Chapter 5 Logan
LOGAN
Mornings at the Rhodes’ house are like living in an alternate reality to the one I’m used to. The football house was a never-ending cycle of parties, loud guys, and everything else that comes when you throw a bunch of rowdy men into one house.
And I was one of the worst of them.
After getting my brace on, I head out of my room and toward the kitchen. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear Pops cough.
It’s not loud. Not the kind of cough that demands attention. Just a short, rough sound that lingers a beat too long, like it takes effort to clear.
I stop without meaning to.
Count. One. Two.
Then I hear the soft shuffle of feet, one dragging slightly.
By the time Pops steps out of his room, I’m already leaning against the counter, pretending I wasn’t listening.
“Morning,” I say.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“That makes two of us,” he says lightly, moving to the coffeemaker.
His steps are steady, but they’re careful in a way they weren’t before. Like he’s thinking about where he puts his feet instead of letting his body do it automatically. It’s subtle enough that someone who doesn’t know him might miss it.
I don’t.
He pours coffee with both hands on the pot, slow and deliberate, trying to keep the tremors in his left side controlled enough not to spill it.
The kind of tremor he’d dismiss as nothing if you asked him.
The kind he’d call being tired or getting older, even though neither explanation fits the way his fingers tighten around the handle like he’s negotiating with his own body.
When he sets it down, he rubs his temple, just briefly, like he doesn’t want to be caught.
I catch it anyway.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Too quickly. “Just tired.”
That’s been his answer lately.
Tired. Fine. Nothing.
I nod and let it go. I’m still learning where the line is—what I’m allowed to notice without making things heavier than they already are.
Because there’s a difference between caring and panicking.
And I’m not sure anyone in this house can handle the second one right now.
Sloane comes out of her room a few minutes later, already dressed for practice.
“I’ll be late today,” she says, grabbing a protein bar off the counter. “Extra conditioning.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Pops replies.
She gives a half-smile, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “No promises.”
Her eyes meet mine for just a second, my stomach tripping over itself, and then she’s gone, the front door closing softly behind her.
The house exhales again.
Pops takes a seat at the table, wrapping both hands around his mug like he’s warming more than just his fingers. For a second, he stares at nothing—eyes unfocused, jaw set—like his brain is somewhere else entirely.
Then he blinks, and it’s gone.
Pops takes another sip of coffee. His hand trembles again, but he pretends it doesn’t.
I pretend I don’t see it.
For now.
My leg starts yelling at me before noon.
It’s not a sharp pain. It’s the heavy, throbbing ache that settles deep in the joint, like a reminder that it’s still healing even when I’m trying to ignore it.
Four weeks post-op means the swelling has mostly gone down, the bruising has faded, the stitches are gone.
It means everyone around you starts acting like you’re supposed to be better.
But “better” isn’t a straight line.
“Better” is waking up with stiffness so thick it feels like my knee is wrapped in concrete.
It’s doing ankle pumps in bed before I even stand because if I don’t, the first step is a mistake.
It’s the brace clicking every time I move, loud enough to make me feel like a broken toy.
I make my way to the living room and set myself up with an ice pack, leg stretched out, pillows stacked under my ankle just like Jason told me. The exercises are printed and taped to the fridge. I’ve already memorized them. I do them anyway.
Quad sets. Heel slides. Straight-leg raises that make my thigh shake like it’s forgotten how to do its job.
Some days it feels like progress.
Today feels like punishment.
I grit my teeth through the reps, breathing slowly, focusing on the tiny wins: the fact that I can lift my leg at all, the fact that I can bend it a little farther without that spike of panic.
And still, every time my quad trembles, my brain tries to take me somewhere I don’t want to go.
Back to that moment on the field.
One sharp route.
A hard plant off my right foot to break inside.
The pop came before the pain—loud enough that I knew, instantly, I wasn’t jogging back to the huddle. My whole world narrowed down to one ruined second and the way the sky looked too bright above me while everyone ran toward me like I’d fallen off a cliff.
Senior season.
Senior year.
Last shot.
The timing of it still feels like a joke someone played on me.
I finish the last rep and let my head fall back against the couch.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t spiral.
I hear Pops moving around in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing. A spoon clinks against a mug. The normal sounds of a normal morning.
But they don’t feel normal.
Not with the way he went quiet at the table earlier.
Not with the headache he rubbed at like he didn’t want to name it.
I stare at the ceiling and tell myself I’m imagining patterns.
That’s what anxiety does.
It makes you connect dots that aren’t connected.
Except…sometimes the dots are connected.
Beck shows up late morning, knocking twice before opening the door like he’s done a hundred times before.
“Jesus,” he says when he sees me. “You look like hell.”
“Good to see you too,” I reply.
He grins and pulls me into a careful hug, mindful of my leg. He smells like cold air and coffee and the faint metallic tang of the weight room.
After playing together for the last three years and living together just as long, I consider Beck Harrison to be one of my closest friends and one hell of a linebacker. He’s headed straight for the NFL, if that’s what he decides to do.
“Hey now,” he says, stepping back and looking me over. “You’re standing up at least.”
“Barely.”
“Progress is progress,” he declares like it’s a fact and not a guess, then gestures toward my brace. “You in the ‘I hate everything’ phase or the ‘I’m fine’ phase?”
I snort. “Both.”
“That’s my guy.”
Pops comes out of the kitchen, and Beck lights up instantly. “Hey, Coach!”
Pops chuckles. “I retired years ago, kid.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Beck says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Will always be one of the greatest basketball coaches in my book. Even if I wasn’t destined to do more than inbound a few times in the third grade.”
