Chapter 43 Logan
LOGAN
The knot sits in my throat the second I tighten my tie.
Because the house is too quiet.
Because the Rhodes’ house used to be loud even when it wasn’t. Pops’s laugh from the recliner. The clink of ice in a glass. The TV on too low because he “could hear it just fine.”
Now it’s just…absence. And the way grief has settled into the corners like dust no one has the energy to wipe away.
I glance at the mirror and barely recognize the guy staring back.
Same broad shoulders. Same dark hair. Same jaw that’s been clenched so long it feels like it might crack.
But my eyes look older.
I tug the tie again, tighter than it needs to be, like discomfort is a punishment I’ve earned. Then I stop myself because I can almost hear Pops in my head, dry as hell—
Don’t strangle yourself, kid. You still got a future to mess up.
I swallow hard and step into the hallway.
Cameron’s already up. He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand he hasn’t really drunk from. He’s dressed, too—nice jeans, button-down, the kind of clean-cut that says I’m fine even when his face says the opposite.
His jaw works the way it’s been working since the funeral. Like if he keeps his teeth clenched, the world can’t take anything else.
“You good?” I ask because it’s the only language we have left.
Cameron’s eyes flick to me, then away. “You look like you’re going to a job interview.”
“Feels like one.”
He gives me a humorless half-smile. “That tracks.”
From down the hall, I hear the soft shuffle of socks. A bedroom door. A pause, like the person on the other side is bracing.
Then Sloane appears.
And my chest does that thing it’s been doing since the night everything broke open between us—tightening like it’s trying to hold her inside me.
She’s wearing sweats and one of Pops’s old sweatshirts. The sleeves swallow her hands. Her hair is twisted up, messy, like she didn’t have the energy to fight it into submission.
Her eyes lift to me, and for a second, I see the girl she used to be.
Then it’s gone.
Now she looks…thin. Not physically—she’s always been strong, built for basketball, built for endurance—but emotionally. Like the grief has scraped her down to something raw.
“You’re leaving?” she asks, voice flat like she’s stating the weather.
“Just for a few hours,” I say, stepping closer without thinking. I stop myself halfway. Give her space. “It’s draft day for Beck.”
“I know.” Her eyes flick to my tie. “You look…nice.”
The compliment shouldn’t hit like a punch, but it does. Because it sounds like she’s saying goodbye.
I clear my throat. “You sure you’re okay?”
Her mouth twitches, barely. “No.”
Honesty. That’s new.
My hands curl into fists at my sides because everything in me wants to pull her into my chest and not let go. Not when she’s this breakable.
But Cameron is right there. Watching. Not in a suspicious way. Not in an angry way.
Just…in that big-brother, hyperaware way, like he’s learned how to scan rooms for threats.
And I am the newest threat he’s figuring out.
Sloane’s gaze shifts past me to Cameron. “You’re staying?”
Cameron nods once. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”
A beat of silence.
Then Sloane looks back at me, and for a second, her eyes go shiny like she’s fighting something that wants to escape.
“I’ll be fine,” she says quickly, like she knows what I’m about to do with my face. Like she’s trying to stop me from seeing her. “Cam’s here. Jade and Blakely are coming by later.”
My throat burns. “Sloane—”
“I’m fine,” she repeats, sharper this time.
I nod because I understand what she’s trying to do. She’s giving me permission to leave.
And somehow that makes it worse.
I step closer anyway, just enough to drop my voice. “If it gets bad, you call me.”
Her eyes flick down. Then back up. “You’re going to be in a room full of yelling men and cameras. You wouldn’t notice if I did.”
“I’ll hear you,” I say, like a promise.
She swallows. “Okay.”
Cameron shifts behind us, clearing his throat like he’s reminding me he exists.
I step back. Grab my jacket. Force my hands to stay at my sides instead of reaching for her.
“Text me when Beck gets the call,” Sloane says.
I manage a smile. “Deal.”
Then I leave before I do something stupid like kiss her forehead in front of her brother and set my own life on fire.
—
The draft party is at Beck’s dad’s house.
Beck’s been pretending all week like he isn’t nervous, like he isn’t watching his phone like it’s a ticking bomb, like he isn’t about to have his whole life changed by a name being said out loud.
But there are balloons inside and way too much food, and someone has a banner taped to the wall that says “TAKE YOUR PICK” in block letters, like this is a birthday party instead of the start of the rest of his life.
The living room is packed. Football guys, girlfriends, teammates’ parents, a couple coaches who “just happened to be in town,” and enough energy in the air to make my knee ache just from standing in it.
Beck is front and center on the couch, wearing a suit jacket with jeans like he couldn’t commit to being classy when he’s about to get drafted into the NFL.
