23. Logan
LOGAN
Walking into the weight room at PCU reminds me of a past version of my life that used to be uncomplicated.
It hits me the second I step through the doors—before I even see the racks, before I hear the plates clanging, before someone shouts across the room like they own it. My body recognizes this place like muscle memory.
My knee does too.
It tightens under the brace with every step, stiff from the drive, stiff from the cold morning air that’s more crisp than cold—California winter pretending it has a bite.
I’m not on crutches anymore, but the slight limp is still there, controlled and humiliating in the way only an injury can be when you’re used to your body doing what you tell it.
Coach Harding texted me yesterday:
Coach Harding: Stop by. Just want to see you.
Which, translated, means: I need to know you’re still you.
My hand pauses on the door handle like a traitor.
Three months ago, I walked in here with purpose, with certainty, with the whole building under my feet and my future in front of me.
Now, I’m walking in like I’m borrowing space.
Like I don’t belong in my own life.
I push inside anyway.
Noise wraps around me—music, weight stacks slamming, shoes squeaking, guys yelling reps and trash talk and jokes that used to feel like the oxygen I loved to breathe.
A few heads turn.
Some do a double take.
Then recognition hits, and it rolls through the room in a wave.
“Brooks!”
“Yo—Logan!”
“Back from the dead?” someone calls.
“Unfortunately,” I call back automatically, and it earns a few laughs.
It should feel good. It should feel normal.
Instead, it feels like standing in front of a mirror that shows you who you were and who you are now at the same time.
Beck’s voice cuts through the noise from across the room. “Look who decided to show his pretty face.”
He’s posted near a squat rack like he lives there, hoodie on, sleeves pushed up, looking like the definition of healthy and whole. He crosses toward me with that easy grin that usually pisses me off—in a comforting way.
Then his eyes flick down to my leg.
The grin dulls just a fraction.
He claps my shoulder anyway, carefully. “About damn time.”
“Miss me?” I ask.
Beck snorts. “I missed having someone to listen to. No one runs their mouth quite like you do.”
I huff a laugh, but it comes out thin.
Beck studies me for a beat. “How’s it feel?”
I glance around, swallowing hard. “Like I’m trespassing.”
Beck’s brows lift. “You’re literally on scholarship.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Still feels like I’m…behind glass.”
Beck nods once like he understands more than I want him to. “Nah. You’re just not used to being the guy who has to fight to come back.”
The truth lands clean.
I don’t respond because my throat is tight, and I don’t trust my voice not to betray me.
Beck jerks his chin toward the office. “Coach is in there. Go.”
My stomach tightens. “You coming?”
Beck smirks. “Nope. This is your emotional moment. I’ll wait out here and pretend I don’t care.”
I flip him off, then limp toward the office door.
The hallway is quieter. The weight room noise fades behind me, muffled like it’s on the other side of a wall I’m not sure I can climb again.
I knock once.
“Come in.”
Coach Harding is behind his desk, laptop open, glasses perched low on his nose. He looks up and just…stares.
Not in a pity way.
In a measuring way.
Like he’s taking inventory.
Then he stands. “Brooks.”
“Coach,” I say, voice rougher than I want it.
He steps around the desk and grips my shoulder, firm. The kind of grip that says I’m here without making it a scene.
“How you holding up?”
I give him the default answer because it’s muscle memory. “Good.”
Coach narrows his eyes. “Try again.”
My chest tightens.
I exhale. “I’m…doing the work.”
Coach nods slowly, satisfied. “That I believe.”
He gestures to the chair. “Sit.”
I lower myself carefully, knee stiff, brace pulling. The chair feels too small—like I’m bigger than I used to be yet smaller at the same time.
Coach leans on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to see you.”
“Yeah,” I manage.
He studies me. “Medical team says you’re progressing.”
“I am,” I say quickly, like speed will convince him. “PT three times a week. Strength work. Range of motion is improving. We’re building toward full load—”
Coach lifts a hand. “I’m not questioning your effort.”
The words hit harder than they should.
He holds my gaze. “I’m checking your head.”
My jaw flexes. “My head’s fine.”
Coach’s brows rise. “Logan.”
I exhale slowly, throat burning. “It’s…frustrating.”
“That’s honest,” Coach says.
I look away at the edge of his desk. “It’s hard being here and not being…here.”
Coach nods once. “Yeah. It is.”
Silence sits between us, thick and familiar.
Then Coach says quieter, “They still talk about you.”
My chest tightens. “Who?”
“Scouts. People. Draft noise.” Coach’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s February. Everyone speculates. It’s all noise.”
My stomach drops anyway.