That earns Beck a real laugh from Pops—one of those warm, genuine laughs that makes the whole room feel lighter. For a second, I can pretend everything is fine.
Then Pops’s smile falters on the exhale.
Just for a beat.
Beck notices it. I see him notice. His gaze flicks to Pops’s face, then to me, then away again like he’s trying not to make it obvious.
They talk for a bit about Beck’s girlfriend, his draft probabilities, which team he’d really want to go to. Beck listens closely, eyes tracking Pops’s movements more than the conversation.
He notices it too.
When Pops rubs his temple again, Beck’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Pops keeps talking like nothing is happening, but his words slow down in places. Not slurred. Just…delayed. Like he has to reach for the next sentence.
Maybe it’s the headache.
Maybe it’s the fatigue.
Maybe it’s something else.
After a while, Pops exhales and pushes himself up carefully. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. I think there’s a squirrel in my head trying to crack open some nuts.”
“Want anything?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Just need a little quiet.”
He looks at Beck and offers a small smile. “You boys behave.”
Beck grins. “Always.”
Pops disappears down the hall, the door to his room clicking shut softly behind him.
The house goes quiet again.
Beck doesn’t say anything until we’re alone.
Then he lets out a slow breath and looks at me straight.
“How long’s that been happening?” he asks quietly.
I shrug because shrugging is easier than answering. “A little while.”
Beck nods slowly. “He doesn’t look bad.”
“No,” I agree. “Just…off.”
I hate how small the word sounds. Off. Like I’m talking about a bad mood instead of someone’s body failing them.
Beck leans back in his chair, running a hand over his jaw. “Coach Rhodes was always the toughest guy in the room.”
“Still is,” I say.
Beck looks at me. “Yeah. Sometimes that’s the problem.”
The words hang between us.
I stare down at my brace, at the straps digging into my skin. Tough people don’t always ask for help. Tough people don’t always admit when something hurts. Tough people don’t always let you see them weak.
Pops is the definition of tough.
Which means if something is wrong, he’ll carry it until it’s impossible to carry anymore.
“Coach Harding sends his best, by the way,” Beck says after a moment. “Asked me to tell you he’s thinking about you.”
I look up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Said the weight room’s open whenever you’re ready. No pressure.”
Something twists in my chest.
Coach Harding isn’t the type to say things just to say them. If he told Beck to pass that along, it means he meant it.
It also means he’s watching.
Everyone’s watching.
Waiting to see what I become if I’m not Logan Brooks, wide receiver, senior year, draft potential.
“I’m taking the term off, at least for classes,” I say.
Beck doesn’t react right away. Just nods once, like he’d already suspected.
“Smart,” he says finally.
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone else is moving forward,” I say. “And I’m…here.”
Beck studies me. “You’re rehabbing.”
“I’m stalled.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You’re healing. It’s just a little bump in the road.”
A little bump. I almost laugh, but it comes out wrong.
Because a bump doesn’t threaten your whole future.
A bump doesn’t change the way people look at you.
A bump doesn’t make you feel like your value has an expiration date.
The distinction matters more than I want it to.
“They still talking about the draft?” I ask, like I haven’t been thinking about it nonstop. Like it hasn’t been sitting in the back of my skull every time I close my eyes.
Beck hesitates, his reaction telling me everything his words won’t.
“Some,” he says carefully. “It’s January. People speculate. Doesn’t mean much yet.”
I huff a laugh. “It means everything.”
Being injured my senior year with limited tape doesn’t exactly bode well for me. Especially with my injury scaring scouts more than it should. Especially when there’s always another guy behind you ready to take your reps and your routes and your spot.
My brain fills in the blanks automatically.
You missed your window.
You waited too long.
Someone else took your spot.
And the worst part?
I can already hear the voices that would say it out loud.
Bad luck. Promising. Could’ve been something.
Beck watches my face like he knows exactly where my thoughts are headed.
“You are good,” he says.
“Was,” I correct.
He shakes his head. “You don’t get to decide that yet.”
I don’t argue. I don’t trust myself to.
We sit in silence for a while, the TV murmuring quietly in the background. Beck doesn’t try to fix anything. That’s always been his thing—show up, stay, don’t bullshit.
Finally, he stands, stretching his shoulders like he’s reluctant to leave.
“Text me after your next rehab day,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“And Logan?” He pauses at the door. “You’re more than football. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”
I swallow hard.
He gives me a small nod—one of those silent I’ve got you gestures—and then he’s gone, the front door closing softly behind him.
Pops is resting on his bed when I check on him. The door to his room is cracked open just enough for me to see him lying on his side, eyes closed, breathing slow and even.
I don’t wake him.
I stand there for a second longer than I should, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, watching the rise and fall of his chest like I can memorize it. Like if I memorize it, I can keep it going forever.
Then I back away quietly and return to the living room.
I sit on the couch, leg stretched out, ice pack balanced carefully over my knee. An old game plays on the TV, the volume low.
A receiver cuts across the middle of the field, sharp and confident.
I swallow.
That used to be me. Not just the running. The certainty.
The way my body used to obey without hesitation, like it trusted me to take care of it.
Now I’m here, counting reps instead of yards, with progress measured in degrees of bend and seconds of balance.
I sit there longer than I should, listening, waiting, trying to convince myself that slowing down doesn’t mean losing everything.
Because for the first time, I’m starting to understand that ignoring things doesn’t make them go away.
And maybe standing still is the only way to really see what matters before it slips out of reach.