Chapter 13 Logan
LOGAN
I’m convinced Coach woke up this morning and decided to kill us.
We’ve been sprinting drills for well over an hour.
Coach keeps barking directions that nobody can actually hear over the sound of our own gasping.
At one point, he made us redo a drill because someone—Austin.
It’s always Austin—celebrated a goal mid-practice.
Coach just gave him a look and said he could celebrate after he stopped missing half his shots.
We’re supposed to be prepping for tonight’s matchup against the Briarview Bears—a.k.a. a bunch of try-hard clowns—but I’ve been pretending to pay attention for… I don’t know. A solid fifteen minutes.
Mostly, I’m watching Nathan.
He’s in the crease, locked in as always, reading every shot before it even happens, and from the outside, he looks completely fine—steady, composed, annoyingly perfect Hayes—but I’ve watched him enough to know when something’s off.
There’s a stiffness when he pushes off his right side, and I pause when I notice the hesitation as he shifts on the ice. The half-second delay that tells me his thigh’s still bothering him and he’s just too stubborn to admit it.
And I know it’s not my problem. He’s stubborn as hell, and he’d sooner chew off his own leg than admit something hurts, so what am I gonna do—skate over there and ask him if he needs a juice box? He’d rather let his thigh fall off.
But the damn hitch keeps catching my eye, and I can’t tell if I’m noticing it because I’m worried about him or because it’s him specifically, which is a separate disaster I’m not touching with a twenty-foot stick. Probably both. Absolutely both. But we’re not unpacking that right now.
“Hey,” Ryan says, gliding up beside me. “You good?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been standing still for too long. “Huh?”
“You’ve been weird all morning,” he says, voice low so Coach doesn’t hear and rip me a new one. “You missed two passes, blew a read, and almost tripped over your own stick.”
“Sorry,” I say, grinning, because it’s easier than explaining that I’ve been busy staring at our goalie. “Distracted by your jawline.”
He gives me the blankest look. “Seriously.”
“Seriously,” I say, rolling my eyes to sell the lie. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he skates off anyway, leaving me standing there trying to pretend I actually meant what I said.
Except I didn’t, because I’m not fine, not even close, and the second he’s gone, last night hits me all over again.
I thought we were past the awkwardness after the whole locker room disaster, but apparently not, because Nathan barely looked at me once we got to the room.
Didn’t talk. Didn’t even try. Just shut down completely.
He didn’t want to come out with us, and by the time I got back he was already asleep—or pretending to be, which honestly felt worse—and I climbed into bed like we were strangers instead of whatever the hell we’ve been lately.
And it just… It fucking sucks.
Austin skates past and taps the end of my stick. “You daydreaming about yourself again?”
I blink, pull my eyes off Nathan, and cock a brow at him. “I was picturing you hitting the net for once.”
Coach’s whistle slices through the air hard enough to rattle my helmet. “Less talking, more skating!”
We reset for a breakout drill. Cole’s at the blue line, already barking at the rookies to move their asses.
I chuckle as I line up on the left wing beside Austin, my stick resting across my knees, my lungs still burning from the last rush.
I tell myself to focus—really focus—but my head’s still stuck in last night, whether I want it to be or not.
Nathan sinks into his stance, and my eyes lock on how he avoids putting full pressure on his left leg.
The whistle blows, and I shake it off and push off hard, my blades carving into the ice.
“Left,” Ryan’s voice echoes behind me.
I pivot, catch the pass, and flick it across the slot without thinking.
One of the rookies steps up late, all stiff and panicked, and I fake right, cut left, blow past him with that perfect rush through my legs that reminds me why I do this, why all the 6 a.m. practices and shitty bus rides and disgusting communal showers are worth it.
There’s nothing like this feeling. It’s the closest thing to flying I’ll ever get.
“Austin!” I call, spotting him crashing the crease.
He’s too deep—of fucking course he is—but Austin being Austin somehow gets his stick on it anyway, tipping the puck toward the far post. It bounces off Nathan’s pad and drops right back in front of him, and before anyone can even react, Austin slams it home, the puck sliding cleanly into the back of the net.
The sound cracks through the rink, but Austin doesn’t celebrate this time, probably still traumatized from Coach making us redo an entire drill earlier.
I catch the shit-eating grin anyway, right before my eyes go back to the crease.
Nathan adjusts his stance. His hand goes to the ice for balance as he stretches out that left thigh.
Coach blows the final whistle, a blessed sound of freedom, and I let out a breath, tipping my head back and attempting to catch my breath.
“Calling it now,” Austin yells, spinning a few circles before coasting toward the bench. “Tonight I’m getting the game-winning goal, baby.” He pounds a fist against his chest. “I feel it.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “You ‘felt it’ last week and missed the net by four feet.”
“It was three,” Austin fires back. “And I was aiming for the boards.”
“Sure you were,” Ryan says dryly.
Austin shakes his head, still circling the ice. “Bunch of haters. All of you.” He scoffs. “Manifestation, boys. Watch and fucking eat your words.”
He finally steps off the ice, and the rest of the guys trail behind him.
Ryan pulls off his helmet, shaking out his hair, and the second he reaches Isabella he softens.
Coach hates when he has to witness it, so Ryan keeps it PG, brushing her curls from her face and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before ducking into the locker room.
I coast toward the boards, pretending to stretch even though I’m not fooling anyone, least of all me, because my eyes keep drifting back to Nathan. He’s bent slightly at the waist, readjusting the straps on his pads.
It’s none of my fucking business. I know that. The last time I tried to step in and help, everything blew up in my face and turned the air between us into something weird and taut and impossible to ignore.
But try telling my brain that.
It won’t shut the hell up.
I let out a low groan and push off toward the bench, my blades scraping loud through the half-empty rink now that everyone else has cleared out. Their voices fade down the tunnel, leaving just us out here.
I grab my water bottle and take a long drink, letting the cold hit my throat. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m skating toward him again, because apparently I just love to torture myself.
“Thigh still bugging you?” I ask, aiming for something that sounds like I haven’t spent the past hour tracking every tiny shift in his stance.
He doesn’t look at me. He just rolls one shoulder like I’m background noise. “It’s fine.”
“You’re still babying that leg,” I say, because subtlety has never been my strong point. “You should ice it before the game.”
He finally lifts his head and pins me with a look cold enough to skate on. “I said I’m good. I don’t need your help.”
And there he goes, putting up a wall again. The same one he threw up after what happened in the locker room. One second, we’re teammates, and the next he shuts me out like nothing happened.
Fuck, I feel stupid for even opening my mouth.
I swallow, try to shake it off, and force a grin. “Relax, Hayes,” I say with a teasing tone. “I’m not gonna touch you again.”
His eyes flash under his sweat-plastered hair. Oh boy. He was not a fan of my joke.
I huff out a laugh anyway. “Come on,” I add, stepping in close enough to nudge the front of his chest pad with my glove. “I’m just trying to help you.”
The muscle on his jaw jumps. “I don’t need you checking up on me.”
He adjusts his glove, pulls off his mask, and pushes off before I can decide whether to say something else.
I watch him skate off and catch the tiny hitch when he plants that left leg, the brief moment where his body betrays him even though he refuses to.
He keeps going anyway, because of course he does.
I stare after him for a beat longer than I should, then finally force my legs to move.
If he doesn’t want my help, then… great. Awesome. Fantastic.
There’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.
I don’t give a shit anyway.
I shove through the locker room door and pull up short because Nathan’s got one hand on the bench, the other digging into his thigh, his lips pressed into a thin line like he’s trying not to make a sound and I get that pinch of worry I’ve been trying to ignore.
So much for not giving a shit.