Daniel: It’s everywhere.
My chest tightens. I swipe open the first link.
It’s us.
A photo, clearly taken from across the dance floor at Riot. Logan’s hand on the back of my neck. My face turned toward him, smiling into a kiss. Both of us lit by neon blue and red. The caption:
“Star Captain and defenseman Todd Shaw and teammate Logan Brooks cozying up off-ice ”
My stomach drops. The air in the room shifts—suddenly too thin to breathe.
Logan stirs beside me, voice still rough from sleep. “Everything okay?”
I want to lie. Say it’s nothing. Pretend this is just another morning. But my throat tightens around the words before they ever make it out.
No. It’s not okay. This is what I didn’t want.
“Fuck,” I whisper, swinging my legs out of the bed. My hands won’t stay still as I drag on a pair of joggers, then a shirt. The cotton clings to my damp palms, every movement too fast, too loud to my sensitive ears.
Behind me, I hear the bedsprings creak, the quiet rustleof Logan sitting up. His confusion feels alive in the space between us—thick and pulsing, like it’s breathing down my neck.
“Todd?” he says carefully. “What’s going on?”
I can’t look at him. My chest is a cage, too small for the way my heart’s hammering. I reach for my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. Debating ripping the bandaid off and calling my dad before he finds out another way.
That’s when it rings.
The name flashing across it freezes me in place.
Dad.
Every drop of blood drains from my face. My stomach twists so hard I have to brace a hand against the dresser just to stay upright.
He doesn’t text. He never texts. But he also doesn’t usually call this early in the morning.
The phone keeps ringing, shrill and endless, until the sound alone feels like it’s flaying something open inside me.
Logan’s voice is soft now, wary. “Todd…don’t. Just—breathe, okay? Talk to me.”
But I can’t. Not yet.
Because the only thing louder than the ringing is the echo in my head—He knows, my dad knows.
And I’m not ready for him to.
The call cuts off, leaving a silence that feels worse than the ringing. Then the notification dings—1 New Voicemail—and that’s somehow even worse.
My breath won’t come right. Too fast. Too shallow. The world narrows to the glow of the screen, the faint tremor in my hands. Every muscle in my body wants to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I haven’t had a panic attackin years, but this one is trying to drag me down and drown me.
Logan slides off the bed, bare feet padding across the carpet. “Todd, talk to me,” he says quietly. “You’re scaring me.”
I shake my head, throat burning. “I can’t—Logan, I can’t?—”
He reaches for me, fingers brushing my wrist. “Hey. It’s okay. Whatever it is, we'll deal with it.”
But he doesn’t get it. He can’t.
“It’s notwe,” I snap before I mean to, yanking my arm free. My voice cracks. “It’sme.It’s my dad, my career, my—” I swallow hard, words breaking apart in my chest. “You don’t know what he’s going to say.”
