Chapter 27
Logan
Three losses in a row. I’m so fucking tired of losing. The only thing that has gone right for the last three weeks is Jasmine. She’s been my anchor and the reason I haven’t completely given up on my game.
Since the family dinner, we've settled into what I imagined Jasmine and I could be. She comes to my games, and I pick her up from work. We cook dinner together at her apartment or mine and fall asleep in each other's arms, wake up, and do it all over again.
On the days I'm on the road, she texts me before every game and calls me after every loss. She never tells me to snap out of it or get over it. She just listens. That's all I need.
The work situation sorted itself out better than either of us expected. Jasmine sat down with Mabel three weeks ago and told her about the conflict of interest. She didn't give her the full story, but she told her enough — that she and I were childhood sweethearts and that we'd reconnected.
Mabel’s response was that those things happen and that she appreciated Jasmine coming to her directly. She transferred my endorsement file to another associate and told Jasmine the rest of the Renegades account was still hers as long as she maintained clear boundaries.
So Jasmine’s work is stable, and our relationship is strong. The hockey is a disaster.
The locker room after the Philadelphia game is a tomb. Nobody is talking or making eye contact. I sit down and start untaping my stick. My back is screaming from a hit I took in the second period. My ankle, the one I blocked a shot with last week, is swollen again.
I played twenty-six minutes tonight, and every one of them felt like thirty.
Mercer comes in and stands in the center of the room. He looks at us and says nothing for a long time. Then he says, “That's three straight, boys. Three games where we didn't compete. I don't have answers for you tonight. Figure it out or the season's over.” He walks out.
Cole stands up and looks around the room. “He's right. We need to figure this out. Everyone go home, get some sleep, and come to practice Monday ready to work. No excuses.”
I shower, change, and drive home. My mind goes to my parents as I head home. The last time they came to a game was three weeks ago, and Dad doesn’t call me with comments and criticism about my game.
Mom hasn't spoken to me properly since the dinner. Two weeks of clipped texts and calls that last under a minute. She hasn’t mentioned Jasmine or the dinner or the grenade I dropped at dinner.
They're punishing me with silence, which is the Shaw family specialty. We don't yell or fight. We just go quiet and let the absence of warmth do the work.
I park outside my building and contemplate the depressing evening ahead. I can’t stand my own company tonight. I turn the car back on and head to Jasmine’s instead.
She buzzes me up. When she opens the door, she's in sweats, and her hair is tied up. She has dark circles under her eyes. I’m sure it’s all the working late she’s been doing.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. Come in.”
She plants a kiss on my mouth and heads to the kitchen. There's a half-empty glass of wine on the counter, and her laptop is open on the island with contract documents on the screen.
“How was the game?” she asks.
“We lost.”
“I saw. I watched the third period on my laptop.”
I lean against the counter. “We're playing like shit. The whole team is off. Cole can't figure out what's wrong, and Mercer is running out of patience.”
She nods, but she's not looking at me. She's looking at her wine glass, turning it slowly on the counter.
“Jasmine.”
“Yeah.”
“What's going on?”
She picks up the glass, takes a sip, and sets it back down. “Your mother hasn't called you in weeks.”
“I know.”
“Your father barely speaks to you.”
“I know that too.”
“And the team has lost three straight since the dinner.”
“Those things aren't connected.”
She looks at me. “You haven't slept properly in two weeks, Logan. You told me yourself. You're grinding through games on adrenaline and stubbornness, and your back is getting worse because you're too tense to recover properly.”
“That's the season. That's hockey.”
“It's not just hockey. It's your parents. It's the fallout from what you said at that table.” She wraps both hands around her wine glass. “You stood up for me, and it cost you your relationship with your parents.”
“My relationship with them was built on obedience. That's not a relationship. That's a leash.”
“Maybe. But it's the only one you have. And she's not talking to you because of me.”
“She's not talking to me because she can't accept that I'm an adult who makes my own choices.”
Jasmine is quiet for a long time. The kitchen is still except for the hum of the refrigerator. Her laptop screen goes dark.
“I can't be the reason your family falls apart, Logan.”
The words land in my chest. “You're not.”
“I am. You had a relationship with your parents — imperfect, complicated, but it was there. Sunday dinners. And now it's gone because you chose me.”
“I'd choose you again.”
“I know you would. That's what scares me.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I grew up without a father. I know what a broken family looks like. I lived it. And I swore I would never be the person who breaks someone else's.”
“You didn't break anything. My parents broke it ten years ago when they told me to leave you.”
“And now it's breaking again, and I'm at the center of it again. Different decade, same result.”
“Jasmine, this is not the same.”
“You've lost three games in a row. You're exhausted, and you're hurting, and you're pretending you're fine.” Her voice cracks on the last word. “I love you, Logan. I love you more than I've loved anything in my life. But I can't sit here and watch you lose everything because of me.”
“You are not everything I'm losing. You're everything I'm gaining.”
“That's a beautiful thing to say, and I want to believe it. But right now, at this moment, you're standing in my kitchen with three losses on your back and a family that won't speak to you, and I'm the common denominator.”
“Jasmine—”
“I need space.” She says it quietly. “Not forever. I just need time to think. I need to figure out if loving you is worth what it's costing both of us.”
My jaw tightens. My hands grip the edge of the counter behind me. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to argue, to fight, to tell her she's wrong. But the look on her face stops me. She's not angry or cold. She's devastated.
“How much time?” I ask.
“I don't know.”
“Are you ending this?”
“I don't know, Logan. I just know I can't think clearly when you're standing in front of me.”
I push off the counter. I want to cross the kitchen and take her in my arms and hold her until the fear dissolves. But she asked for space, and I’ll respect that, as hard as it is.
“Okay,” I say. “I'll give you space. But I need you to know that I'm not going to stop fighting for us. Call me when you're ready. I'll be waiting.”
I pick up my jacket from the chair where I dropped it and walk to the door. My hand is on the knob when her voice stops me.
“Logan.”
I turn.
She's standing in the kitchen with tears running down her face. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I open the door, walk out and close it behind me. The click of that latch is the loneliest sound I've ever heard.