Chapter 11 Logan
LOGAN
Jason is the kind of guy who smiles like pain is a hobby.
Not in a cruel way. In an “I know exactly what you’re capable of, and I’m not letting you hide from it” way.
The PT gym smells like rubber and disinfectant and effort. There are mirrors everywhere, which feels like a personal attack. I don’t want to watch myself limp. I don’t want to watch my leg shake. I don’t want to watch my face when it hurts.
But Jason does.
He watches everything.
“All right,” he says, clapping his hands once. “One week later. How we feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jason grins. “Great. Means you’re alive.”
I glare at him as I shift my weight in the parallel bars. My brace is different today—adjusted, unlocked slightly, giving me more range. More freedom.
More responsibility.
Jason pats the bars. “We’re gonna load it.”
My stomach tightens. “We have been loading it.”
Jason tilts his head. “You’ve been dipping your toes in loading it. Today we’re getting in the pool.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, the way he’s taught me when my brain starts spiraling.
My knee aches even before I move. It’s the kind of ache that’s half physical, half memory. My body remembers the moment it failed me. It remembers the pop and the collapse and the sickening instant where my senior season stopped being a story and turned into a question mark.
Jason steps closer, voice dropping into that calm, coaching tone. “Look at me, Brooks.”
I do.
“You’re safe,” he says. “You’re controlled. You’re strong enough. Now, let’s do it.”
I nod once because anything else would be admitting I’m scared.
He positions my feet, hands light but confident. “Weight shift,” he instructs. “Left to right. Right to left. Let it accept you.”
Let it accept you.
Like my leg is a person I have to convince to stay.
I shift.
My quad trembles immediately.
The muscles in my hip tighten like they’re bracing for betrayal.
Pain flashes—sharp, bright—then settles into a deep burn that makes my vision narrow.
“Good,” Jason says. “That’s your body waking up.”
My jaw clenches.
“Now,” he says, tapping the floor with his finger, “step.”
I swallow.
No crutches inside the bars. No safety net besides metal and Jason’s hands.
My brain tries to bargain.
One more week.
One more day.
Just keep it simple.
But my body has been living simply for too long.
I lift my right foot.
My left leg takes the weight.
It shakes.
It holds.
A shock of something—relief, disbelief, pride—hits my chest so hard it almost hurts more than the knee.
Jason’s grin is immediate. “There it is.”
I take another step.
Then another.
Each one feels like walking across a thin sheet of ice, expecting it to crack under me. But it doesn’t.
Not yet.
“Breathe,” Jason reminds me.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath like I’m trying to out-stubborn the pain.
I exhale.
The next step is smoother.
Still ugly. Still limping. Still not even close to normal.
But it’s weight.
It’s progress.
Jason steps back, arms crossed, watching like he’s witnessing a miracle he already knew was possible. “How’s that feel?”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “Like…I forgot my leg could do that.”
Jason nods once, satisfied. “Your body didn’t forget. Your fear did.”
I scoff weakly. “Deep.”
He laughs. “Shut up and take your wins where you can.”
I should.
I should let myself feel it. I should let the relief spread through me like warmth.
Instead, guilt slips in immediately, slick and automatic.
Because Pops is dying.
And what kind of person feels proud about walking again when the man who raised him might not even be here to see him run?
Jason’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Hey.”
I look up.
He’s watching my face like he can see the war happening behind my eyes.
“You’re allowed to be happy about getting better,” he says, quieter now. “Life doesn’t pause grief to hand you progress. You take the progress anyway.”
My throat tightens. Jason knew something was different, and telling him what was going on seemed like the least of my worries, but I can’t deny that it helped ease the weight just a fraction.
I have to trust him, but he also has to trust me not to push myself too hard in an attempt to numb whatever is going on outside of this room.
I nod once because if I speak, it’ll come out wrong.
Jason claps his hands. “All right. Now we make you hate me. Let’s do step-ups.”
I groan.
He grins. “That’s my boy.”
The drive home feels too bright.
The sun is out; January is pretending it’s gentle. My leg throbs with that post-PT burn that means I worked. That I earned something.
I have one crutch today.
One.
Jason didn’t let me leave without it, but he also didn’t let me leave with two.
A compromise.
A challenge.
My phone buzzes at a red light.
Beck: how’s the cyborg knee? u walking yet or still hobbling like a wounded deer…
A laugh slips out of me, small and involuntary.
one crutch. don’t get emotional.
Beck: too late. coach says tell u he’s proud. weight room’s still waiting whenever you’re ready.
My chest tightens at the word proud.
Pops says it like it’s currency.
Coach says it like it’s motivation.
Beck says it like it’s fact.
I stare at the screen too long, then type back:
thanks. tell him i’m not done.
The light turns green.
I drive.
When I pull into the Rhodes’ driveway, there’s a car I don’t recognize parked by the curb.
White. Clean. Official.
My stomach drops before I even get out.
Hospice.
The word isn’t on the car, but I know. I can feel it in the air—like the house is holding its breath again.
I step inside, moving slower than I want to because one crutch means I have to be careful. The living room is full of voices.
Not loud.
Soft.
Professional.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket over his legs, posture straight like he’s meeting with a principal instead of a team that’s here to prepare him for the end.
