Chapter 17 Logan
We returned from the road trip victorious, emotionally raw, and—in my case—spiraling into an anxiety-fueled research binge that would have impressed even my most neurotic tendencies.
"Successful polyamorous relationships require clear communication, established boundaries, and honest assessment of jealousy triggers..."
"What are you doing?" Blake's voice came from the doorway, startling me so badly I nearly dropped my laptop.
"Research," I said, which was technically true.
Blake walked in and peered at my screen. His eyes widened. "Is that a spreadsheet about our relationship?"
"It's a framework for optimizing our dynamic."
"Logan, it has color-coding."
"Of course it has color-coding. How else would you track different categories of communication needs?"
Blake stared at me for a long moment. "You're creating Excel documents about dating."
"I'm creating a structured approach to a non-traditional romantic arrangement," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. One involves data-driven decision making and the other is—" I stopped myself. "Okay, they're the same thing. But it helps my anxiety to have a plan."
"Have you slept at all since we got back?"
I looked at my laptop screen, then back at Blake. "Define 'sleep.'"
"I'm getting Nolan."
"Don't get Nolan!"
Blake was already gone. Two minutes later, both he and Nolan appeared in my doorway, looking various shades of concerned and exasperated.
"Show us the spreadsheet," Nolan said with the resigned tone of someone who knew resistance was futile.
I pulled up my laptop and walked them through my research.
"You made a bibliography," Nolan said flatly.
"Academic rigor is important."
"For dating."
"For any important life decision!"
Blake was reading through my notes with an expression I couldn't quite identify. "These are... actually pretty thoughtful."
"Thank you."
"Also completely insane," Blake added. "But thoughtful."
"I'll take it."
Nolan sighed and sat on the edge of my bed. "Logan, you can't spreadsheet your way out of anxiety about this."
"Watch me."
"I'm serious. We're all figuring this out together. There's no data set that can predict how four people navigate a relationship like this."
"But if I can create a framework—"
"Then you can convince yourself you have control," Nolan finished. "Which you don't. None of us do. That's the terrifying part."
I stared at my spreadsheet, my chest tight with familiar panic. "What if I'm too high-maintenance for this? What if my anxiety becomes too much? What if—"
"Stop," Blake interrupted gently. "You're spiraling."
"I'm realistically assessing—"
"You're catastrophizing," Nolan corrected. "Which is different. Talk to us. What's actually bothering you?"
I closed my laptop, suddenly unable to look at either of them.
"I saw you and Mira this afternoon. Ice fishing.
You looked so... comfortable together. Easy.
And I realized that I'm the complicated one.
The one with medication and therapy and panic attacks before games.
Blake doesn't have baggage—he just is. And I'm worried that eventually, Mira will realize she could have an easier relationship with just him.
Or you, Nolan. You're steady and logical and you don't need constant reassurance.
Why would she choose my mess when she could have your—"
"Logan." Blake's voice was firm. "Stop."
"I'm just being realistic—"
"You're being an idiot," Nolan said, which was harsh enough that I actually stopped talking. "Mira isn't comparing us. She chose all of us. Our complications included."
"But—"
"No buts. You think your anxiety makes you less desirable? Mira has anxiety too. She understands it in ways I never could. Your overthinking matches her perfectionism. You speak the same language of worry and catastrophizing, and that creates connection."
I wanted to believe him. But watching Blake and Mira laugh together by the frozen lake, looking so perfectly matched in their easy comfort, had triggered every insecurity I'd ever had about being too much, too complicated, too difficult to love.
Practice that afternoon did nothing to improve my mental state.
The team had noticed something was different between the four of us.
The energy had shifted from professional distance to something more intimate, more obviously connected.
We tried to maintain professionalism, but it was hard when Blake automatically handed Mira his water bottle without her asking, or when Nolan adjusted her ponytail during a break, or when I found reasons to skate past her just to catch her smile.
"So," one of the juniors said during a water break, his voice loud enough to carry. "Anyone else notice that Coach Mira seems real friendly with the captains lately?"
Several players snickered.
"Wonder what kind of special training they're getting," another added with a leer that made my blood boil.
Nolan was off the bench before I could move. "Williams. Shut your mouth."
"What? I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying. Say it again and you're benched."
"Cap, come on—"
"I'm not kidding. Mira has contributed more to this team's success than any of you combined. Show some respect or find another team."
The rink went silent. Nolan skated back to the bench, his jaw tight with controlled anger.
But I noticed the looks. The speculation. The whispers that would eventually become rumors that would eventually become problems.
We were going to have to address this. Soon.
Later that afternoon, I found myself in the equipment room, ostensibly organizing goalie pads but really just hiding from my own thoughts.
