Chapter 51 Sloane
SLOANE
Idon’t decide to drive to PCU’s athletic center.
My body decides first.
My feet move.
My lungs tighten.
My hands shake around my phone like it’s the only thing keeping me from turning into smoke.
Because Logan has been…quiet.
Not gone. Not cold.
Just quiet in that specific way that makes my stomach drop—like he’s trying to make himself smaller in my life so it won’t hurt when he finally steps out of it.
And I hate that my brain goes there.
I hate that grief rewired me into a person who hears silence and immediately assumes loss.
I swipe open my screen again, even though I already know.
His location dot sits exactly where it’s been sitting at this time of day for the last two weeks.
PCU Athletic Center.
Weight room.
Avoiding his phone.
Avoiding me?
Or maybe he’s just avoiding the truth.
The worst part is that I can’t tell which one makes me feel sicker.
So I walk after parking in the visitors’ lot.
Across the campus, the air is warm, sun on my shoulders.
Everything looks normal, and I feel like the one thing that’s out of place.
The one thing that's broken in a sea of calm.
My mind keeps trying to talk me out of it.
Don’t do this.
Don’t cause a scene.
Don’t be the girl who storms into a weight room like a lunatic.
But then my chest squeezes, hard, and all I can think is—
I have already buried one person I love.
I am not burying another one in silence.
The doors of the PCU athletic center whoosh open as someone walks out the door. I slip inside before they close again, and the cooler air hits my face.
Rubber mats. Bleach. Sweat. The faint metallic bite of iron.
My heart thunders like I’m the one about to take the field.
I pass the lobby. The hallway. The glass trophy cases that reflect my face back at me—flushed, eyes too bright, jaw tight like I’ve been chewing on anger for days.
And maybe I have.
The weight room is loud.
Music. Laughing. Plates clanking. The kind of sound that says everyone here still has a future.
I push through the door.
And there he is.
Logan Brooks.
Sleeveless shirt. Sweat darkening the fabric at his chest. A towel thrown over his shoulder like he owns the place—like he belongs to a world that keeps moving forward no matter who gets left behind.
He’s mid-set with a trap bar, lifting with control, careful like he respects the injury that tried to steal him from the game he loves. He sets the weight down, breathes out through his nose, and reaches for his water.
Beck is there, too, half turned toward another rack, but he sees me first.
His eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s almost comical.
Oh my God.
So I do look exactly as unhinged as I feel.
Beck’s mouth opens like he’s about to speak, then he thinks better of it, because Beck is smart when it counts, and he steps backward, clearing his throat loudly, eyes darting to Logan like good luck, brother.
Logan lifts his head, his gaze finding me instantly.
And something changes.
Not fear. Not irritation. Not defensive.
Just…awareness.
Like he’s been carrying this moment in his pocket all week.
He takes a step toward me, slow and steady, and my body immediately tightens like it’s bracing for impact.
The distance between us shrinks.
And my voice comes out sharp before I can soften it.
“So this was your plan?”
Logan stops a few feet away, hands loose at his sides. Open.
His eyes move over my face like he’s reading the cracks.
“Hey, baby,” he says quietly. “What’s up?”
“No.” I shake my head hard. “ Don’t ‘baby’ me like you haven’t been acting weird for a week.”
His mouth twitches slightly, not a smirk. Not teasing.
Something warmer.
Something almost…relieved.
“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t let me off easy.”
I blink, thrown off by how calm he is, by how he isn’t scrambling for an excuse.
“Why are you—” My voice catches. I clear my throat, angry at the weakness in it. “Why are you acting like I’m not standing here about to lose my shit with you?”
Logan takes another step closer.
“Because you’re showing more emotion than you have in weeks,” he says simply. “And because you’re kinda cute when you’re mad.”
My throat burns.
I hate him for being the one thing that feels steady when nothing else in my life is.
“You don’t get to do that,” I snap. “You don’t get to make me feel like I’m crazy for feeling emotions.”
“I’m not,” he says immediately, voice still calm. “You’re not crazy at all, Slo. I promise.”
My chest rises fast, like I’ve been running.
I can feel eyes on us now, guys pretending to focus on their sets while absolutely listening.
Beck has moved farther away. Like a gentleman, or maybe he’s just a little scared of me right now.
Either way, I appreciate it.
I lift my chin. “So what is it, Logan?”
His eyes don’t leave mine.
“I was trying to figure out how to tell you,” he says.
My stomach drops. There it is.
