Chapter 2
SLOANE
If I keep moving, nothing can catch me.
That’s the rule.
I’ve lived by it long enough that my body doesn’t question it anymore—up before my alarm, shoes on without thinking, hair pulled back tight enough that it won’t fall loose no matter how hard I cut across the court. I like routines because routines don’t ask questions.
They don’t look at you like they know.
Practice runs long today. Coach pushes us harder than usual, drills bleeding into scrimmage, scrimmage bleeding into conditioning.
My calves burn. My lungs scrape. Sweat drips into my eyes and blurs the lines on the court until everything narrows to motion and breath and the sound of sneakers squealing against hardwood.
Good.
Pain like this is clean. Earned. It makes sense.
Coach blows the whistle and finally lets us off the floor. I bend forward, hands on my knees, forcing my breathing back under control. A freshman throws up into a trash can near the bench. Someone laughs. Someone else hands her water.
Normal.
I check my phone as I grab my bag.
Three missed calls from Pops.
That’s not normal.
I glance at the time. Mid-morning. He had an appointment today with oncology. I know the schedule by heart, even though I pretend I don’t.
My chest tightens with nerves, sharp and unwelcome.
It’s probably nothing, I tell myself immediately. He forgets where he parks. Loses his keys. Calls because he wants to ask if I’ve eaten breakfast, even though he knows the answer.
He worries about minor things like that.
I can’t really blame him for his slight overprotectiveness over the years. If I came home from getting dinner with my kids one day to find that my wife had disappeared, leaving nothing but a note behind, I’d be overprotective too.
She left that night, and we never heard from her again. No birthday check-ins, nothing. Cameron and I were only three and four at the time, so we’ve never really known anything else.
I shove my phone back into my bag and head for the locker room, forcing my steps to stay steady. I don’t call him back until the door is shut, the noise is muffled, and I’m alone with the echo of my own breathing.
“Hey,” I say when he answers, breathless on purpose. “Sorry. Practice.”
“That’s okay,” Pops says easily. Too easily. “Just wanted to make sure you were coming home tonight.”
“Well, I do live there,” I reply, towel slung around my neck as I start peeling off my practice gear.
“I know,” he says. “Just…dinner. Thought we’d eat together.”
Uh…duh? Pops hates eating alone, so I’ve always made it a priority to be there when I can for meals with him.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Of course. I’ll be home.”
“Good,” he says. “Drive safe.”
He hangs up before I can ask anything else.
I stare at my phone for a second longer than necessary, then lock it and shove it deep into my bag.
Nothing is wrong.
I don’t let my brain think of anything else.
Positive thoughts only. A new mantra that I’m trying, and failing miserably, to uphold in this season of my life.
The drive home is automatic. Same route. Same playlist. Same mental checklist—assignments due, film to review, groceries we need because Pops always forgets oat milk and insists regular is “basically the same.”
When I pull into the cul-de-sac, there’s a truck I know all too well parked in our driveway.
I brake harder than I mean to.
What the hell?
I cut the engine and grab my bag, slamming the door harder than necessary.
The front door opens before I reach it, and looking past Pops, I see the owner of said truck.
Logan Brooks sits at our kitchen table like he never left.
He’s in sweats and a worn PCU football hoodie, leg stretched out, with a massive black brace strapped from thigh to shin.
Crutches leaning up against the wall. His dark brown hair is a little longer now, curling at the edges.
He looks bigger inside the small kitchen, like he’s taking up air he doesn’t deserve.
His piercing blue eyes drag over me once, slowly working their way from my toes to my face, and my skin goes tight, like my body remembers something my brain has been ordered to forget.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Great,” I mutter. “The infestation’s back.”
His mouth curves, slow and sharp. “Aww, you missed me. That’s sweet, Rhodes.”
Pops sighs like a man who regrets every life choice that led to this moment. “Children…”
“We’re not children,” we say at the same time.
We both scowl.
Logan leans back in the chair, arms crossing over his chest, biceps straining the sleeves. “Relax, Sunshine. I’m just eating your dad’s world-famous chili.”
“My chili,” I correct. “I made it this morning before practice. He just finished it for me.”
“Oh.” He lifts his spoon, chewing slowly. “You might wanna work on your seasoning then.”