I didn't hear Mira enter until she was right behind me.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
I turned to find her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"No, I haven't."
"You have. Ever since you saw Blake and me ice fishing. What's wrong?"
I should have lied. Should have made up something about game strategy or equipment issues. Instead, my anxiety-riddled brain decided honesty was the best policy.
"I'm worried I'm too complicated for this. That my anxiety and overthinking will eventually be too much. That you'll realize you could have something easier with Blake or Nolan, without having to manage my neuroses."
Mira stared at me for a long moment. Then she stepped into the equipment room and closed the door behind her.
"Come here," she said.
I moved toward her, and she immediately pushed me against the wall with surprising force. Her hands fisted in my shirt, her body pressed against mine, her eyes fierce with something that made my breath catch.
"Listen to me very carefully," she said, her voice low and intense. "I don't want easy. Easy is boring. Easy is Sam telling me what to do and never challenging my thoughts. Easy is pretending to be perfect until you break."
"But—"
"I need your overthinking," she interrupted.
"I need your anxiety that matches mine. I need someone who understands what it feels like to lie awake catastrophizing about every possible outcome.
Blake grounds me with his steadiness. Nolan challenges me intellectually.
But you, Logan—you make me feel less alone in my own head. "
Her hands slid up to my face, her thumbs tracing my jaw with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity in her eyes.
"I don't want you to be easy," she said again. "I want you to be you. Complicated and anxious and overthinking everything. Because that's who I fell for."
Then she kissed me.
Not soft and tentative—hard and demanding, taking control in a way that short-circuited every anxious thought in my brain. Her dominance was unexpected and absolutely devastating, her body pinning mine to the wall, her hands tangling in my hair.
I made a sound that was definitely not goalie-appropriate and kissed her back with all the pent-up emotion and desire I'd been suppressing.
"You're mine," she whispered against my lips. "All of you are mine. Blake's steadiness, Nolan's strength, your beautiful complicated brain. I'm not choosing between you—I'm choosing all of you. Got it?"
"Got it," I managed, my voice hoarse.
She kissed me again, slower this time but no less intense. Her hands found the hem of my shirt, sliding underneath to touch bare skin. I was acutely aware that we were in the equipment room, that anyone could walk in, that this was wildly inappropriate.
The door handle rattled.
We sprang apart, both breathing hard, both extremely disheveled. Mira's lips were swollen, my shirt was half-untucked, and we probably looked exactly like what we'd been doing.
The door opened to reveal Coach Williams, who took one look at us and sighed heavily.
"I don't want to know," he said. "But maybe lock the door next time."
He left, closing the door behind him.
Mira and I stared at each other, then burst out laughing—the kind of slightly hysterical laughter that comes from almost being caught doing something you definitely shouldn't be doing.
"We're terrible at discretion," I said.
"The worst," she agreed.
We straightened our clothes and tried to look presentable.
I realized the anxiety that had been eating at me since watching Blake and Mira together had transformed into something else—not competition, but recognition that we each brought something different to this relationship.
Something complementary rather than conflicting.
That evening, I gathered everyone in the living room and presented my research.
"Okay," I said, pulling up my laptop. "I know this seems excessive—"
"It is excessive," Nolan interrupted.
"—but hear me out. I've been researching successful polyamorous relationships, and there are common factors that contribute to healthy dynamics."
Blake leaned forward with interest. Mira looked amused. Nolan looked resigned.
"First," I continued, clicking to my presentation, "clear communication. We need to establish regular check-ins where we can voice concerns without judgment."
"You made a presentation," Mira said.
"With graphs," Blake added.
"The graphs are important!" I protested. "They show statistical correlations between communication frequency and relationship satisfaction."
"Logan," Nolan said gently. "This is dating, not a thesis defense."
"Why can't it be both?"
Despite their teasing, they let me present my framework.
"This is actually helpful," Nolan admitted when I finished. "Structured but not rigid. Leaving room for spontaneity while providing clear expectations."
"The calendar thing is smart," Blake said. "Prevents accidental double-booking or anyone feeling left out."
Mira was quiet, reading through my notes with an expression I couldn't interpret.
"What do you think?" I asked, suddenly nervous.
She looked up at me, her eyes soft. "I think your need for structure might actually be exactly what we need.
Left to our own devices, we'd probably just muddle through until something exploded.
But this—" She gestured to my laptop. "This gives us tools to handle complications before they become disasters. "
"So I'm not being ridiculous?"
"Oh, you're definitely being ridiculous," she said, smiling. "But it's helpful ridiculous. Which is the best kind."
We spent the next hour refining the framework together, each person adding their own needs and boundaries. By the end, we had something that felt less like a clinical document and more like a roadmap—flexible enough to accommodate our individual needs but structured enough to provide security.