Because noise becomes reality fast.
I swallow. “And what do you say?”
Coach’s expression turns firm. “I say your tape doesn’t disappear because your knee decided to end your senior season a little early.”
My throat tightens until it almost hurts.
Coach continues like he’s giving me a directive, not comfort. “Stop letting worst-case narratives write your future.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
Coach’s eyes sharpen. “No. It’s easier for you to say. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”
The callout lands like a clean punch.
I clench my jaw.
Coach’s voice softens just a fraction. “You’re not behind. You’re injured. There’s a difference.”
Beck said the same thing.
It still doesn’t feel true inside my head.
Coach nods toward the wall where our team photo hangs. “You’re still part of this. You hear me?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“If you want to come in once a week, even just for upper body, you can,” Coach adds. “No pressure. But get back into your world when you can. You can’t rehab in isolation and expect your brain to stay clean.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
Coach’s mouth twitches. “And Brooks?”
I look up.
“Don’t make your entire identity your comeback story. You’re more than football.”
The words hit the same place Beck’s did. I nod once because that’s all I can do without cracking.
Coach claps my shoulder again. “Good. Now, get out of my office before I make you do paperwork.”
A small laugh escapes—real this time.
“Yes, sir.”
As I open the door, Coach calls, “Tell Beck he still owes me film notes.”
“I will,” I say, then step back into the noise.
Beck is exactly where he promised he’d be, pretending he hasn’t been watching the door.
He lifts a brow. “You cry?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but it’s weaker than usual.
Beck grins. “So…better?”
I hesitate. Then, honestly, “A little.”
Beck nods like that’s enough. “Good. Now touch a barbell so the universe doesn’t think you quit.”
I roll my eyes, but I move toward an empty bench.
I don’t load much—just enough to feel the weight, the ritual, the familiarity. Beck spots without making a thing of it.
First rep feels like coming home.
Second feels like grief.
Because my body remembers what it used to do.
And my brain remembers what I might lose.
I finish a small set, sit up, and wipe sweat from my forehead.
My phone buzzes on the floor beside the bench.
Pops: You around today?
My chest tightens instantly.
yeah. you good?
Three dots.
Then:
Pops: Need a ride somewhere. Just you.
My stomach drops.
I glance at Beck. He clocks my face shift immediately.
“What?” he asks.
I stand slowly, knee stiff. “Gotta go.”
Beck’s expression sobers. “Everything okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Family stuff.”
Beck nods once, no questions, just understanding. “Text me. And for fuck’s sake, reply to the group chat so Carter will shut up.”
“I will,” I lie, then limp out of the weight room with my heart thudding too hard.
—
Pops is waiting by the front door when I pull into the driveway.
Walker in front of him. Hands wrapped around the handles like he’s anchoring himself to the world.
He’s thinner than the last time I let myself really look—like his body is burning fuel faster than he can replace it.
His cheeks are a little more hollow, jawline softened by fatigue, eyes still bright but ringed with exhaustion.
There’s a slight slackness to his features now, like holding expressions takes effort.
He’s wearing a beanie, even though it’s not really that cold—just crisp—and it makes his face look smaller.
My throat tightens.
I park and hop out, moving fast.
“Hey,” I say.
Pops smiles faintly. “Hey, kid.”
I reach for the walker. “You sure you wanna go out?”
Pops gives me a look. “I’m not dead yet.”
The words punch me in the chest.
I force a crooked smile. “Okay. Where are we going?”
Pops’s gaze flicks toward the street. “You’ll see.”
That’s not an answer.
My instinct is to push.
I don’t.
Because Pops doesn’t ask for things lightly anymore.
I help him down the step, slow and careful, then open the passenger door. Pops settles in with a tired exhale.
I fold the walker and place it in the back seat.
As I slide behind the wheel, my stomach knots.
Sloane isn’t home. Cameron’s at CSU.
It’s just me and Pops.
And whatever he’s about to do.
We pull out of the driveway, the house shrinking in the rearview.
Pops stares out the window like he’s watching the world pass with a kind of quiet acceptance I can’t stand.
After ten minutes, I glance over. “You okay?”
Pops hums. “Mhm.”
Not yes. Not no.
Just Pops trying not to make this harder.
We drive in silence until the neighborhood shifts—cleaner landscaping, calmer streets, the kind of place people go when they need quiet.
Then I see the sign.
Funeral home.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
My brain stutters.
I glance at Pops, confused and suddenly ice-cold. “Pops…why are we—”
“Pull in,” he says gently.
My chest tightens. “No.”
Pops turns his head toward me, eyes tired but steady. “Logan. It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I say, voice cracking.
