Chapter 30 Todd
THIRTY
TODD
Sunlight slants through the blinds, cutting thin gold lines across the ceiling.
Logan’s childhood room smells like cedar and laundry detergent and him—something safe I don’t want to move away from.
His fingers trace slow, lazy circles just below my ribs, the kind of touch that makes the world feel smaller, quieter, perfect.
For a while, I just breathe. The house creaks. The rain that started last night has softened to a steady drip outside. His mom’s laughter drifts up faintly from the kitchen, and I think about staying right here forever—no rink, no pressure, no cameras. Just this.
Then my phone pings from the nightstand.
I ignore it.
Logan hums against my shoulder, half asleep. “Spam?”
“Probably.”
Another ping. Then another. Then what sounds like three at once.
Something cold twists low in my gut. I reach over, trying not to wake him completely, and grab the phone. The screen lights up—text after text, missed calls, notifications stacking faster than I can blink.
Peter: Bro, check TikTok.
Daniel: It’s everywhere.
My chest tightens. I swipe open the first link.
It’s us.
A photo, clearly taken from across the dance floor at Riot. Logan’s hand on the back of my neck. My face turned toward him, smiling into a kiss. Both of us lit by neon blue and red. The caption:
“Star Captain and defenseman Todd Shaw and teammate Logan Brooks cozying up off-ice ”
My stomach drops. The air in the room shifts—suddenly too thin to breathe.
Logan stirs beside me, voice still rough from sleep. “Everything okay?”
I want to lie. Say it’s nothing. Pretend this is just another morning. But my throat tightens around the words before they ever make it out.
No. It’s not okay. This is what I didn’t want.
“Fuck,” I whisper, swinging my legs out of the bed. My hands won’t stay still as I drag on a pair of joggers, then a shirt. The cotton clings to my damp palms, every movement too fast, too loud to my sensitive ears.
Behind me, I hear the bedsprings creak, the quiet rustle of Logan sitting up. His confusion feels alive in the space between us—thick and pulsing, like it’s breathing down my neck.
“Todd?” he says carefully. “What’s going on?”
I can’t look at him. My chest is a cage, too small for the way my heart’s hammering. I reach for my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. Debating ripping the bandaid off and calling my dad before he finds out another way.
That’s when it rings.
The name flashing across it freezes me in place.
Dad.
Every drop of blood drains from my face. My stomach twists so hard I have to brace a hand against the dresser just to stay upright.
He doesn’t text. He never texts. But he also doesn’t usually call this early in the morning.
The phone keeps ringing, shrill and endless, until the sound alone feels like it’s flaying something open inside me.
Logan’s voice is soft now, wary. “Todd…don’t. Just—breathe, okay? Talk to me.”
But I can’t. Not yet.
Because the only thing louder than the ringing is the echo in my head—He knows, my dad knows.
And I’m not ready for him to.
The call cuts off, leaving a silence that feels worse than the ringing. Then the notification dings—1 New Voicemail—and that’s somehow even worse.
My breath won’t come right. Too fast. Too shallow. The world narrows to the glow of the screen, the faint tremor in my hands. Every muscle in my body wants to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I haven’t had a panic attack in years, but this one is trying to drag me down and drown me.
Logan slides off the bed, bare feet padding across the carpet. “Todd, talk to me,” he says quietly. “You’re scaring me.”
I shake my head, throat burning. “I can’t—Logan, I can’t—”
He reaches for me, fingers brushing my wrist. “Hey. It’s okay. Whatever it is, we'll deal with it.”
But he doesn’t get it. He can’t.
“It’s not we,” I snap before I mean to, yanking my arm free. My voice cracks. “It’s me. It’s my dad, my career, my—” I swallow hard, words breaking apart in my chest. “You don’t know what he’s going to say.”
Logan flinches, just barely. He doesn’t move back, but hurt flashes in his eyes like I cut him wide open with my words.
“I know you’re scared,” he says, still calm, still him. “But you don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to shut me out. You knew this would get out…”
I press my hands against my face, trying to breathe, but the room feels smaller with every second. The phone’s still in my palm—hot, heavy, and alive against my skin.
I think about my dad at work, probably seeing it on his phone before I even woke up. The photo. The comments. The shame.
My chest caves. I can’t get enough air.
“I need to fix this,” I choke out. “I have to—before it gets worse.”