My voice goes lower, shaking. “Tell me what.”
Logan’s gaze dips, briefly, to my mouth, like he’s remembering something, like he’s grounding himself, then returns to my eyes.
“I think you already know, judging by the text Cam sent a few minutes ago. So go ahead,” he says softly. “Say it.”
The invitation nearly breaks me.
Because I didn’t come here looking for permission, but my body reacts like I’ve been starving for it anyway.
“So your plan,” I say, each word sharp, “was to make me fall for you, act like you were all in, like you weren’t going anywhere…and then just leave?”
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t deny it fast, which is somehow worse.
My lungs squeeze.
I swallow hard and push anyway, because if I stop I’ll cry, and if I cry I might not be able to speak.
“How could you let me—” My voice cracks. I hate it. I push through it. “How could you let me fall in love with you if you were just going to leave me too?”
The room goes quieter in that instant.
Not silent. There’s still the hum of the music, still the clank of plates.
But the air shifts.
Like everyone felt the words land.
Logan’s expression changes—not to guilt, not to panic.
To something almost…proud.
Which makes my anger spike.
“What is that look?” I demand, furious. “Why do you look like—like you’re happy I’m falling apart?”
His mouth curves, small.
“Because you’re alive,” he says.
I stare at him like he’s speaking a different language. “What does that even mean?”
“It means this is the first time you’ve blown up at me, and it wasn’t about Pops.” His voice dips, gentle but sure. “This is yours. This is you.”
My eyes sting instantly.
I blink hard, refusing the tears.
But they keep coming anyway, hot and humiliating.
“I don’t want to be alive like this,” I whisper, voice shaking. “I don’t want to keep losing people.”
Logan’s face softens, and something in my chest tilts.
“I know,” he says. “I know.”
I shake my head, furious at my body for betraying me. “So what’s the truth?”
His gaze sharpens, not harsh, but focused.
“The truth,” he says, “is that I already talked to Chicago and let them know my answer.”
My stomach drops so fast it’s like the floor disappears.
The world narrows. The weight room sound fades. All I can hear is my blood in my ears.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Sloane,” he says low. “Baby, listen to me.”
My body shakes once, a tremor I can’t control.
“They wanted me this fall,” he says. “They offered for me to come out to camp, even though I’m not fully healed or even ready to play.”
It hits like a punch. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Tears blur my vision.
And then he says, calm as a heartbeat—
“And I told them no.”
I blink. What?
My brain short-circuits.
“You—what?” I choke out.
“I told them not this fall,” he says. “I told them maybe next fall.”
The air doesn’t go back into my lungs.
My voice comes out thin, barely there. “Why?”
Logan doesn’t hesitate.
“Because you are more important to me than football.”
The sentence is simple.
No poetry. No dramatics. And it destroys me anyway.
My chest caves.
I laugh once, broken. “You can’t do that.”
He takes a step closer, eyes steady.
“I already did. Look, I’m not promising forever,” he says carefully, and my heart twists at the honesty. “I’m promising right now. I’m promising I’m not walking out on you while you’re still bleeding.”
My throat burns.
He watches me like he can see the fear behind my anger.
“And I’m not walking into a camp still rebuilding my knee like I’m invincible,” he adds. “I’m not doing that to myself. And I’m not doing it to you.”
My eyes sting harder. My anger wobbles.
My voice cracks. “So what…you’re just giving up?”
His mouth twitches.
“You know me better than that,” he says.
And he’s right.
Logan doesn’t give up. He rebuilds. He grinds. He fights.
Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.
“My plan,” he says, “was to tell you after I had something real lined up. Not just a bunch of ‘maybes’ and ‘I don’t knows.’ That wouldn’t help you at all.”
I swallow. “What real thing?”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding this too.
“I’ve been looking for an apartment,” he admits.
I blink again. “An apartment?”
“Halfway between PCU and your house,” he says. “Somewhere I can finish my degree, keep training, keep building my leg back up, and still be close enough to—” His voice catches just slightly. “To show up for what matters to me the most. You.”
My throat tightens.
Show up.
Those words are everything.
“Except I don’t think I want an apartment. I can stay at the football house if you want me to, but I’d rather stay with you. I don’t mind making the commute if it means I get to hold you every night,” he says, and I swear if it was possible, I’d be a puddle on the floor.
“Chicago can’t promise me anything next year,” he adds, eyes not flinching from the truth. “They can’t guarantee the same opportunity will exist. They can’t guarantee a roster spot. They can’t guarantee anything.”
