Chapter 42 Logan
LOGAN
The PCU training facility smells like rubber and protein powder and somebody’s bad decision to microwave tuna in the staff kitchenette.
It’s familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. Not comfort—memory. A place where I used to belong without thinking about it. A place where my body used to be an answer instead of a question mark.
Now I walk in, and every step feels like I’m asking permission.
Coach’s office is down the hall. The indoor turf is to the left. Weight room behind glass. All of it humming—barbells clanging, whistles, music thumping in the distance, the kind of energy that used to light me up.
Today it just…stares at me.
“Brooks!”
I glance up and spot Trent, one of the sports med guys, jogging over with a tablet in his hand and that always-on grin like he’s trying to convince me this is fun.
“Please don’t say anything encouraging,” I warn.
Trent laughs. “I was gonna say you look great.”
“I look like a man who’s been humbled by the concept of stairs.”
“Fair.” He points at the table near the turf. “Come on. We’ve got you for an update today.”
Update.
That word should feel neutral. Clinical.
For me, it’s a verdict.
Four months post-op. Triple tear. December surgery. Now it’s nearly mid-April, and the draft is in two days, which means the NFL is a loud presence in my life, even though I’m not invited to the party.
Trent guides me to the mat area, where Dr. Mercer is already waiting with Mara, who looks like she could bench press my entire existence.
Dr. Mercer gives me a nod. “Logan.”
“Doc.”
Mara gestures at my leg. “No brace today?”
“No,” I say. “Haven’t worn one in weeks.”
“Good,” she says, like she approves. “Let’s see what you’ve earned.”
That’s the thing about rehab. It’s not given. It’s not granted.
It’s earned, rep by rep, through boredom and pain and swallowing your pride until it sits in your stomach like a rock.
They start with the basics—range of motion, quick checks around the knee, palpating places that make me flinch even when I try not to.
“Swelling?” Dr. Mercer asks.
“Mostly controlled,” I say. “If I overdo it, it gets tight.”
Mara’s eyes sharpen. “Overdo it how?”
I hesitate, because the truth is, I don’t always know where the line is until I’ve crossed it.
“Longer sessions,” I admit. “Extra sets.”
Trent snorts. “We love an overachiever.”
Mara doesn’t. She gives him a look that could kill hope.
Dr. Mercer tests stability, then sits back on his heels, calm in that annoying way doctors get to be when it’s your life on the line and their coffee is still hot.
“Okay,” he says. “Strength numbers are improving. Your quad is coming back. Your gait is cleaner. That’s good progress.”
My chest loosens slightly.
Good progress is not the same as good enough, but I’ll take it.
Mara pulls up my last testing sheet. “Single-leg squat.”
I glare. “I hate you.”
She smiles. “No, you don’t.”
I step onto the mat and lower into the single-leg squat. Controlled. Slow. I can feel every tiny stabilizer firing like it’s trying to prove it deserves to exist.
Halfway down, my knee wobbles.
Mara snaps, “Don’t let it dive.”
I correct. Hold. Rise.
It’s clean.
Trent claps once like I’m a toddler who just learned the alphabet. “Atta boy.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but my mouth twitches.
They run me through a short circuit—step-downs, balance work, banded walks, the stuff that looks unimpressive until you realize it’s the foundation for everything else. The unsexy, boring pieces that make the sexy parts possible.
By the time I’m finished, sweat slicks my back, and my quad feels like it’s vibrating.
Dr. Mercer checks his notes, then looks up.
My stomach drops anyway.
“Here’s where you are,” he says. “You’re still not cleared for full-force cutting, reactive agility, or contact. No hard routes. No sharp change of direction.”
I nod, jaw tight.
Because that’s what I want. That’s the point. That’s what makes me me.
And I can’t have it yet.
“But,” he continues, and the word hits like a hook, “I’m comfortable moving you into a return-to-run progression.”
My lungs forget how to work.
