Chapter 48
LOGAN
Aweek can change a person in ways you don’t notice until you do.
It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t soften the fact that Pops is still gone and the house still carries him like a ghost you can’t exhale. But grief…shifts. It moves its weight. It stops being a constant siren and becomes something quieter—something that waits in corners, patient and cruel.
Sloane is the only reason I know that.
Because she’s starting to come back in fragments.
Not fully. Not even close. But enough that I catch myself making mental notes like I’m trying to memorize proof.
She ate half a bowl of cereal yesterday without staring through it like it was cardboard.
She went outside and sat on the porch steps for ten minutes and didn’t look like she was bracing for impact the entire time.
And this morning—this morning she walked into the kitchen with her hair still damp from the shower, wearing one of my old PCU hoodies, and she didn’t flinch at the sound of the coffeemaker clicking on.
Small things.
But small things are everything right now.
I’m leaning against the counter, pretending I’m not watching her, when she opens the fridge and stares inside like she’s negotiating with it.
“You gonna keep bullying the groceries?” I ask. “Because I’m pretty sure the eggs are filing a restraining order.”
She pauses.
I see the moment her brain registers the joke. The split-second pause where it could go either way—nothing or a crack.
Then her mouth twitches.
Not a full smile.
But it’s close enough that my chest tightens like someone put their fist around my heart.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “You’re not funny.”
“That’s not what your face just said.”
“My face is grieving.”
“Your face is weak,” I counter automatically, because banter is a life raft, and I’m not above clinging.
Sloane rolls her eyes like she’s annoyed with me, but the twitch is still there, lingering at the corner of her mouth.
And something in me goes frighteningly still.
Because that tiny almost-smile hits harder than any highlight reel I’ve ever watched of myself. Harder than the thought of Chicago. Harder than the fear of Cameron. Harder than the ache that lives in this house now.
It’s just…her.
Alive.
Here.
Still capable of reacting to me.
My throat tightens. I look away first, because if I don’t, I might do something I can’t undo.
Except—
I can’t not.
My feet move before my brain catches up.
I close the distance in two steps, hands bracing on the counter on either side of her like I’m steadying myself more than I’m cornering her.
Sloane looks up, startled, milk carton halfway out of the fridge.
“Logan—”
I don’t give myself time to think.
I lean down and kiss her.
Not desperate. Not consuming. Just—sure. Warm. A simple press of my mouth to hers, like my body is saying what my mind can’t quite survive saying out loud.
She freezes for half a beat.
Then her lips part softly, and she kisses me back—slow, careful, like she’s remembering we’re allowed.
I pull away before I make it heavy.
Before I turn it into a promise she didn’t ask for.
Her eyes are wide, glossy in that way that makes my chest ache. “What was that for?”
I swallow, trying to keep my face neutral, like my heart isn’t beating itself to death against my ribs. “No real reason.”
Sloane blinks. “No real reason?”
I shrug like I’m casual. Like I didn’t just realize I’m completely screwed. “Just wanted to.”
She studies me, suspicion flickering—like she knows I’m hiding the real answer.
Because the real answer is: I’m in love with you, and every time you look even slightly like yourself again, I feel like I can breathe.
But I’m not saying that yet.
Not when she’s still learning how to exist without Pops.
Not when my love might feel like another weight.
So I keep it simple.
Sloane sets the milk on the counter and stares at it like it’s suddenly fascinating. “You’re weird.”
“Yeah,” I agree quietly. “I know.”
Her phone buzzes on the table. She doesn’t move for it.
Then mine does.
It starts ringing from where it’s charging beside the sink—sharp and loud in the quiet kitchen.
My stomach dips on instinct.
Because phones are how bad news arrives now.
I cross the kitchen and grab it fast, eyes scanning the screen.
Carter Hayes
My shoulders loosen a fraction.
Sloane sees the name anyway and lifts a brow. “Answer it.”
I hesitate, thumb hovering.
She already knows what’s in my head. Even if she won’t say it.
If you answer, you might get pulled back into football. If you get pulled back into football, you might leave.
She doesn’t say any of that. She just looks at me, calm in a way that feels practiced, like she’s learned how to carry fear without letting it show.
“Logan,” she repeats gently. “Answer it.”
I do.
“Brooks,” Carter says immediately, voice the same cocky smooth as always. “You alive?”
“Barely,” I mutter. “What’s up?”
