Chapter 36 Logan
LOGAN
Having Sloane Rhodes in my room feels like a rule I didn’t know I was breaking until it was too late.
Not because she doesn’t belong—she does, in that quiet, inevitable way she’s always belonged in my orbit—but because my room at the football house has never been soft. It’s always been a place for tape jobs and ice packs and pretending I’m fine.
And then she steps inside with her tote bag that Jade and Blakely packed for her on her shoulder, cheeks still flushed from the sun, and suddenly the air changes.
She does a slow turn, taking everything in. “This is very…” She pauses, eyes flicking over my bed, my PCU flag, the single framed photo of the guys after our rivalry win. “You.”
I lean back against the door as it clicks shut. “Is that an insult?”
“It’s an observation.”
I gesture around. “Welcome to the Brooks Luxury Suite. Complimentary emotional repressions included.”
Her mouth twitches. “Five stars.”
“Thank you. I worked hard to make it unwelcoming.”
She walks to my desk and picks up the lacrosse ball I use on my quads, turning it over. “What is this?”
“Massage ball.”
She lifts a brow. “Weird name for a torture device.”
“It hurts. That’s how you know it works.”
I grab the remote and flop onto the bed, patting the spot beside me. “Okay. Movie time.”
Sloane drops her bag and climbs up, settling against the pillows with her legs tucked under her. I leave an inch of space out of habit.
She glances at the gap, then at me. “Logan.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to sit there like I’m a crazed animal.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I shift closer, the mattress dipping. Her shoulder brushes mine. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she reaches for the blanket and pulls it over both of us without asking, like she’s decided we’re done pretending this is casual.
My chest does something stupid.
“Pick,” I say, scrolling. “Comedy. Action. One of those depressing Oscar movies where everyone cries in the rain.”
She makes a face. “No crying in the rain. I’ve done enough of that this year.”
The way she says it—matter-of-fact, like it’s just a weather report—hits me harder than it should.
“Comedy it is.”
She nods. “Something stupid.”
I smirk. “Perfect. That’s my brand.”
I hit play on a dumb movie we’ve both seen before. The kind where you don’t have to pay attention. The kind that lets your body unclench even if your brain refuses to.
Sloane’s head tips back against the pillow, her hair spilling over my shoulder, and for a few minutes we just…exist. Quiet. Warm. Safe.
It’s so normal it almost feels suspicious.
Ten minutes in, there’s a knock at my door—two quick hits.
“Brooks! You alive?”
I freeze like I’ve been caught committing a felony.
I call back, too loud, “Yeah, I’m alive.”
“That Sloane you got in there?”
Sloane bites her lip like she’s trying not to laugh.
I groan. “Beck, go away.”
A pause. Then a laugh. “Knew it. Have fun, Romeo.”
Footsteps retreat down the hall. My stomach twists, but before I can spiral, Sloane reaches down and threads her fingers through mine under the blanket. Warm. Grounding.
“Stop thinking,” she murmurs.
I huff. “I don’t know how.”
“I do,” she says, and then she leans in and kisses me.
Soft. Slow. Like she’s not asking permission so much as reminding me we’re allowed.
The tension in my chest loosens on impact.
When she pulls back, her eyes search mine. “You okay?”
I swallow. “I’m more than okay.”
Her mouth curves, satisfied. “Good.”
We go back to the movie, and this time I actually hear the jokes. Actually laugh. Actually feel my body settle into something that resembles peace.
An hour later, Sloane yawns and tries to hide it behind her hand.
“Bedtime?” I tease.
She glares. “I’m tired.”
“Old lady.”
“Says the man who went to bed at ten when he started rehabbing.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. “Fair.”
She pushes the blanket off and stands. “I’m gonna change.”
My brain immediately supplies images I don’t need.
I clear my throat. “Bathroom’s—”
“I know where it is,” she says dryly, and disappears down the hall with her tote bag. “I’ve been here plenty of times crashing the PCU parties.”
The second she’s gone, my room feels too quiet.
I stare at the TV, trying to focus on the movie. My mind refuses.
Because the thing about having something good is it makes you remember how easily it can be taken.
Pops’s text earlier—See you in the morning. Love you too.—plays through my head like a prayer. Like a fragile promise.
I drag a hand over my face.
Get it together.
A few minutes later, the door opens.
Sloane steps back in, and my brain goes blank.
She’s wearing my gray T-shirt—the soft one that’s been washed too many times, the one I sleep in when I can’t shut my head off. It hangs off her shoulder slightly, collar slipping just enough to show her collarbone.
And she’s stolen my boxers too.
Black. Simple. Sitting low on her hips like she owns them.
My throat goes dry.
Sloane shuts the door and turns, one brow lifting like she can see exactly what’s happening to me. “What?”
I blink. Force air into my lungs. “You stole my clothes.”
“I borrowed them.”
“That’s theft.”
“It’s not theft if you’re dating,” she says casually, like she hasn’t just kicked my heart down a staircase.
My chest tightens.
We’re not calling it that yet. Not out loud. Not officially.
But she says it like it’s true anyway.
Sloane climbs back onto the bed and settles beside me, tucking her legs under the blanket. Then she nudges my shoulder. “Relax, Brooks.”
I huff. “You can’t wear my boxers and tell me to relax.”
Her eyes gleam. “Why not?”
“Because it’s…” I clear my throat. “Distracting.”
Her smile turns slow and smug. “Good.”
She scoots closer until her thigh presses against mine under the blanket, warm and deliberate. She doesn't look at me—just turns her attention back to the movie like she’s innocent.
I try to focus. I do.
For about thirty seconds.
Then she shifts, stretching her arms over her head with an exaggerated little arch that presses her body against mine.
My breath catches.
Sloane lets out a soft sigh like she’s comfortable, then does it again—another “stretch,” another slow slide of her hips that is absolutely not accidental.
I go still. My hands tighten around the remote.
Sloane keeps her eyes on the screen, mouth twitching.
“You okay?” she asks sweetly.
I swallow hard. “Mm-hmm.”
She shifts again—slow, subtle, the kind of movement that makes my entire body light up.
My jaw clenches.
“My hamstrings are tight,” she says innocently.
I let out a humorless laugh. “You play basketball. Your hamstrings have never been tight.”
She finally looks at me, eyes wide and wicked. “Are you saying I’m lying?”
“Yes.”
She hums, then—without breaking eye contact—does one more slow “stretch,” her hips rolling just enough that I see stars.
I exhale through my nose, trying to find my last shred of self-control.
And then I lean closer, voice low, rough around the edges.
“If you keep doing that,” I murmur, “we’re gonna have to pause the movie.”
Sloane’s smile turns slow and satisfied, like she’s been waiting for me to say it.
“Okay,” she whispers, eyes flicking down to my mouth.
And I hit pause.