“It is,” Pops insists softly. “I need to do this. I don’t want Sloane here for it.”
My stomach twists. “She should be—”
“She shouldn’t,” Pops cuts in—not harsh, just certain. “She’d fight the building.”
That earns a jagged little laugh out of me that tastes like grief.
Pops’s mouth twitches. “I love her for it. But I need someone who’ll let me handle it. I don’t want my kids to have to worry about this when I’m gone. It’ll all be set up.”
My throat burns. “Why me?”
Pops looks at me like it’s obvious. “Because you’re family.”
The word lands like a weight on my ribs.
He nods toward the back seat. “Get my walker. Then give me a couple minutes.”
My hands shake as I park.
I get out, pull the walker from the back, and open his door. Pops grips the handles once I position it.
He stands with quiet effort, and anger surges hot because he shouldn’t have to work this hard just to exist.
“Stay right here,” he says, like he’s the one taking care of me.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
Pops turns and starts toward the building, step by step, walker steady. He doesn’t look back.
The automatic doors slide open, and he disappears inside.
And I’m left in the parking lot, with the sun too bright and the air too normal and my chest too tight.
I don’t know how long it is—five minutes? ten?—but my knee starts to ache from standing.
I don’t move.
Because moving feels like admitting this is real.
Finally, the doors slide open again.
Pops emerges.
He looks paler. More tired—like the building stole something from him.
But his shoulders are a fraction looser too.
Like he set something down.
He makes it halfway to the car before he pauses, breathing heavier.
I move instantly. “Pops—”
He lifts a hand. “I’m fine.”
I swallow the argument. He reaches the passenger seat and lowers himself carefully with a long exhale. I fold his walker and load it back in the car, hands still shaking.
Then I slide into the driver’s seat and just…sit.
My throat burns.
My eyes sting.
I don’t look at him because I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I do.
Pops breaks the silence first.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Now we talk.”
My stomach twists. “About what?”
Pops looks out the windshield. “About what comes next.”
Panic spikes. “No.”
“Logan,” he says gently.
I clench my jaw. “I don’t want—”
“I know,” Pops whispers. “Neither do I.”
That confession punches the air out of my lungs.
Pops turns his head toward me, eyes steady. “But refusing to name it doesn’t stop it. It just makes you lonely in the meantime.”
My chest caves.
I stare at the steering wheel like it can save me.
Pops continues, voice quiet, “Sloane won’t talk about it.”
“Yeah,” I manage.
“She thinks if she refuses the conversation, I can’t leave,” Pops says. His mouth twitches sadly. “If stubbornness cured cancer, she’d have me doing wind sprints.”
A broken laugh tries to escape. It dies in my throat.
Pops’s voice grows softer. “When I’m gone…she’s going to turn grief into a full-time job.”
I nod because I can already see it—lists, tasks, tight control until she snaps.
“Don’t let her,” Pops says.
My throat tightens. “She won’t listen.”
Pops’s gaze holds mine. “She listens more than she admits. She just needs someone who’ll stay in the room when she tries to burn it down.”
My pulse spikes.
Pops keeps going, quiet and steady. “Cam’s going to try to be strong. He’ll break in private. Check on him.”
“I will,” I promise, voice rough.
Pops exhales like he needed to hear it out loud. “Good.”
Silence stretches.
Then Pops says, barely audible, “I’m scared.”
My chest cracks.
I turn toward him, throat tight. “Pops…”
He shakes his head slightly. “Not of dying.” He swallows. “Of leaving them. And leaving you too.”
My eyes burn.
Pops’s hand trembles on his thigh. “I need to know they’ll be okay.”
“They won’t be okay,” I whisper, honestly.
Pops looks at me, eyes shining. “They won’t be okay at first,” he corrects gently. “But they’ll be okay eventually. Because they have people who love them.”
He holds my gaze.
“And Logan? You’re one of those people.”
My throat burns like swallowing fire.
I nod once because words won’t come.
Pops exhales slowly, like he did what he needed to do.
Then he says, softer, “Take me home.”
I wipe my face with my sleeve like an idiot and nod. “Yeah.”
I start the car.
As I pull out of the lot, the building disappears behind us.
But the weight doesn’t.
Because now it’s real in a different way.
Now I’ve watched Pops handle the thing no one wants to handle.
Now I’ve heard him say he’s scared.
Now I’ve been asked to stay.
And as the street turns toward home, I realize the “final-ish” conversation wasn’t really about death.
It was about love.
About what survives after.
About who will still be standing when he isn’t.
And whether I’m brave enough to be one of them.