Chapter 53 Logan
LOGAN
Beck’s room at the football house looks like a tornado hit it.
Duffel bags are sprawled open on the bed, a pile of black compression shirts slumps off the chair, and there are socks everywhere—like the floor is actively breeding them.
The air smells like laundry detergent and pre-workout and that sharp, electric kind of excitement that makes you feel like your heart has too many places to be at once.
Beck is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, packing like he’s trying to beat a timer.
“Tell me again why the NFL needs eight pairs of cleats,” I say, leaning against his doorframe with my arms crossed.
Beck doesn’t look up. “Because some of us like to be prepared.”
“Just remember that you’re not rich,” I deadpan.
He finally lifts his head, grinning. “Not yet. But I’m about to be.”
The grin is real, but there’s something else underneath it—something raw and grateful and still a little stunned that his life actually turned out like this. Training camp. A locker with his name on it. A chance.
In December, I thought we’d be walking into this chapter together.
Now, I’m standing here watching him pack while my knee aches, a not-too-subtle reminder that my future sits in a gray area.
I step into the room anyway. Because showing up is what I do.
“What’s left?” I ask.
Beck waves a hand at the chaos. “My entire life. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Shocking,” I mutter, but I drop down onto the floor beside him and start sorting through the pile like I’ve done this a hundred times—like he isn’t leaving, like my mind is warring between being happy for my friend and jealous at the same time.
We work in silence for a minute, folding, stacking, shoving things into the duffel with the kind of aggression you only use when you don’t want to think too hard.
Then Beck says, quietly, “How’s the leg?”
I pause with a hoodie in my hands.
“It’s getting there,” I say, choosing honesty without giving it teeth. “I’m running again, but not as fast or for as long as I was.”
Beck’s brows lift. “Yeah?”
“Light,” I add. “Still straight lines. No hard cuts quite yet.”
He snorts. “Since when do you have no ego?”
“Since my knee exploded and humbled me in front of God and everyone else,” I shoot back.
“I figured it left when your girlfriend showed up with crazy eyes. I thought she was gonna roast your ass.” Beck’s laugh comes easy, and for a second, it feels normal. Like we’re just two guys in a dorm room, talking shit, planning our next season.
But then the truth creeps back in—quiet, persistent.
I won’t play next season.
Not really.
Coach cleared me to keep working out with the team, to be around, to run drills that won’t risk my knee, to keep my hands sharp and my head in the game.
Because I didn’t miss enough time to redshirt, and because the medical staff has to sign off on every step like my body is a liability they’re babysitting.
I can train.
I can rebuild.
I just can’t suit up.
It should feel like a loss, and some days it does.
But lately, it feels like a choice I’m making on purpose.
And that’s the part that scares me, because I’m not used to choosing anything over football.
I glance at the calendar taped to Beck’s wall, scribbled dates, camp schedule. He’s leaving tomorrow, and I’m staying.
Online classes, rehab with the medical team, workouts.
And Sloane.
The thought of her hits my chest like warmth.
Beck watches my face like he can read it. “So. You and Sloane are…good?”
My hands still.
“Yeah,” I say, my smile feeling genuine for the first time since I got here. “We’re good.”
Beck’s grin sharpens. “You’re smiling like a psychopath.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are. It’s unsettling.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head, and keep packing.
Beck nudges me with his shoulder. “Seriously, though. I’m glad.”
I glance at him. “Yeah?”
He nods, suddenly more serious. “You’re different. In a good way. I’m proud of you, man.”
I clear my throat and shove another stack of shirts into the bag like it’s an argument. “Don’t get sentimental. You’re leaving. You’re not allowed.”
Beck snorts. “I’ll be sentimental if I want. I’m a professional athlete now. It’s in my contract.”
“You’re gonna be the worst kind of famous,” I mutter.
“I already am.” He zips the duffel, then leans back on his hands, studying me. “You figured out the Chicago thing yet?”
My chest tightens reflexively.
Not because Chicago is calling. They’re not.
They gave me a timeline. They gave me two weeks. They gave me a shot at a camp this fall, and I told them no.
I gave them the truth: my knee needs time, my body needs time, and my life—my actual life—needs time.
They didn’t love it, but they didn’t hang up either.
They said they’d keep checking in.
That nothing is promised.
That football will still be there, but only if I make myself ready.
Which means the decision isn’t gone.
It’s just…postponed.
And I’m okay with that.
“I told them next fall,” I say, voice even. “That’s the plan.”
