasting him from the parking lot.
My eyes flick to Pops’s recliner.
It’s empty.
The blanket is folded neatly over the arm, like the chair is pretending nothing happened today.
My chest tightens. “Where’s Pops?”
Logan’s voice stays casual. “In his room. He fell asleep after you went to shower.”
“Okay,” I say, but the word comes out too soft.
Logan watches me for a beat—too steady, too quiet.
Then he says, “Jade texted.”
I blink. “Of course she did.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “She wants you to come out for a bit.”
I scoff immediately. “No.”
“Mm,” Logan hums, like he expected that. “She said she’ll ‘forgive your absence’ if you show up for at least thirty minutes.”
“I’m honored,” I deadpan.
Logan shifts, setting the ice pack aside. “She also said Blakely is bringing snacks.”
That gets my attention against my will. “Blakely bringing snacks means she’s serious.”
“Exactly,” he says, like we’re discussing national security.
I cross my arms. “Still, no.”
Logan leans back, studying me. “Why not?”
“Because,” I snap, because the real answer is too big. “I don’t want to.”
Logan’s brow lifts. “That’s not a reason. That’s a shield.”
My jaw tightens. “Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just asking.”
I look away, staring at the now blank TV screen like it’s going to rescue me.
I can hear my own thoughts too loudly.
If I leave and something happens—
If he needs me—
If he wakes up, and I’m not here—
Logan’s voice softens. “Sloane.”
I flinch at my name.
“You’re not leaving him alone,” Logan says quietly, like he can read the fear off my face. “Cam is on his way. It would be good to give them some one-on-one time anyway. You can go.”
My throat tightens. “You shouldn’t have to stay.”
Logan’s mouth twitches with an almost bitter-sounding laugh. “Yeah. Because you hate when anyone does anything for you. I forgot.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he says calmly. “Pretty sure you’d rather bleed out than accept a bandage. Especially from me.”
I glare. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
Logan gives me a look. “So are you.”
I want to throw something at his smug, pretty face.
No one else talks to me like this. Everyone else tiptoes. Everyone else tries to soften me like I’m made of glass.
Logan doesn’t.
He just stands in the fire with me and acts like we can both survive it.
“Thirty minutes,” Logan says, voice casual again. “You go. You laugh at Jade’s idiotic jokes. You let Blakely stare at you like a disappointed mom. Then you come home.”
“I don’t want to be stared at,” I mutter.
“You’re always stared at,” he counters. “You’re pretty and slightly terrifying. People can’t help it.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Shut up.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “See? Banter. You’re already socializing.”
I glare. “This isn’t socializing. This is you being annoying.”
“Same thing,” he says.
I try to hold onto my anger, because anger is safer than softness.
But then Logan’s gaze flicks down the hallway—toward Pops’s room—and his voice drops.
“Let him see you live a little,” he says quietly. “If he wakes up and hears you laughing…that’s not a bad thing.”
My throat burns.
I swallow hard. “He won’t know.”
Logan’s eyes hold mine. “He’ll know.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Logan shifts forward carefully, knee brace creaking faintly.
“Come on,” he says, gentler now. “I’ll drive. We’ll stay thirty minutes. If you hate it, we leave. I’ll be miserable with you.”
I blink. “You’re coming?”
His brow lifts. “You think I’m letting you walk into Jade’s chaos alone?”
“I can handle Jade,” I snap.
Logan’s mouth twitches. “No one can handle Jade.”
I hate that I almost smile.
I hate it more that I’m tired enough to give in.
“Fine,” I say sharply. “Twenty minutes.”
Logan’s grin is immediate. “Thirty.”
“Twenty,” I repeat.
“Twenty-five,” he bargains.
I narrow my eyes.
He lifts a brow right back.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Twenty-five.”
Logan stands with a careful shift of weight. “Look at you. Compromise. Growth.” He grabs his keys. “Go put on shoes.”
I glare at him, but I do it.
Because the truth is—I don’t trust myself to stay in this house tonight without turning into something I don’t recognize.
—
Jade’s apartment is loud before we even open the door.
Music thumps through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your bones. Someone shrieks with laughter. A door slams. Then more laughter.
Logan pauses outside the door and looks at me like, Are you sure?
I send him a glare. His mouth twitches. “Just checking.”