“I’m in town,” he says, like that’s normal. Like he isn’t the guy who used to run my entire offense like it was a damn symphony. “And I’ve got someone with me.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Who?”
Carter pauses, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Offensive coach. Not yours. Mine.”
My heart stutters once, hard.
Chicago.
Of course it’s Chicago.
Carter continues, “He wants to talk, since you won’t return his calls. Nothing formal. Just…a conversation. You got an hour?”
My mouth goes dry.
My mind does that thing it always does when life tries to offer me two things at once—football and Sloane, future and now, dream and reality—and it starts splitting me down the middle.
“Where?” I ask, keeping my voice steady like I’m not spiraling.
“Diner off Ventura,” Carter says. “The one with the pie that tastes like God’s forgiveness.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
“Okay,” I say, because I’m not stupid. Because even if I don’t know what I’m doing, I know you don’t ignore another call like this. “Yeah. I’ll meet you.”
“Good,” Carter says. “And Brooks?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t be late. Coach hates late.”
I nod as if he can see me. “I’ll be there.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a beat longer than necessary, like it might explain what I’m supposed to do with my life.
When I look up, Sloane is already moving toward the hallway.
Not running.
Not panicking.
Just…retreating.
Like she’s giving me space.
My chest twists.
“Sloane,” I call.
She pauses at the doorway to her room but doesn’t turn around.
“I have to go meet Carter,” I say carefully. “He’s in town with—someone. They want to talk to me.”
Silence.
Then she looks back, face unreadable.
“Okay,” she says simply.
No drama.
No fight.
No “don’t leave me” hanging in the air.
That makes it worse.
I cross the hall in three long steps and stop in front of her, close enough to feel her warmth.
“I’ll be back,” I promise.
Sloane’s eyes flick over my face like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
I lean down and kiss her again.
This one lingers a second longer than the first. My hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing gently like I’m imprinting myself there.
When I pull back, she exhales softly. “How long do you think you could last without doing that?”
The joke is small, but it lands like a gift.
My chest loosens.
I manage a crooked smirk. “I don’t have to…if you’re not ready.”
I mean it too. Even if it kills me.
Sloane’s gaze sharpens.
Then she grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me down.
And she kisses me.
Not careful.
Not hesitant.
Her mouth is firm, certain, like she’s tired of holding back, and she’s choosing this anyway.
When she pulls away, her forehead rests against mine, and her voice is quiet but steady.
“I’m ready,” she whispers.
I close my eyes for a second, because I can’t handle how much I love her without it breaking something inside me.
“Okay,” I murmur.
I kiss her one more time—soft, quick, like a promise I’m trying not to make too heavy—then force myself to step back.
Because if I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all.
And Carter’s diner suddenly feels like the place my entire future is waiting to ambush me.
I head for the door, keys in hand, heart in my throat.
As I step outside into the mild California air, the sun is too bright, and the world looks too normal.
And all I can think is—
How the hell am I supposed to choose between the dream I built my whole life around and the girl who’s slowly becoming my whole life now?
—
Carter picks the booth like he owns the place.
Back corner. Vinyl seats cracked from years of bodies sliding in and out. A window to the parking lot, like he’s still the quarterback who needs to see the field, even when the field is a diner off Ventura with a neon pie sign in the window.
He’s already there when I walk in.
Of course he is.
Carter Hayes doesn’t “arrive.” He materializes—elbows on the table, hoodie sleeves shoved up, that familiar smirk like the world is a game and he wrote the rules. Across from him sits a man I don’t know, posture straight, hands folded, eyes steady.
That one glance is enough to tell me everything.
Not a fan.
Not a friend.
Not a guy here to catch up.
A coach.
He looks like the kind of man who doesn’t waste words. Like he measures people in ten seconds and decides if they’re worth his time.
My pulse ticks up anyway.
Carter lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he spots me. “Brooks.”
I slide into the booth opposite them, my knee stiff but mostly cooperative. I keep my face neutral like I’m not internally sprinting.
“Hayes,” I shoot back.
Carter’s grin widens, like he’s proud I’m still capable of mild hostility. “You’re late.”
“I’m on time.”
“You’re breathing,” he corrects. “That counts as late for you.”
I flip him off under the table.
The coach doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink. Like he’s seen worse than two former teammates taking cheap shots over laminated menus.
Carter gestures to him. “This is Coach Pierce.”
Pierce nods once. “Logan.”
No hand out. No big smile. Just my name, like he’s reading it off a scouting report.