My heart beats too hard.
“But I told them next fall anyway,” he says. “Because this—” He gestures subtly between us, like he’s afraid to name it too loudly. “This matters. You matter.”
I stare at him.
And suddenly my anger has nowhere to go.
It collapses into something raw and shaking.
“You should’ve told me,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says immediately. “I’m sorry.”
The apology hits harder than any grand speech.
Because Logan Brooks doesn’t apologize unless he means it.
I wipe at my cheeks again, annoyed by the tears.
“You’ve been acting normal,” I say, voice breaking. “You’ve been kissing me, holding me, laughing with me like you weren’t sitting on a decision that could rip me apart.”
Logan’s eyes soften.
“Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were on a timer or to feel like a guilty party in the decision that I needed to make for myself,” he says quietly. “You’ve lived on timers for months, years even. I didn’t want to add another one.”
My chest aches.
He leans in slightly, voice dropping.
“And because I meant it,” he adds. “Every kiss. Every laugh. Every time I held you. I wasn’t faking. I wasn’t pretending.”
My lips tremble.
I hate that I want to believe him so badly.
“Plus, do you really think I’d let Cam lay one on me if I planned to dip out?”
A laugh escapes me, and Logan’s eyes warm like he’s been waiting for that sound. Like it’s proof of something.
“Don’t,” I mutter, wiping my face. “Don’t make me laugh right now.”
“I’m not trying to,” he says, voice soft. “I’m just…glad you’re here.”
I blink. “Why?”
His gaze holds mine, steady.
“Because you cared enough to come,” he says. “You’re mad because you want me. Because you’re not numb anymore.”
My throat tightens.
I swallow hard. “I’m terrified.”
“I know,” he murmurs.
He shifts closer again, careful, and lifts his hand—slow, giving me time to flinch.
I don’t.
His thumb catches another tear.
“For the record,” he says. “You’re not the only one who fell.”
My chest cracks.
I grab his shirt with both hands like I need an anchor.
And then I kiss him.
Hard.
Not soft. Not careful.
A kiss that says don’t you dare leave me in the dark again.
For a second, he’s still, surprised by the force of it.
Then his hands come to my waist, steadying me like he always does, and he kisses me back like he’s been holding himself together with duct tape and I just tore it open.
When we pull apart, my breathing is ragged.
His forehead rests against mine.
“Feel better?” he murmurs.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Somewhat.”
His mouth curves. “Good.”
My eyes sting again.
I whisper, barely there, “You really told them next fall?”
“I did,” he says. “And I meant it.”
“And what if they move on?” I ask because I have to. Because I need to see if he’ll run from the fear.
His jaw tightens.
“Then I’ll live with that,” he says. “I’ll find another way. I’ll work harder. I’ll—” He exhales. “But I’m not choosing football over you right now.”
My heart stutters.
“You’re not choosing me over football?” I whisper because it matters. The truth matters.
Logan’s eyes sharpen with something like respect.
“I’m choosing us in a way that doesn’t destroy me,” he says quietly. “I’m choosing the version of my future that lets me keep both, if I’m lucky, but lets me keep the most important thing either way.”
And somehow—somehow—that feels even safer.
Because it’s not a dramatic sacrifice.
It’s a real plan.
A life.
He brushes his nose against mine for half a second—almost a tease.
“I’m still going to need you to stop tracking my location like a psychopath,” he murmurs.
I glare, but my eyes are wet. “You’ve been avoiding your phone.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Because I knew if you found out before I could explain it right, you’d think I was leaving.”
My chest tightens.
“I did think that,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
I exhale, shaky.
Then, quieter, because I can’t hold it in anymore—
“I can’t lose you too.”
Logan goes still.
His hands tighten gently at my waist.
And when he speaks, his voice is low and deadly sincere.
“You’re not going to.”
My throat tightens.
I stare at him, terrified of hope, and still—
I squeeze his shirt tighter.
“Okay,” I whisper, because it’s all I have.
Logan’s mouth curves, faintly. “Okay.”
Behind us, someone drops a plate, and the clank echoes, snapping the room back into being real.
Logan doesn’t let go of me.
He leans in and kisses my forehead, then he murmurs, close enough that only I can hear:
“Next time you want to blow up at me, can you do it at home? That was kinda hot, and I’ve heard make-up sex is great.”
I let out a wet laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I’m yours,” he murmurs back.
And that’s the thing.
I am his.