"Logan—you don’t have to do this. I love you. We can do this–together, remember?”
"Don't wait for me, Reese. Don't put your life on hold." I say with a voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.
"I made my choice. Tyler comes first. Always. Then the team. That's all I can manage right now."
She's watching me, crying without making a sound.
"I can't have all three," I say simply. "I'm sorry." And I turn to leave.
Chapter 26
Reese
The alarm jars me awake at 6:15—the same time I've gotten up for years, even though I have nowhere to go anymore. I can see the sun rising through blinds I forgot to close fully. The sheets on Logan's side are still tucked in. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the motivation to move to find me, but it won’t come.
My apartment feels like someone else's. It’s too quiet. Everything I hear just sounds wrong. I don't remember it ever being this quiet. Now there's just this weird emptiness and the soft tick of the clock on my wall.
I use a trick I learned from that podcaster, Mel Robbins, and count down from 5, forcing myself to get out of bed when I reach one. I drag my pathetic ass to the kitchen and start the coffee maker, a ritual I could do with my eyes closed. I consider trying it but decide that’s a terrible idea.
I load the coffee into the filter, pour in the water, and press the start button. I want the familiar gurgle to be comforting, but it’s not.
I drag my hand along the countertop and pick up the broom I left leaning against the refrigerator yesterday. I sweep half-a-dozen strokes across the linoleum before stopping mid-motion, and lean the broom back on the fridge.
The A.D.D. I don’t officially have takes over, and I drift toward the laundry basket overflowing in the corner. I begin separating shirts from underwear, creating little piles. A Chicago Blades compression shirt—his—appears in my hands. All the feelings it brings up freeze me for a second, and then I carefully set it aside in its own pile, neither colors nor whites. A category of its own.
My phone lies facedown on the coffee table. I flip it over. No notifications. No calls, no texts, no emails that matter. I check anyway, scrolling through old conversations, re-reading the last texts we exchanged before everything fell apart.
Logan:On my way to the rink. See you after the game.
Me:Good luck! Love you
Nothing after. Just a chasm of silence.
I plop down on the couch and turn on the local news for background noise. A sports announcer's voice immediately fills the room.
"—another tough loss for the Blades last night in Denver, putting them on the brink of elimination in the Western Conference Finals against Colorado. Captain Logan McCoy's struggles continue to be the story of this series?—"
Another voice cuts in: "You have to wonder how much the off-ice issues are affecting his performance. Between the custody battle, being a new father, and the drama with his girlfriend?—"
I stab at the power button three times before it works, mercifully putting the room back into silence. Hearing them accuse me of being part of the problem feels like an intrusion, a violation. The way they say it is just gross—like I'm an injury, a human version of a concussion or a broken leg.
The coffee maker beeps its completion, but I don't move to pour a cup. Instead, I stare at the dark TV screen where my reflection looks back at me—hair unwashed, wearing the same sweatpants I've had on for two days. I don't recognize myself.
At some point the doorbell rings, followed by the sound of a key in the lock. Elena steps inside carrying grocery bags, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes scanning me skeptically.
"You're alive," she says, moving toward the kitchen with purpose. "That's good."
"Barely," I reply, watching as she sets the bags on the counter and begins unpacking them. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know." She pulls out vegetables, a container of chicken broth, a loaf of fresh bread. "I wanted to."
I hover in the doorway between kitchen and living room, uncertain where to put myself in my own home. Elena moves with the confidence I lack, finding pots and utensils like she lives here.
"Have you eaten today?" she asks without looking at me.
"I had..." My voice trails off. I can't actually remember eating anything. "I'm not hungry."
Elena nods like this is the answer she expected. "You've heard from him?" she asks after a long pause.
