Chapter 32 Logan #2
I slow to a walk, sweat on my spine, breath coming hard but controlled.
I’m not limping. I’m not pretending.
Carter tosses the ball over toward the sideline and heads my way. He stops in front of me, eyes sharp. “You’re moving better than I expected.”
“Thanks?” I say.
He huffs a laugh. “Not an insult. It’s…good.”
Coach Harding steps up beside us, hands on his hips, Lyla right beside him. “He’s doing the work.”
Lyla’s gaze flicks to my knee. “Does it hurt?”
I hesitate. Honesty tastes like pride.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But it’s…manageable.”
She nods like she gets it. Like she’s seen enough rehab rooms and injuries to know pain isn’t always a stop sign.
Coach Harding claps my shoulder once. “Go change. Then come inside.”
My stomach drops. “For what?”
Carter’s mouth curves. “For a conversation.”
Beck, who has been pretending not to eavesdrop from ten feet away, makes a delighted ooooh sound.
I shoot him a look that could kill.
He grins wider, completely unhelpful.
—
Inside, Coach Harding leads us into his office like it’s any other day.
The walls are lined with framed photos—championships, team shots, players in jerseys who are now somewhere else with a paycheck. There’s one of Carter in there, of course, at nineteen, throwing a pass like he was born for it.
There’s a smaller one of Lyla in a PCU hoodie, younger, standing on the sideline with a camera. Proud. Happy.
And then there are pictures that aren’t football—Coach Harding and his girlfriend with her daughter, Carter and Lyla together, a few holiday shots, a framed photo of Pops with Coach at some charity game years ago.
That one makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
Carter follows my gaze, and his expression shifts subtly.
“How’s Mr. Rhodes?” he asks, quieter than he’s been all day.
The room goes a little still. Coach Harding’s jaw tightens while Lyla’s eyes soften.
“Not great,” I admit. “But…he’s fighting.”
Carter nods once like he understands what that costs.
Coach Harding clears his throat, pulling us back. “All right.”
He gestures to the chairs.
Lyla sits on the arm of Carter’s chair like she belongs there, like she’s done this a thousand times.
Carter leans back, relaxed, but his eyes stay sharp on me.
“You know I’m with Chicago,” he says casually.
My pulse kicks. “Yeah.”
“Off-season stuff has me back in California, thanks to a certain someone,” he continues, wrapping an arm around Lyla’s waist. “And I’ve been talking to our receivers coach.”
I keep my face neutral even as my stomach flips.
Carter’s gaze pins me. “Your name came up.”
Coach Harding watches me like he’s measuring my reaction. Like he wants to see if I can handle opportunity without self-destructing.
I swallow hard. “Why?”
Carter’s mouth curves. “Because you’re good.”
It lands blunt. No fluff. No “if” or “maybe” to soften it.
“You’ve got hands,” Carter adds. “You’ve got instincts. You run smart routes. You don’t just sprint. You read.”
Lyla nods like she’s agreeing, like she’s seen it too.
Carter continues, “Injury complicates things, obviously. But they’re still interested in having a conversation.”
A conversation.
Not a promise.
Not a pick.
But it’s something.
And something is dangerous because something makes you want more.
My chest feels too full.
I keep my voice steady through sheer force. “Okay.”
Carter’s brow lifts. “That’s it? Just ‘okay’?”
I shrug, because I don’t know how to be anything else. “What do you want me to say?”
Carter’s grin turns wicked. “How about ‘thank you, Carter Hayes, savior of my future’?”
Beck makes a choking noise from the corner. “Please say that.”
Coach Harding groans. “Beck, why are you in my office?”
Beck spreads his hands. “Support system.”
Coach Harding points at him. “Get out.”
Beck pretends to be wounded but backs toward the door anyway, still grinning at me like he’s enjoying my discomfort.
“Call me if you cry,” he says, then slips out.
Carter watches Beck leave, amused, then looks back at me. His voice goes more serious.
“I’m not promising you anything,” he says. “You know that.”
“I know.”