Sophie is perched beside him like she owns him, legs crossed, hair perfect, eyes sharp. She looks like she could fistfight the commissioner for him if the draft takes too long.
When she sees me, she lifts her chin. “Logan.”
“Sophie.”
Her eyes slide over my tie. “Look at you. Almost respectable.”
“Don’t spread that rumor.”
Beck grins when he spots me. “There he is.”
I cross the room, and Beck stands, pulling me into a hug that’s a little too tight.
“You ready?” I ask.
He scoffs into my shoulder. “Nope.”
Then he pulls back and smirks. “You?”
I huff a laugh. “I’m not the one about to get my life picked tonight.”
Beck’s gaze sharpens like he knows exactly what I’m trying to dodge.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You’re just the one pretending your phone isn’t going to ring.”
My stomach dips.
Before I can answer, the front door opens again, letting in a burst of warm California air and a whole lot of noise.
Carter Hayes walks in first, looking like Carter always looks—like the world is a party he’s already halfway bored of, but he’s going to make you laugh anyway.
Beside him is Lyla, smaller than him but somehow taking up more space, her smile bright and her eyes scanning the room like she’s collecting details for a story she’ll tell later.
And then—
Jaxon Montgomery.
He’s changed since the last time I saw him in person just a few months ago after my surgery, but not in a bad way. More solid. More sure. His shoulders fill out his shirt like he’s built for Sunday nights now, not Saturdays. There’s a confidence to him that doesn’t feel cocky.
It feels earned.
Madison Blake is on his arm, her engagement ring catching the light like a tiny, shameless spotlight. She’s laughing at something Lyla says, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, and Jaxon is just…watching her.
Not in a casual way.
In a way that makes my chest tighten.
Like if he looks away for too long, he might miss her.
Lyla spots Sophie and immediately beelines, practically vibrating. “SOPHIE. Oh my God. Are you dying? Are we dying? This is so exciting.”
Right behind her, Madison deadpans. “I’m dying because you’re screaming.”
Lyla doesn’t care. She grabs Sophie’s hands anyway. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. This is literally the coolest day ever.”
Madison laughs, stepping forward. “Hi.”
I nod at her. “Hey. Congrats.”
She glances at Jaxon, and her smile shifts into something soft. “Thanks.”
Jaxon extends his hand to Beck first, firm and steady. “Harrison.”
Beck stands straighter automatically. “Montgomery.”
Jaxon’s grin is quick. “Big night.”
Beck exhales. “Understatement.”
Carter claps Beck on the shoulder hard enough to jostle him. “You’re about to be rich, man. Don’t forget us when you’re famous.”
Beck snorts. “I’m going to sack you first.”
“Rude.”
Lyla suddenly holds Madison’s hand up like she’s presenting it to the room. “Can we just acknowledge this? Like, look at it. LOOK AT IT.”
Madison’s face goes pink. “Lyla.”
“I’m sorry,” Lyla says, not sorry at all. “I just—Jaxon, you’re literally obsessed with her.”
Jaxon’s eyes flick to Madison, and the look on his face is…devastating.
Not performative. Not loud.
Just real.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”
Madison’s throat works like she’s swallowing emotion, and she bumps her shoulder into his like she’s trying to play it off.
But her fingers tighten around his.
And Jaxon’s smile turns softer, like he’s holding something precious and he knows it.
My chest aches in a way I don’t have words for.
Because love looks like that.
And I’ve spent the last month pretending I don’t have anything worth losing.
—
The draft starts. The TV volume goes up. Everyone’s pretending to breathe normally.
Beck sits with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying. Sophie’s palm is on his thigh, steady pressure, like grounding.
Picks start rolling.
And I try to be here—fully here—for Beck. I try to laugh at Carter’s commentary. Try to roll my eyes when Lyla keeps whisper-squealing into Madison’s ear about how she can’t believe she’s in a room with “actual NFL people.”
But my mind keeps sliding back to the Rhodes’ house.
To Sloane in Pops’s sweatshirt.
To the way her voice sounded when she said no.
To the fact that grief is a living thing, and I left her alone with it.
“Brooks.”
Carter’s voice cuts through my spiral. I glance over, and he jerks his head toward the kitchen like he’s calling me out back for a talk.
I follow because I’ve always followed Carter when he looks like that—half amused, half serious, like he’s about to punch you in the chest with truth.
The kitchen is quieter. Still loud enough to hear the TV muffled through the wall, the crowd cheering each pick.
Carter leans against the counter, arms crossed. His eyes scan my face like he’s reading a stat line.
“You look like shit,” he says.