Mara doesn’t let me celebrate. “Straight-line only.”
“I know,” I say quickly, like I’m not a dog who just heard the word walk.
Trent grins. “Treadmill first. Controlled intervals.”
Dr. Mercer nods. “Walk-jog. Short bursts. Monitor swelling. Pain that’s sharp means stop. Soreness is expected.”
Run.
It isn’t full speed. It isn’t the field. It isn’t a route tree with a defender on my hip and the ball in the air.
But it’s motion.
It’s the first step back toward the version of myself I’m terrified I lost.
“Okay,” I manage, voice rough. “So what does that mean…timeline-wise?”
The question is a trap. I know it. They know it.
Dr. Mercer’s tone stays steady. “It means you’re on schedule for this injury, if not a little bit ahead. It means if a team asks you to come in for medicals, you’ll be honest about where you are. They’ll decide what they’re comfortable with.”
“Chicago.” My brain supplies immediately, like a curse I can’t stop saying.
No one says the name.
But it’s there anyway.
Trent scribbles something down. “We’ll start you on the treadmill today. Just to introduce it.”
Mara points at me. “And you don’t go home and decide you’re an elite sprinter again.”
I put a hand over my heart. “I would never.”
Her stare says she doesn’t believe me.
—
By the time I’m in my truck, the sun is too bright, and my phone feels too heavy in my pocket.
Two days until the draft.
Two days until Beck’s whole life gets ripped open in front of cameras and smiles.
And somewhere inside me, there’s a quiet, pathetic hope that my phone might ring too—even if it’s just a “come talk to us” call.
Even if it’s late.
Even if I’m limping into it.
My phone rings the second I pull out of the lot.
Beck
I answer, “Yeah.”
“Brooks,” he says, and his voice has that forced energy that tells me he’s trying not to think too hard. “Tell me you didn’t die today.”
“I jogged,” I say, and it comes out blunt, like if I say it out loud, it becomes real.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Beck goes, “Wait—seriously?”
“Yeah,” I say again, softer. “Return-to-run progression.”
Beck lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “Damn. Look at you. Proud of you.”
My throat tightens, stupidly.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Okay,” he says, his tone shifting like he’s trying to keep us in safer territory. “Draft’s in two days. You sitting with me, or are you bailing to go stare dramatically at a wall?”
“I’m sitting with you,” I say immediately. “Obviously.”
“Good,” Beck says. “Sophie already picked your seat.”
I huff. “Of course she did.”
“She says you’re not allowed to brood. If you start brooding, she’s going to throw a chip at your forehead.”
“Tell her to try it,” I mutter.
Beck laughs. Then his voice dips, quieter. “How’s…everything?”
He doesn’t say Pops’s name.
He doesn’t have to.
I grip the wheel tighter. “It’s…bad. She’s still about the same as when you guys stopped by, if not worse.”
“Yeah,” Beck says gently. “I figured.”
The silence stretches, and the quiet is full of all the things I don’t know how to say without breaking.
Then Beck clears his throat. “So. Important question.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“If you get the call,” he says slowly, “from Chicago…what are you gonna do?”
There it is.
The question that keeps showing up like a shadow behind every moment of my life.
Because it isn’t just football.
It’s everything I built myself into.
And now my life is split in two—one side chasing the dream, the other side holding Sloane together with my bare hands.
“I don’t know,” I admit, voice tight.
Beck sighs. “Okay. I’m not judging. I’m just asking.”
“I want it,” I say quietly, like a confession. “I’ve always wanted it.”
“I know,” Beck replies. “But you also want to stay.”
My throat burns.
Because that’s the part that scares me.
Not the NFL.
Not Chicago.
Not the risk.
The choice.
Because if I choose wrong, I lose something I can’t replace.
I blink hard, eyes on the road. “I can’t leave her right now.”
Beck’s voice softens. “Then don’t. Not if it’ll destroy you.”
I swallow. “What if staying destroys me too?”
