But the second we step off the bus and into the hotel lobby, everything changes.
“Todd!” The voice is loud, warm, and unmistakably familiar.
I freeze mid-step.
Logan does too.
My dad stands just inside the double doors, hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket, abaseball cap pulled low over his brow. He looks exactly the same—gruff, weathered, proud as hell. His grin is wide when he spots me, and he pulls me into a one-armed hug that smells like beer and gas station coffee.
“Missed you at the rink,” he says, clapping my back a little too hard. “Hell of a game, though. You and that number twelve—” He jerks his chin toward Logan. “You looked like fuckin’ magic out there.”
Logan nods politely. “Thanks, sir.”
Dad grins wider. “You skate like a little shit, but damn, you can pass.” He reaches out and gives Logan a rough pat on the shoulder. “Bet the ladies love that mouth on you, huh?”
Logan’s smile freezes, just slightly. His jaw ticks. I see it—small, fast, tight.
“Yeah,” Logan says, voice perfectly even. “Sometimes.”
I swallow hard, shifting my weight. “Dad, this is Logan Brooks. Logan—my dad, Bill.”
They shake hands.
Dad claps again. “Always knew my boy had good taste in teammates, even if he won’t settle down and give me grandkids. You know how many of my buddies already got four or five? One even just found out he’s gonna be a great-granddad.”
“Yikes,” Logan says under his breath.
Dad laughs, completely missing the sarcasm. “Right? Told Todd he needs to slow down with all the hockey and start looking for a good girl to keep him warm at night.”
Logan’s smile is tighter now. I can feel him pulling away—not physically, but something in the air changes. Thinner. Colder.
I clear my throat. “We’re pretty tired, Dad. Long day.”
“Course, course. Just wanted to see you. Proud of you, kid.” He looks at Logan again. “You too. You two keep skating like that, and the puck bunnies are gonna be banging down your doors.”
Logan doesn’t respond. He just nods, polite but clipped.
Dad ruffles my hair like I’m still twelve. “Night, boys. Don’t stay up too late.”
When he turns and walks away, Logan exhales slowly, his eyes locked on the floor.
I glance at him, unsure what to say. “Sorry,” I mutter, voice low.
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. He’s not a bad guy.”
He’s not. But I can see how much damage anot-bad guycan still do without meaning to.
The door clicks shut behind us, muffling the low hum of voices from the hallway. For a second, neither of us says anything.
Logan crosses the room and sinks onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands laced together like he’s trying to hold something in. He’s still in his hoodie, but all the lightness he carried through the bus ride, the diner, the jokes—it’s gone.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
He huffs a laugh, short and humorless. “Yeah. Just… yeah.” His gaze lifts to mine. “He’s a good man,” he says again.
I nod. “Yeah. He is.”
“He loves you.”