Beck’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn. You actually did it.”
“What?”
“Chose something else.” He nods toward me. “Chose her.”
I don’t correct him, because he’s right.
And because the word her doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.
It feels like relief.
“I’m still training,” I say, because my pride needs a bone. “Finishing my degree. Online classes so I can stay around workouts.”
Beck holds my gaze, then nods once, like he gets it. “I know.”
I exhale, the breath coming out heavier than it should. “I just—” I stop.
Beck waits.
I rub a hand over my jaw. “I don’t want to leave her. Not right now. Not when she’s still—”
Broken, my brain finishes, but I hate that word. Like she’s something damaged.
She’s not damaged.
She’s grieving.
There’s a difference.
Beck’s voice is quieter when he says, “You’re doing the right thing.”
My throat tightens again, and I focus on the socks in front of me like they’re fascinating. “Yeah. Hopefully.”
Beck kicks my shin lightly. “Also, if you don’t marry her one day, I’m sure one of my new teammates would.”
I shake my head. “You’re insane.”
“Correct,” he says, then lifts his phone. “Also, Sophie says if you don’t bring Sloane to my first preseason game, she’s going to fight you.”
“Tell Sophie to get in line.”
Beck grins and types a reply. “Oh, I will.”
We sit there for a second, the room quieter now that the duffel is zipped and the chaos is contained.
Beck’s eyes flick to my knee. “You gonna be okay without me around to bully you into doing shit?”
“I have Sloane,” I say automatically.
Beck’s grin turns knowing. “Yeah, you do.”
I stand, stretching carefully. My knee doesn’t scream anymore when I move. Not like it used to. It’s still there—still tight in the mornings, still sore when I overdo it, still a quiet warning when I push too fast.
But it holds.
Like me.
I look down at Beck. “You ready?”
He swallows, and for the first time, his grin falters into something softer. “No.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You are.”
He nods, then stands and pulls me into a hug—hard, brief, the kind guys do when they don’t want to name the emotion.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he mutters against my shoulder.
I scoff. “Me? Never.”
He pulls back, eyes bright. “Text me updates.”
“On what?”
He smirks. “On your domestic bliss. On Sloane’s mood swings. On whether Cameron murders you.”
“Cameron’s not going to murder me,” I lie.
Beck laughs. “Sure.”
I grab my phone off the desk, thumb hovering over the screen for half a second.
Because there’s one text I want to send more than anything.
Not to Beck.
To her.
you awake?
I stare at it, then delete it.
Because I know she’s sleeping. Because she deserves that.
And because I’ll be home soon.
I point at Beck as I back toward the door. “Don’t forget where you came from when you’re famous.”
“Yeah, well, I kinda like you,” he calls after me. “Which is unfortunate.”
I flip him off without turning around.
In the hallway, the football house is louder than it used to be—guys yelling, TVs blaring, life moving forward like it always does. Posters on the walls. The smell of protein powder. Someone’s music thumping through a closed door.
This place is home to some.
But it isn’t mine. Not anymore.
As I step outside into the soft California air, warmth already settling in, the sky bright and clean, I catch myself smiling again.
Because I know exactly where I’m going.
Right back to Sloane.
Back to the life I didn’t plan for but somehow ended up needing more than the one I always thought I wanted.
Today, I’m not scared of the uncertainty that my future holds. I can’t be.
Not when the one thing I’m sure about is waiting for me on the other end of the drive.
—
Sloane
From April through May, I barely survive. But in June, I finally start to come back alive.
Summer doesn’t come in with a bang.
It slips in like a quiet agreement the world makes with itself—blue skies, warm air, the kind of sunlight that makes everything look like it should be easier than it is. Like grief should evaporate if you just give it enough time.
It doesn’t.
But it changes.
It gets less…sharp.
Less like drowning and more like carrying a heavy backpack you can’t take off.
You get stronger in tiny ways without realizing it.
You learn which floorboards creak and which grocery aisle will make you cry because Pops always bought the same brand of cereal.
You learn you can laugh in the kitchen and still feel the ache in your chest at the exact same time.
Life kept going.
Even when I didn’t want it to.
Cameron graduates on a Saturday that feels too bright for how complicated I am inside. He wears his cap crooked, like he’s allergic to taking anything seriously, and he keeps messing with the tassel until I swat his hand away.
“You’re going to blind someone,” I mutter.
He smirks. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
He leans in like he’s about to whisper something heartfelt and then says, “Logan’s crying right now, isn’t he?”