Chapter 25 Logan #2
The shout comes from the floor.
I look down.
Jade is standing near the bench, hands cupped around her mouth like she’s in the student section, not on the team.
Blakely is beside her, arms crossed, expression calm—until she smirks.
Jade points at my shirt and yells, “WE SEE YOU!”
A couple of people turn.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I lift a hand, half wave, half plea for mercy.
Jade starts catcalling. Actual catcalling.
“THAT’S OUR MAN!”
Blakely adds, deadpan but loud enough, “Respectfully…nice shirt.”
Jade cackles. “Respectfully, we love you!”
I sink lower in my seat, face burning. “I hate them,” I mutter.
Someone behind me laughs. “Dude, you’re famous.”
“Unfortunately,” I whisper.
Then Sloane runs out for warmups.
She’s focused, ponytail swinging, jaw set. She dribbles hard, takes a jump shot, sinks it clean.
Then she glances toward the stands.
Her gaze lands on me.
On the shirt.
Her expression freezes for half a second.
Then—so fast I almost miss it—her mouth twitches.
Not a smile.
But close.
She looks away immediately, like she didn’t just almost soften in public.
My pulse kicks up anyway.
Okay.
We’re doing that.
The game starts.
I’m not going to pretend I’m a basketball expert, but I know pressure. I know momentum. I know what it looks like when someone is carrying a team on their back because there’s nowhere else to put the weight.
Sloane moves like she’s on a mission.
She calls plays with authority, directs traffic, cuts through defenders like she’s trying to outrun her own fear.
Every time she drives the lane, my stomach tightens.
Not because I think she’ll miss.
Because I’m watching her body take hits, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how quickly things can be taken away.
The other team plays physical.
They’re hungry.
They know this could end our season.
Midway through the second quarter, Sloane takes a hard foul.
She hits the floor.
My heart stops.
She pops right back up like she’s made of steel.
But I see it—the flash in her eyes when she glances toward the stands again.
She’s looking for Pops.
Even when she pretends she isn’t.
I pull out my phone and text Pops without thinking.
she’s looking for you. i’m in your seat. she’s killing it.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Pops: Tell her I’m watching if you get a chance. And tell Jade to stop yelling before she gets a technical.
I huff a laugh, tight in my throat.
I type back:
can’t. she’s feral.
Pops replies:
Pops: Good.
The third quarter is a blur of runs and steals and the kind of tension that makes the air taste metallic.
With two minutes left, the score is tied.
Sloane calls for the ball.
I watch her take it at the top of the key, eyes scanning like a quarterback reading coverage.
She drives.
Stops.
Kicks it to the corner.
Jade catches and shoots.
Swish.
Three points. The place explodes.
Sloane doesn’t celebrate.
She just points—directing, already on defense—because she’s not letting herself believe until the buzzer says she’s allowed.
The last thirty seconds are chaos.
We’re up by one.
The other team drives, and Blakely blocks a shot so hard it sounds like a slap across the gym.
We get the ball back.
They foul.
Sloane takes the free throws.
One goes in.
The second rattles.
Miss.
My stomach drops, but the clock is almost dead, and they don’t have time.
They chuck a desperation shot from half court.
It bounces off the rim.
Buzzer. Game. We win.
The gym erupts like someone opened a dam.
Jade screams and tackles Blakely, who actually laughs, which is terrifying.
Sloane stands near half court, hands on her knees, breathing hard like she doesn’t know what to do with the relief.
Then her gaze lifts and finds mine.
And for the first time all day, she lets herself smile.
It’s small.
It’s real.
It hits me like a punch.
I stand and clap, chest tight.
Sloane’s smile fades a fraction as her eyes flick past me, toward the empty space Pops should have filled.
The loss sneaks in even inside the win.
I swallow hard and keep clapping anyway.
Because the point is not to fix it.
The point is to be here.
—
After the game, I stay in my seat, waiting for Sloane to come out of the locker room, the floor having turned into a storm of bodies—players hugging, students crowding the rail, Coach talking too loudly, the band still playing like they can keep joy alive by brute force.
Jade finds me again before I can escape.
She points at my shirt and laughs. “I’m sorry—who allowed this?”
“Her father,” I mutter.
Blakely appears behind her, expression unreadable. “I support this choice.”
Jade gasps, “Blakely supports romance. We’re in the end times.”
“Please don’t make this weird,” I warn, rubbing the back of my neck.
Jade leans closer, stage whispering loudly, “So, are you, like…in love? Or—”
“Go home and shower,” I cut in.
Jade beams. “Yes, sir.”
Blakely’s gaze flicks past me. “She’s coming.”
My pulse jumps anyway.
Sloane steps out from the cluster a moment later, duffel slung over her shoulder, sweaty and glowing in that post-game way that makes her look younger than she ever allows herself to be.
Her eyes land on me.
She rolls her eyes. “Take it off.”
I lift a brow. “We just won.”
“That’s not relevant,” she snaps, but her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.
Jade whistles. “Toxic banter! I love it!”
Sloane glares at her. “Jade.”
Jade holds up her hands. “Leaving. I’m leaving.”
Blakely gives Sloane a small nod. “Text me.”
Then she walks away like she didn’t just witness the beginning of a scandal.