“But,” Carter adds, leaning forward slightly, “I’m telling you they see something worth talking about. Even with the injury. Even with the timing.”
Timing. The draft.
Two weeks. The clock that never seems to stop.
Coach Harding folds his arms. “You want it, Brooks?”
The question is simple.
The answer isn’t.
Because wanting football has always been easy.
Wanting football while Pops is dying and Sloane is breaking and Cameron is trying to hold the house together…that’s complicated.
Because if I chase my dream and miss something with Pops, I’ll never forgive myself.
Because if I stay and sacrifice football, part of me will always wonder.
My throat burns.
“I want it,” I say finally.
Coach Harding nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
Carter’s grin returns, smaller this time. “Then take the call.”
I exhale. “Okay.”
Lyla shifts, watching me with that sharp, observant gaze she’s always had. “You’re not going to do that thing where you self-sabotage, right?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She lifts a brow. “You know. The thing you used to do. Where someone offers you something good and you act like you don’t deserve it so you can pretend it didn’t hurt when it gets taken away.”
Silence.
Carter’s smile fades into something thoughtful.
Coach Harding looks like he wants to pretend he didn’t hear that because it’s too accurate.
Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t do that.”
Lyla’s expression is unimpressed. “You used to.”
Carter leans back and smirks. “She’s right.”
I glare at him. “Traitor.”
Carter shrugs. “I was a shithead too. I’m allowed to call it like it is.”
Coach Harding points at Carter. “You still are.”
Carter laughs. “Fair.”
The humor helps. It keeps the heaviness from crushing me.
But Lyla’s words stick anyway.
Because she’s right.
Coach Harding’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Brooks.”
I look up. He doesn’t soften. He’s never been good at softening.
“You have handled more than most kids your age should have to,” he says. “And you’ve done it without quitting.”
My throat tightens.
He continues, “Football will be here as long as your body lets it. But your life, your people, that’s what you don’t get back.”
My chest aches.
Carter’s gaze flicks to me, understanding in his eyes now.
“You’ve got family stuff,” Carter says quietly.
I nod once.
Carter’s voice turns blunt again, like he’s doing me a favor by not making it emotional. “Handle your people. Take the call anyway.”
Coach Harding points at me like he’s calling a play. “You can do both if you stop acting like everything good has to cost you something.”
I swallow hard. “Yes, Coach.”
He nods once. “Good.”
Carter pushes up from his chair. “I’ll text you the contact info.”
Lyla slides off the arm of his chair and adjusts her hoodie. “We’re grabbing lunch with my dad. You should come.”
Coach Harding scoffs. “He’s icing.”
Lyla smiles sweetly. “He can ice while he eats.”
Coach Harding opens his mouth.
“Do you see what I have to deal with?” Carter cuts in, grinning. “She’s scary, Coach.”
Coach Harding mutters something under his breath and waves us off. “Go. Brooks—ice. Then go home.”
Go home.
The words hit harder than they should.
Because home isn’t just a place anymore.
Home is Sloane.
Home is Pops and Cameron.
Home is the version of me that’s quietly changing whether I want it to or not.
—
When I step back out into the hallway, my phone buzzes again.
This time, I look.
Sloane: he slept through most of the morning. hospice is coming at three.
My throat tightens.
I type back with my thumbs hovering over the words I want to say.
I want to tell her Carter Hayes was just in Coach’s office talking about my future.
I want to tell her I’m scared to want things.
Scared to want her.
I want to tell her I miss her even when she’s in the next room.
Instead, I send the truth I can afford.
sounds good. I’ll be there soon.
I stare at it for half a second.
Then I hit send before I can overthink it into silence.
Two weeks. The draft.
A conversation with an NFL team.
Pops at home, Sloane barely holding on.
And me—standing in the hallway of the place I’ve always wanted to belong, realizing that belonging isn’t a helmet and a jersey.
It’s the people who would still want you even if you never ran another route again.
I tuck my phone away, grab an ice pack, and sit down.
And for the first time in months, I have no idea what I’m going to do.