Chapter 3 Logan
LOGAN
Ican’t believe I ever thought about skipping college.
Honest to God, there was a moment in senior year, in the middle of a brutal double-header weekend, where I sat on the bench, looked out at the ice, and thought, Why the hell am I wasting time applying to schools when I could just sign with some fourth-tier league and get paid?
I wouldn’t have to deal with exams or early morning lectures. But then my coach convinced me that college would be “fulfilling” and “good for me”—blah, blah, blah—and I let that cranky old bastard get in my head.
And now here I am. Friday night. Half-naked in the middle of my room, surrounded by cleanish laundry, about to hit a frat party.
No regrets.
It’s been a week since Nathan cornered me in the kitchen and gave me The Talk. You know the one—show up on time, stop partying, keep my shit together, Coach is watching.
I unfortunately listened, and I’ve been good all week. But tonight I need to blow off a little steam.
I run a towel through my damp hair and kick a stray sock out of my path as I cross the room to dig through the pile of laundry. I’m not really in the mood for anything that requires ironing, so I grab the black tee draped over my desk chair.
When I pull it over my head, I catch a hint of glitter near the collar.
Seriously? Still? How the hell did that survive so long even after being washed?
I shake it off, spritz on some cologne, and give myself a once-over in the mirror, ruffling my messy hair for a few seconds. Good enough.
I’m halfway through lacing my sneakers when a knock rattles the door. Three sharp raps that make me roll my eyes and could only come from one person in this house.
“Hold your horses, Hayes,” I mutter, grabbing my phone and wallet before stepping over an empty Gatorade bottle that rolls under the bed.
I pull open the door and stop when I see Nathan Hayes standing in front of me.
Six-foot-three of muscle. My gaze snags when I glance down at his forearms, crossed tight over his chest, veins visible under rolled-up sleeves—probably lingering a little too long.
His eyes flick down, then back up, and his mouth flattens. “You’re going out.”
I grin. “You got all that just from looking at me? Impressive.”
He doesn’t reply, just arches his brow, but I can’t help it. My lips curve into a smirk. It’s too fun to watch him squirm.
“We have a game tomorrow,” he says flatly. “And practice at six.”
I drop onto the edge of the bed and grab my other sneaker. “Relax, Dad. I’ll be home before curfew. Want to tuck me in, too?”
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, the movement lifting his hoodie just enough to show a flash of the lean, disciplined muscle underneath.
So unfair.
“You were late last week,” he says, voice flat.
I finish tying my laces and lean back on my hands, letting my gaze drag up his frame. “You keeping stats on me now?” My grin curves. “Cute.”
His nostrils flare. God, he’s wound up so tight I’m shocked he hasn’t combusted mid-practice.
“You need to start taking shit seriously.”
I reach past him, brushing his arm, and grab my leather jacket from the hook behind the door.
“I am taking it seriously,” I say, shrugging into the jacket.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and rake a hand through my hair.
“I haven’t been late a single day this week.
Haven’t missed a drill. Haven’t had a drink.
In bed before midnight, like a goddamn Boy Scout.
God forbid I want to have a little fun on the weekend. ”
I meet his eyes in the mirror, seeing him sigh a little.
“C’mon,” I add, slipping my phone into my back pocket. “Don’t tell me you’ve never partied a little.”
He doesn’t answer, just huffs a little, which makes me chuckle.
“I can get you on the list, you know. One little smile, and I’ll make it happen.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch. If I flirted with a brick wall, I’d probably get more reaction.
“Do what you want, Logan,” he says finally. “Just don’t be late tomorrow. And don’t drag the rest of us down because you can’t get your act together.”
Nathan’s always had that look about him, like he’s carrying the whole damn team on his back. I can see it in his shoulders, in the way his jaw locks during a tie game. Ryan’s the captain, but Hayes is the one they all count on. The one who can’t screw up. Especially being Coach’s son.
But I can’t help but test him. “Hey, Hayes?”
He pauses in the doorway, head tilting slightly over his shoulder.
I let my gaze sweep down his back. “If you change your mind about the tucking-in thing…” My grin slips into a smirk. “You know where I sleep.”
He just exhales sharply, mutters something under his breath that sounds a whole lot like pain in my ass, and turns.
But his ears are bright fucking red and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as he closes the door behind him.
I should feel smug and satisfied, like I usually do when I get under his skin, but instead, I just stand there, watching the space he left behind, his words repeating themselves in my head when the door swings shut.
I let out a long breath, my shoulders sinking as I flop back onto the bed. The mattress groans under my weight, and I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to replay that look in Nathan’s eyes. Like he actually gave a damn. Like he expected something from me.
The thought makes my chest jump, which pisses me off even more. I drag a pillow over my face and groan into it, hoping it’ll smother whatever this is. It doesn’t. Nothing ever shuts him up once he’s in my head, circling around like some moral compass I never asked for.
I rip the pillow off my face and toss it across the room, watching it hit the wall and slump to the floor. “Great,” I mutter. “Now I’m arguing with furniture.”
It’s ridiculous how much space he takes up in my head. He’s the last person I should be thinking about. The guy’s wound tighter than a drum, probably hasn’t missed a curfew since birth. And yet here I am, lying here, wondering if maybe he’s right.
I swing my legs off the bed and grab my keys from the dresser, twirling them around my fingers just to have something to do.
I could still go out. Should, probably. The plan was to drink too much, flirt with someone I won’t remember, and forget all about the way Nathan looked at me like I was capable of something better.
But when I catch my reflection in the mirror, everything in me stalls.
I look ready for a night out, but my brain’s already checked out.
I don’t even know if it’s because of the conversation or because, for the first time, Nathan didn’t sound like he was lecturing me.
He sounded… disappointed. Like he wanted me to prove him wrong.
With a frustrated sigh, I strip off my jacket, collapsing backward onto my bed.
This isn’t me. I don’t stay in. I don’t listen. But the echo of his voice—don’t drag the team down—keeps threading through my head.
Still, I can’t shake him. Can’t shake that stupid steady stare, or the way he looked at me like I wasn’t just the team screw-up, like maybe there’s still something left worth fixing.
And that’s the problem. Because I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me that way. Don’t remember the last time someone expected something of me, and the thought of disappointing him makes my stomach churn.
I sit up in my bed, kick off my shoes, and turn on the TV, knowing I’m not going out tonight.