Chapter 16 Logan
LOGAN
Jason doesn’t count like a normal person.
He counts like he’s daring my body to betray me—slow, deliberate numbers that make each second feel like a decision. Like if I stop holding, I’m not just failing my knee, I’m failing the version of myself that used to sprint without thinking and cut on a dime like the world couldn’t touch me.
“Hold,” he says. “Don’t run from it.”
My hands clamp down on the parallel bars, knuckles bleaching white, while my surgical leg shakes under the weight like it’s trying to eject me from my own skin.
The burn isn’t just in my knee. It’s in my pride.
In my throat. In the part of me that’s used to pain meaning go harder instead of go carefully.
“One more rep,” Jason adds, like he didn’t just say that five reps ago.
I drag in air and taste metal. “You ever consider being less psychotic for a living?”
Jason grins. “Not once.”
With the progress I’ve made, I swear the clinic smells more like determination and pride than the disinfectant they use. The lights are too bright. The mirrors force me to be too honest with what I see. Every time I catch my reflection, I want to look away.
But Jason doesn’t let you look away from anything.
“Load on three,” he says, tapping the scale with the end of his pen. “One…two…three.”
I shift weight onto the leg.
Pain snaps sharp and hot through my knee. Instinct screams get off it. My hands tighten on the bars like I’m going to rip the metal out of the floor.
Jason’s voice stays steady. “Breathe. Hold. Pain is information, not a verdict.”
“Cool,” I grit out. “Can the information shut up?”
He snorts. “Nope.”
I hold.
Ten seconds.
My leg trembles. Sweat breaks out at my hairline, trickling down my temple.
And because my brain is my own personal enemy, it decides now is a perfect time for a replay of kissing Sloane in the kitchen.
Her eyes flicking to my mouth. Her hands gripping my hoodie like she was mad at herself for wanting it just as badly as I did.
The way she didn’t tell me to stop.
My chest tightens—not because I think the kiss meant something simple.
Because it means something complicated.
Because it means I crossed a line Cameron Rhodes would probably die defending.
Cameron doesn’t play about his sister. He never has. He’s not the kind of guy who throws threats around, but he doesn’t have to. He’s built like a college athlete and raised by a man who taught him how to hold his ground. Cameron’s loyalty comes with teeth.
And I’m his best friend.
Which means I’m supposed to be safe.
I’m supposed to be the guy who shows up with food and dumb jokes and a steady presence when his family is falling apart.
Not the guy who kissed his little sister in the kitchen while Pops slept down the hall.
Jason’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Shift back. Slow.”
I do, relief washing through me so hard it’s almost nauseating.
He marks something on his clipboard like he’s documenting a crime. “Again.”
I glare. “You’re sick.”
“Correct,” he says. “Let’s go.”
By rep eight, my whole body is shaking with effort. My knee feels like it’s vibrating with a warning, but it holds.
Then Jason nods toward the open space between the bars. “All right. Step.”
My stomach drops.
“Jason—”
“You’re between the bars,” he cuts in. “I’m right here. One step. Then we stop.”
My throat burns. I hate that I’m scared of a step.
But fear doesn’t care about logic. Fear cares about memory—about the pop, the collapse, the way my senior season felt like it got snatched out of my hands.
I load. Lift my good foot. My surgical leg trembles but holds.
I place my foot down.
Pain spikes. My body pitches forward, and the bars catch me as Jason’s hand hovers near my chest without touching—ready.
“Breathe,” he orders. “You did it.”
“That was a terrible step,” I rasp.
Jason’s grin widens. “It was a beautiful step. Again.”
We do it again.
And again.
By the time he finally calls it, my shirt is damp with sweat, and my knee feels like it’s packed with broken glass. The weirdest part is—beneath the pain, there’s something like pride. Something like proof I’m not done yet.
Jason hands me an ice pack. “Text me if swelling spikes.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, collapsing onto the bench.
He studies me for a beat. “You’re distracted today.”
I snort. “I tried not to die on rep four. That’s focus.”
He lifts a brow. I stare at the ice pack like it’s going to answer him on my behalf. “Stuff at home.”
“Has it gotten worse?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I manage, nodding my head. “A lot worse.”
Jason doesn’t pry. He just nods like he understands that some pain doesn’t belong to the knee. “All right. Then be gentle with yourself.”
I laugh without humor. “I’m doing weighted single-leg loading. Where’s the gentle part?”
“In the part where you don’t punish yourself for having a hard day,” he says simply.
I leave with my knee throbbing and my brain louder than it should be.
In the parking lot, my phone buzzes.
Coach Harding: Proud of you. No rush. Come back when you’re ready.
Something tight catches in my chest. I stare at it longer than I mean to, then type back:
thanks coach. working on it.
Another buzz.
Beck: rehab day?
Beck: also sophie says you’re still a coward.
I huff a laugh because Sophie has known me long enough to call it like it is and enjoy doing it.
sophie can bite me.
yeah rehab. i lived.
Beck replies instantly.
Beck: she can only bite me, asshole.
Chuckling, I go back to my unread texts, including the group chat that I keep ignoring, yet it never goes away.
Jaxon: you do know we know you’re alive, right? Beck tells us
Carter: way to give up our source dude
Jaxon: neither of us are there and obviously we know he’s alive and well. Ish.
Carter: could’ve been Coach Harding telling us
Jaxon: Beck said he’s been avoiding PCU like a seasoned pro.
Carter: that’s fair.
Carter: why are we having this conversation here instead of by ourselves?
Jaxon: because you’re an idiot and keep replying.
Beck: Logan just texted me a few seconds ago so he definitely sees these.
I glare at my screen, then click leave.