“Todd—”
“I can’t talk to him with you here,” I whisper, and it’s the truth, even if it kills me to say it.
Logan’s hand falls back to his side. The warmth in his eyes flickers, something breaking behind it. He nods once, just enough to hide how much it hurts. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll give you space.”
And it’s that—his gentleness, even now—that makes it worse.
Because all I want to do is turn around, grab him, tell him I didn’t mean it, and that I just need a second to breathe. But my dad’s voicemail is waiting, and I already know the sound of disappointment that will be in his voice before I even press play.
So I don’t.
I just stand there, staring at the screen, with Logan’s footsteps retreating down the hall and the faint sound of rain against the glass filling the silence he leaves behind.
And that’s when it hits me—I’m not just losing control. I’m losing him. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. Because I’m not equipped to deal with any of this. I should have thought it through before kissing him at Riot.
The bedroom is quiet now. Too quiet.
I stare at the phone like it’s a live wire, my reflection warped in the black screen. My thumb hovers over the voicemail icon, trembling just enough to make it hard to tap.
One breath. Then another. Then I tap the icon and press the phone to my ear.
A crackle of static. Then his voice—steady, familiar, but edged with something that makes my stomach twist.
“Todd… I saw the picture.” No hey, no kiddo, or small talk. Just the sound of a man trying to sound calm when he isn’t.
“I don’t even know what to say right now,” he goes on, his words careful as though he’s walking a tightrope. “You know I love you, right? You’re my kid. That doesn’t change.”
For a second, it almost sounds like it might be okay—until it isn’t.
“But this…” He exhales hard, the sound rough in my ear. “This isn’t who you are. Not really. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, a real shot at a career, and now—hell, son, the whole world’s watching you throw it away for some… phase.”
The word almost does me in. Phase? He thinks this is a phase?
“I’m not mad,” he says quickly, as if that makes it better. “I just don’t want this to follow you. We’ll talk about it when you come home, all right? Get things straightened out. You’ll see clearer then.”
The message ends with a hollow click that feels like a door closing.
I just stand there, frozen, the phone still in my hand. The quiet afterward is louder than his voice ever was.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t disown me. He just…thinks it’s a phase.
And somehow, that’s worse.
If he’d been cruel, I could’ve gotten angry. If he’d been kind, I could’ve cried. But this—this middle ground of disappointment wrapped in what I’m sure he thinks is love—feels like drowning in still water.
I sink to the floor, my back against the bed frame, and stare at the wall until my vision blurs. Down the hall, I can hear Logan’s voice through the thin walls—soft, steady, talking to his mom. He sounds like safety. Like the kind of warmth I keep pushing away.
He shouldn’t have to deal with me. He shouldn’t still be trying to give me space when I’m the one who built the distance.
But I can’t face him. Not like this. Not after hearing my dad call him a phase.
So, I sit there on his floor, slowly falling apart, the voicemail still replaying in my head until every word burns.
I swallow hard and scrub a hand over my face, fighting the sting behind my eyes. “God, what did I just do?”
Outside, the rain starts slapping against the window and thunder rolls closer.
Inside, all I can think about is the sound of Logan’s voice earlier, soft and sure—You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to shut me out.
But I think I already have. And it hurts.
The rain’s louder now, tapping against the window in uneven rhythm, like it’s keeping time with the pounding in my chest. I don’t even realize I’m still clutching the phone until my fingers ache.
When I finally stand, my legs feel unsteady. The hallway light spills through the cracked door, and I catch the faint sound of movement—Logan’s voice, low and careful. He must be talking to his mom again, probably trying to convince her that everything’s fine. That I’m fine.
I wish I were.
By the time I step out, he’s alone—leaning against the wall, arms folded across his bare chest. His eyes find mine immediately, searching my face for an answer I don’t have.
“Did he…” He swallows. “Was it bad?”
I shake my head, even though the truth sits like lead in my stomach. “He’s not…happy.”
Logan nods slowly, gaze flicking down to my hands. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
He studies me for a long beat, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to believe it, but he doesn’t. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending,” I lie, voice too tight, too thin. “I just need to figure things out before—before this ruins everything.”
“This?” he repeats softly. “You mean us?”
I open my mouth, but the words snag on the lump in my throat. I want to tell him no, of course not, that nothing could ruin us. But the image of that photo—the bright lights, the headline, my dad’s voice—flashes through my mind, and it’s like the walls close in again.