I glare. “You’re welcome for the free food and lodging.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve slept in worse places,” he says. “At least here the roof doesn’t leak.”
Pops pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God, you two are taking ten years off my life.”
I move my gaze away from Logan, making sure I don’t hold his gaze for too long. If I do, I’ll remember things I don’t have time for.
Like the way Logan used to sprawl across our couch after practice, stealing my snacks and arguing with Cameron about stupid shit, like which sport was harder.
The way he used to help Pops carry groceries without being asked.
The way he used to look at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention—like we had a secret that neither one of us knew how to keep.
That was before the party. Before he decided that he knew exactly who I was.
I open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and stand there longer than necessary, letting the cold air hit my face. My reflection stares back at me from the stainless steel—flushed, irritated, eyes too bright.
I hate that he’s back.
I hate that I noticed the brace first.
I hate that some small, traitorous part of me wonders how much pain he is still in.
Heading down the hall, I grab my stuff before closing the bathroom door, making sure to lock it.
I shower fast, scrubbing my skin like sweat is something I can wash away along with everything else. I pull on leggings and an old sweatshirt and tie my hair back again. Control restored.
By the time I make it back to the kitchen, my dinner is on the table.
Chili. Cornbread. Pops’s comfort food.
Logan sits where Cameron usually does, posture stiff, shoulders tight, like he’s waiting to be told where he’s allowed to exist. His crutches lean against the wall, close enough that he can grab them if he needs to.
I don’t acknowledge him as I sit.
Pops does. Pops always does.
“Eat,” he says, passing my bowl down like this is normal. Like Logan didn’t just drop back into my life like a fracture that never healed right.
Conversation stays light. Pops talks about a former player he ran into at the grocery store. Logan listens carefully, like every word matters. I answer when Pops asks about practice, keeping my voice even, my expressions neutral.
At one point, Pops rubs his temple, just briefly, like it’s nothing.
I notice.
I pretend I don’t.
“So,” I say abruptly, because silence makes me itch. “Rehab start time?”
Logan looks surprised I addressed him at all. “Eight.”
“Parking fills up fast,” I say. “Don’t be late.”
I wish I didn’t know that. I wish I didn’t spend hours upon hours at the hospital, sitting next to Pops during thirty-eight different rounds of chemo. Twenty-seven radiation treatments and three brain surgeries, one of which took thirteen hours.
I wish I didn’t know any of it.
“I won’t,” he says quietly.
Our eyes meet for half a second, which is too long.
I look away first.
After dinner, Pops insists on doing the dishes, even though neither of us lets him. He waves us off with a scowl that doesn’t quite hide his smile.
“Go,” he says. “I’ve got this.”
Logan hesitates like he wants to argue, then doesn’t. He follows me down the hall, his steps careful, measured. I hate that I hear it. Hate that my brain catalogs how much slower he moves now.
Halfway to my room, I stop. He freezes behind me.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
I turn fully now, arms crossed. “You’re not going to last.”
He frowns. “What does that mean?”
“This,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the house, his leg, the situation. “You never do.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t get to rewrite me.”
I laugh again, sharp and ugly. “I’m not rewriting you. I’m remembering you.”
The truth sits heavy between us.
“I’m not here to mess anything up,” he says quietly.
“That’s what you said last time,” I fire back. “Ended real well for ya, didn’t it?”
Then I turn and walk away before he can respond, because if I don’t, I might say something worse—or admit that seeing him like this scares me in ways I don’t want to name.
In my room, I sit on the edge of my bed and press my palms to my eyes.
I don’t cry.
Crying doesn’t fix anything. All it does is allow the emotions I keep locked down tight to try to escape.
Two years ago, I went to a party I shouldn’t have gone to, trying to forget a week that felt like it was closing in on me. A guy leaned in too close. I let him. It didn’t mean anything.
Logan saw.
I liked the look that took over his face, so I let it go further than I intended. I pushed and didn’t like the bite that came after.
“No one wants a desperate girl.”
The words still burn.
Now he’s back. Injured. Vulnerable. Taking up space in the one place I don’t know how to share.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. Pops hums downstairs while he cleans. Logan’s footsteps move carefully across the floor, like he’s afraid of breaking something.
I tell myself I don’t care.
I tell myself this changes nothing.
If I keep moving, nothing can catch me.
That’s the rule.
And I’m not breaking it now.