Logan has left the chat.
**Carter has added Logan to PCU.**
asshole
Carter: HE LIVES
Jaxon: thanks for the sign of life at least. how’s rehab?
Knowing Beck will fill them in, I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and start the car.
The drive back to the Rhodes’ house is quiet, the winter sky low and pale like it’s trying not to commit. My knee aches with each press of the pedal, but the ache is honest. It’s physical. It’s something I can measure and ice and rehab into obedience.
The ache in my ribs doesn’t listen.
Because I keep picturing Cameron finding out.
Not even in some dramatic, caught-in-the-act way…just…the information reaching him eventually, like everything does in this house.
Sloane letting it slip in a moment of anger.
Cameron reading her face, or mine, and just knowing.
Pops clocking the tension because Pops clocks everything.
And then what?
Cameron’s disappointment would be worse than his anger.
Because Cameron has given me so much.
A place at his dinner table when my mom forgot I existed.
A bedroom down the hall when I needed somewhere safe to sleep.
A brotherhood that didn’t ask me to earn it.
If he decides I’m a threat—if he decides I’m not safe anymore—I don’t just lose a friend.
I lose my place.
When I turn onto their street, the house looks the same.
One-story. Clean yard. Basketball hoop by the driveway that’s seen a thousand hours of Rhodes sibling wars.
Nothing about it screams that someone is dying inside.
But the second I pull into the driveway, I know the difference anyway.
Because the air in the house feels different after hospice has been there.
It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic.
It’s quiet evidence.
I step inside, and the first thing I see is a binder on the kitchen counter, thick and new, sitting where Sloane can’t avoid it.
A bright sticker on the front.
HOSPICE PLAN OF CARE
A stack of pamphlets beside it. A printed schedule. A magnet with an after-hours number. A small paper bag labeled with instructions in tidy handwriting.
The smell is different too—fake lemon and some sort of tea with strong floral notes, like someone tried to sterilize the world and then pretended it was normal again.
But underneath it is something else.
A new layer of reality.
Cameron is at the sink, washing a mug that looks like it’s already clean. His shoulders are tight, jaw flexing like he’s grinding down something he can’t swallow.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket over his legs, both hands around his mug like he’s anchoring himself to warmth. He looks tired around the eyes, but he’s doing what he always does—acting like this is just another day with a minor inconvenience.
Then there’s the other thing.
A small, soft-sided black bag tucked against the wall near the pantry.
A kit. Supplies. The kind of stuff you don’t bring into a home unless you’re wanting to help the end be more comfortable.
I shuddered when the nurse was talking about it, but seeing it lying there like this is its new home is somehow even worse.
My stomach dips.
Cameron turns when he hears me. His gaze flicks to my brace, then my face.
Not accusing. Not suspicious. Just scanning.
Because that’s what we do now—scan for emergencies.
“You survive?” Cameron asks.
“Barely,” I mutter, easing my keys onto the counter.
Pops’s expression softens when he sees me. “Hey, kid.”
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low as I step closer. “How’s your head?”
Pops rubs his temple once, then drops his hand like he didn’t. “Fine.”
Cameron scoffs. “Liar.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “Takes one to know one.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
My eyes snag again on the binder. The papers. The kit bag.
Cameron wipes his hands on a dish towel, then gestures toward the counter. “They left a whole plan. Med schedule. Emergency numbers. Who to call for what. Feels like everything is just…planned out but with a giant question mark left hovering over it all.”
His voice is steady, but his eyes aren’t.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
Cameron’s gaze flicks to the hallway. “Sloane already read it twice.”
Of course she did.
Sloane doesn’t read things because she wants information.
She reads things because information feels like control.
“And then,” Cameron adds, voice flattening, “she reorganized the pantry so the comfort kit isn’t ‘in the way.’”
I huff a small breath—half laugh, half ache—because that’s so her it hurts.
Pops’s voice comes calm from the recliner. “She means well.”
Cameron mutters, “She’s gonna give herself an ulcer.”
Pops hums, tired. “She might.”
I nod once, because I don’t know what to say that won’t make it worse.
Pops turns his head and studies me. Not my brace this time.
My face.
The way my shoulders sit too tight.
The way my eyes keep flicking down the hall like I’m waiting for someone.
“How’d rehab go?” he asks.
“Jason tried to kill me,” I say, because that’s easier than admitting I’m terrified of the life I might not get back.
Cameron’s mouth twitches. “Sounds right.”
Pops nods once. “Good. Keep doing it.”
“I know,” I mutter.
Pops watches me for a beat like he knows I’m doing what Sloane does—keeping busy so I don’t have to feel.
Then he says, quiet but pointed, “Don’t break yourself trying to prove you’re still you.”
The words land too deep.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
Cameron moves to the fridge, opens it, then closes it like he forgot what he wanted. “Hospice nurse called this morning,” he says. “Just checking in. Said she’ll swing by again in a couple days.”
Pops hums. “She’s nice.”
Cameron’s mouth tightens. “She is.”
He says it like that’s the problem—because nice doesn’t change what hospice means.
I lower myself carefully onto the couch and press the ice pack to my knee.
Cameron’s gaze flicks to me again. Like there’s something on his tongue.
Like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how.
My stomach twists because guilt makes everything feel like an accusation.
I keep my eyes on the ice pack like it’s fascinating.
From down the hall, a door clicks.
My pulse jumps before she even appears.
Because the truth is, I can’t afford to lose Cameron.
But I can’t afford to lose Sloane either.
So whatever our kiss was—whatever it becomes—I’m going to have to hold it with both hands and keep it from detonating.
Because grief doesn’t leave space for mistakes.
And I’ve already made one.