He knocks once, then opens it because Jade doesn’t believe in locks or privacy.
The smell hits first—pizza, cheap perfume, and something fruity that’s definitely alcohol.
Jade is in the living room wearing a sweatshirt that says WINNERS ONLY, like she’s branding herself. She spots me and immediately screams.
“SLOANE RHODES!”
My shoulders tense.
Jade launches across the room and throws her arms around me.
I stiffen instinctively—then force myself to let her.
Jade squeezes like she’s trying to glue me back together.
“You did it,” she says into my hair. “You absolute menace.”
“Thank you,” I manage, voice muffled.
Jade pulls back, eyes shining. “I’m so proud of you I could throw up.”
“Please don’t,” I deadpan.
Jade laughs, then her gaze drops to Logan. Her grin turns wicked.
“And look who you brought,” she purrs.
Logan mutters, “Fuck me,” under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s already regretting his existence.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Jade points at him like she’s accusing him of a crime. “The shirt was iconic.”
Logan groans. “Why is that still a topic? I was forced against my will.”
“Because it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Jade says. Then she leans closer and stage whispers, “Also, I took a picture and sent it to the group chat.”
Logan’s eyes widen. “You did what?”
Jade beams. “Smile, babe.”
I choke on a laugh that comes out half cough, half surprise.
Logan’s gaze snaps to me.
For a second, his eyes soften like he’s shocked he pulled that sound out of me.
I glare to cover it. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He smirks faintly. “Like what?”
“Like…like you won,” I snap.
Logan’s smirk deepens. “I did.”
He’s not wrong.
Blakely appears from the kitchen with a tray of something that looks suspiciously like homemade brownies, and speaking from past experience, those do not end well.
She holds them out with a calm expression, like she’s offering peace terms.
“I brought snacks,” she says.
I exhale. “Of course you did.”
Blakely’s gaze sweeps over me—face, posture, the tension in my shoulders. Her eyes soften a fraction.
“Sit,” she orders.
I blink. “You too?”
“Yes,” Blakely says simply. “Sit. Eat. Breathe.”
Jade claps. “Blakely’s in her mom era!”
Blakely doesn’t look away from me. “Sit.”
I do it because resisting Blakely is pointless.
Hesitantly, I take a brownie.
It’s warm and sweet and annoyingly comforting, way better than the last time.
Jade flops onto the couch beside me, throwing her legs over my lap like I’m furniture she owns.
Logan stands awkwardly for a second, then lowers himself carefully into the armchair, knee extended slightly.
Jade’s grin turns sly. “So. How long do we have you?”
“Twenty-five minutes,” I say.
Jade gasps dramatically, “Rude.”
Blakely checks her phone. “We can make an impact in twenty-five minutes.”
That’s ominous.
I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”
Jade’s smile widens. “It means…Truth or Dare.”
My stomach drops.
“No,” I say immediately.
“Yes,” Jade sings.
Blakely nods like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “Yes.”
Logan’s brow lifts. “Absolutely not.”
Jade whips toward him. “You don’t get a vote. You’re a guest.”
Logan points at his knee. “I’m injured.”
Jade waves him off. “So are my feelings, and yet here we are.”
I rub my forehead. “We’re not doing Truth or Dare.”
Jade leans closer, eyes bright. “We are. For the vibes.”
I hesitate because two years ago, at a party I didn’t want to be at, Truth or Dare was the beginning of the worst night of my life.
Not because of some stupid kiss.
Because of what came after.
Because of what Logan said, of the way it turned into a wound we both pretended wasn’t still bleeding.
My jaw tightens.
Logan must see it, because his posture shifts subtly in the chair—more alert.
Jade doesn’t notice because Jade is a hurricane in human form.
She grabs a water bottle off the coffee table and spins it like we’re thirteen.
“Okay!” she announces. “Truth or dare? No limits.”
Blakely deadpans. “There are limits.”
Jade pouts. “Fine. No illegal limits.”
Logan mutters, “This is basically a hostage situation.”
I shoot him a look. “You agreed to come.”
“I agreed to sit quietly,” he says.
Jade’s bottle slows.
It points at Blakely.
Blakely sighs like she’s accepting her fate. “Truth.”
Jade grins. “When was the last time you cried?”