Sloane turns back to me, voice lower. “Can we go?”
“Yeah,” I say immediately.
We slip out of the gym and into the hallway, where it’s quieter, the noise muffled behind thick doors.
Sloane exhales hard, leaning against the wall for a beat like the adrenaline is leaving her body all at once.
“You did good,” I tell her.
She scoffs automatically. “Jade hit the shot.”
“You ran the whole game,” I say. “You did good.”
Sloane’s throat works.
She looks away like she hates that the words land. “Don’t get soft.”
“I’m not soft,” I say dryly. “I’m accurate.”
Sloane snorts quietly, then pushes off the wall. “Come on. Before someone asks me to take pictures.”
We make it outside.
The night air is cool, the parking lot lit by tall lamps that make everything feel slightly unreal.
At the car, Sloane pauses with her hand on the door handle.
She doesn’t get in.
Instead, she turns to me, eyes sharp but tired.
“Did he…?” she asks, voice rough. She doesn’t finish.
My throat burns.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s home. He wanted you to focus. He…told me to be in his seat.”
Sloane’s eyes shine for a beat.
Then she swallows it down.
“I don’t like him sometimes,” she whispers.
I lift a brow. “For loving you?”
She glares. “For making me feel things.”
My chest tightens.
Sloane’s gaze drops to my shirt.
Then back up.
“That shirt is obscene,” she says.
I smirk. “It’s iconic.”
Sloane steps closer, voice low. “He really made you wear it?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “And he laughed when he saw it.”
Sloane’s face cracks for half a second.
Then she leans in, quick and decisive, and kisses me.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
She kisses me like she’s furious at the world, and I’m the only place safe enough to release it.
My hand slides to her waist instinctively, anchoring her.
Sloane’s fingers curl into the front of my shirt, right over the stupid heart, and she makes a small sound against my mouth that turns my brain to static.
I pull back just enough to breathe, forehead hovering near hers.
Sloane’s eyes are dark and wide.
Her voice is a whisper. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” I agree.
She blinks. “Then why are you—”
I kiss her again, slower this time, like a promise I’m not calling a promise.
When we finally break, Sloane’s breathing is uneven.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth, then away, like she’s mad at herself.
“Get in the car,” she mutters.
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
She rolls her eyes as I open her door for her.
—
The house is quiet when we get back.
The porch light is on.
Cameron’s truck isn’t in the driveway yet.
The air inside is warmer, heavy with that too-careful calm.
I step in first, keeping my movements quiet.
Sloane follows, toeing off her shoes, duffel strap still in her hand like she might run back out.
A low sound carries from the living room.
TV murmuring.
Pops’s recliner creaks.
I glance around the corner.
Pops is awake, blanket over his legs, walker parked close. His eyes lift to me immediately.
To the shirt.
His mouth twitches.
“Look at you,” he says, voice rough with amusement. “My boy.”
Sloane makes a strangled sound behind me. “Dad—”
Pops lifts a hand. “Come on. I earned this.”
Sloane mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience.
I step into the living room, careful with my leg.
Pops studies my face for a beat, and the humor softens.
“How’d she do?” he asks quietly.
I glance back at Sloane.
She’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to look like she doesn’t care what I say.
Like she doesn’t care what he thinks.
Like she isn’t starving for it.
I turn back to Pops.
“She fought,” I say. “She ran the floor like she was possessed. She made the right calls. She kept her head even when it got ugly.”
Sloane’s throat works.
Pops’s eyes shine, faintly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice rougher. “You’d be proud.”
Pops exhales, closing his eyes for a second like he’s storing it away.
When he opens them, he looks at Sloane.
“Good job, kiddo,” he says.
Sloane’s face cracks for half a second.
Then she steps forward and presses a kiss to his cheek like she’s trying to hold him in place with her mouth.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Pops’s hand lifts, slow, and pats her arm. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Sloane’s voice goes tight. “You were.”
Pops’s gaze flicks to my shirt again, and his mouth twitches. “Damn right I was.”
Sloane groans. “Oh my God.”
Pops chuckles—real, warm, rough laughter.
The sound fills the room.
It makes my chest ache and loosen at the same time.
Pops looks at me, and his voice drops, softer. “Thank you for taking me with you.”
My throat burns.
I nod once, because if I speak, I’ll break.
Pops leans back, eyes heavy. “All right. I’m done being awake. Go…go celebrate your win or whatever.”
Sloane’s voice is tight. “We’re not—”
Pops lifts a brow. “You’re not what. Happy? Allowed to be happy? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sloane’s jaw clenches.
Pops’s gaze shifts to me, pointed. “Make sure she eats.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Yes, Coach.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “Good.”
His eyes drift closed again.
Sloane stands there for a beat, staring at him like she’s trying to memorize the rise and fall of his chest.
Then she turns sharply toward the hallway.
“I’m showering,” she says, voice too clipped.
I nod. “Okay.”
She pauses like she wants to say something else.
Instead, she adds, quieter, “Thanks…for today.”
Then she disappears into her room before the words can cost her more.
I stand in the living room, the stupid shirt still on my chest, Pops asleep ten feet away, the house humming with quiet grief.
It shouldn’t feel like hope.
But it does, even just a little.
Enough to make the weight bearable—at least for tonight.