A woman in scrubs sits on the edge of the couch with a clipboard. Another person—a social worker, maybe—sits in the armchair with a folder.
Sloane stands near the kitchen island with a notebook open, pen in hand.
Of course she has a notebook.
Of course she’s taking notes, like grief is something you can manage with bullet points.
Her face is composed. Her eyes are bright. Her jaw is locked.
Cameron isn’t here.
Or maybe he is, and he’s hiding.
The hospice nurse looks up when I enter. “Hi. You must be Logan.”
I freeze for half a second.
Even strangers know my place in this house.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Hi.”
Pops turns his head and gives me a small smile. “Hey, kid.”
Something in my chest cracks.
Because he looks so normal.
Because he sounds like Pops.
Because the presence of hospice makes it feel like we’re already losing him.
Sloane’s gaze flicks to me—quick, unreadable—then back to her notes.
The nurse continues, voice gentle, practiced, “We’re just going over what hospice services can provide. Symptom management, nursing visits, medication support, equipment if needed—”
Equipment.
Like the house might need to turn into a hospital.
My stomach turns.
Sloane asks questions. A lot of questions.
How often will a nurse come?
What number do we call after hours?
What does pain management look like?
What signs should we watch for?
Her pen moves fast. Her voice stays steady.
If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was calm.
If you know her the way I do, you can see the way she’s using the questions like a life raft.
Pops listens, nodding occasionally, even cracking a joke at one point that makes the nurse smile.
“Guess I’m getting VIP service,” he says dryly.
Sloane doesn’t smile, and I watch her grip the pen tighter.
The social worker talks about support. Counseling. Respite care. Things that sound nice in theory and impossible in practice.
Sloane nods like she’s absorbing it all.
Pops rubs his temple once, then rests his head back.
The nurse notices immediately. “Headache?”
Pops waves a hand. “Just a little one.”
Sloane’s pen pauses, her eyes flicking to him. Then something in her face tightens so hard it looks painful.
The nurse speaks gently. “We can help manage that. That’s part of what we do.”
Pops nods like he’s making peace with the idea.
Sloane writes it down like she’s trying to cage the word manage before it escapes.
The meeting wraps up with paperwork and phone numbers and a promise that someone will deliver a small stack of medications and supplies within the next day or two.
As the hospice team gathers their things, Pops shakes their hands like he’s thanking them for coming to a barbecue.
“Appreciate you,” he says.
The nurse’s eyes soften. “We’ll take good care of you, Mr. Rhodes.”
Pops smiles. “I know you will.”
They leave.
The front door clicks shut, and the atmosphere in the house changes.
The quiet that follows is different than before.
Heavier.
Permanent.
Pops exhales slowly, then pushes at the blanket like he’s suddenly exhausted.
“I’m gonna lie down,” he says.
Sloane’s voice is immediate. “I’ll help you.”
Pops shakes his head. “Logan can.”
Her eyes snap to him.
To me.
To the idea of me touching her father right now.
Something sharp flashes in her expression.
Pops doesn’t flinch. “Go wash up,” he tells her gently. “You’ve been running all day.”
Sloane’s jaw works like she wants to argue. Then she nods once, stiffly. “Fine.”
She disappears down the hall, and a few seconds later, the bathroom door closes.
Pops looks at me. “You good?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
“Don’t go breaking on me,” he murmurs, like it’s a joke.
It isn’t.
I help him stand, slow and careful. His hand grips my forearm for balance. He’s lighter than he should be. Too light.
When I get him settled in bed, he sighs and closes his eyes, the lines in his face deeper than they were yesterday.
“Thanks, kid,” he whispers.
My throat burns. “Always.”
I leave his room and close the door softly behind me.
The shower is running, and once again I can hear the faint sound of Sloane’s choked sobs trying to hide behind the water.
My fingers curl around the handle of my crutch until my knuckles ache.
A few nights ago, Pops told me to be here. To stop disappearing. To stop letting her hate me so I can stay safe.
I can’t fix this.
I can’t save Pops.
I can’t rip cancer out of his brain with my bare hands.
But I can do one small thing.
Once again, I go to the kitchen and grab a clean glass and fill it with water. No ice, just the way she likes it.
Then I walk down the hall and stop outside Sloane’s door.
I step inside quietly, moving like the floor might betray me if I’m too loud.
Her nightstand is neat, with a coiled phone charger, a stack of books, her notebook from the meeting already placed there like she’s trying to keep it close.
I set the glass of water down carefully.
My hand hovers for a second, stupidly, like I’m tempted to leave a note.
I don’t.
A note would make it too real. A note would invite a conversation she’s not ready for. One that I’m not ready for.
So, just like yesterday, I leave the water.
Because she’ll need it when she’s done crying into steam and tile.
I step back out, shutting her door softly.
The shower keeps running.
Her crying stays hidden in it.
I return to the living room and lower myself onto the couch, leg throbbing, heart heavier than my body can hold.
One crutch.
One small step.
Hospice in the house.
Two truths existing at once.
And for the first time since my injury, I understand something with brutal clarity: progress doesn’t always mean clean steps forward.
Sometimes it just means you’re still standing while everything crashes down around you.