Beck is quiet for a second, then he says, simple and true, “Then you survive it anyway.”
My chest aches.
“I’ll see you in two days,” I say, because I can’t sit on this for too long or I’ll drown.
“Yeah,” Beck says. “And Brooks?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re doing good. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
My grip tightens. “Thanks.”
“Love you, man.”
“Love you too,” I say, and this time my voice cracks a little, but I don’t care.
The call ends.
The road stretches ahead.
And my brain immediately tries to sprint into the future and ruin me with what-ifs.
Sloane’s face at the funeral.
Sloane’s body curled into mine like she was trying to breathe through my ribs.
Cameron’s jaw working like he’s going to shatter his teeth from holding in everything he can’t say.
I turn onto the Rhodes’ street, and the house appears—single story, neat lawn, the basketball hoop out front like a cruel little reminder that life used to be normal here.
I park and sit for a second.
My knee aches—not sharp. Just worked. Alive.
Progress.
But the ache in my chest doesn’t obey any timeline.
I step out and walk up the driveway, letting the sun hit my face like it can burn some of this off me.
Jade and Blakely stand on the front porch, waiting for me.
“We didn’t want to leave her alone, but we also didn’t want to make her feel like we were hovering when she said we could leave,” Jade says, picking up the bag sitting next to her feet.
“I mean, I don’t really care if she thinks that. We are hovering. Hard core,” Blakely adds.
I rub the back of my neck. “I get it. Thanks for being here.”
“No problem,” Jade says, as they make their way toward her car. “Let us know if you guys need anything.”
Nodding, I send them a quick wave before heading inside.
The front door opens easily.
Inside, the house is quiet in that way grief makes things quiet—not peaceful. Just muted, like the world doesn’t want to make noise around what’s missing.
And then I hear it.
A soft sound from the living room.
Just a broken inhale, like someone is trying to swallow air and it won’t go down.
My chest tightens, and I move toward it.
Sloane is on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eyes on the screen but not seeing it. Her hair is pulled into a messy knot. Her face is pale in a way that doesn’t look like tired—it looks like she’s been scraped raw from the inside.
For a second, she doesn’t notice me.
Then her eyes flick to mine.
And something shifts—small, instinctive.
Not happiness.
Not healed.
Just recognition.
Like my presence means she doesn’t have to hold the whole world alone for one more minute.
I keep my voice low when I say, “Hey.”
Her throat works like words are hard, but she manages, “How was rehab?”
I swallow the spiral.
I shove Chicago into the farthest corner of my brain.
I shove the draft to two days from now, where it belongs.
And I focus on her.
“Good,” I say softly. “I got cleared to start jogging.”
Her eyes widen just a fraction—surprise and something like pride trying to break through the numbness.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, and try for light, even though my chest hurts. “It was ugly. Trent said if I try to sprint, he’ll tackle me himself.”
A ghost of a smile touches her mouth—barely there, but real.
It guts me more than tears would.
I step closer, crouching beside the couch so I’m level with her.
“You eaten anything?” I ask.
Sloane’s eyes flick away.
That answer is no.
I nod like I already knew. “Okay. We’ll start small. Toast. Something. And if you hate it, you can blame me.”
Her voice is small. “You’re back.”
It isn’t a question.
It’s a fact she needs to say out loud, like it’ll anchor her.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m here.”
Sloane swallows, and her fingers tighten around the blanket. “Okay.”
Just one word.
But it lands like permission.
Like she’s letting me hold some of this.
I reach up slowly, giving her time to flinch, to pull away.
She doesn’t.
So I brush my thumb over her knuckles—light, grounding.
And in my head, the future still roars.
Chicago might call.
The draft might change everything for Beck.
My dream might crack open again.
But right now—right now the only thing I’m certain of is this:
Sloane Rhodes is still breathing.
And if I can help her keep doing that, I will.
Even if it costs me everything I thought I was supposed to want.