Three words, sent almost four days ago, that shouldn’t feel this heavy, but they do.
I reach for the phone. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I can’t bring myself to unlock it. Not tonight.
Instead, I roll onto my side, facing the wall, and let the quiet press down until it’s almost a comfort.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be strong enough to answer him. Maybe not. But either way, I’ll have to face him.
THIRTY-THREE
LOGAN
Campus feels different now.Snow still lines the sidewalks in dirty, half-frozen piles, and the streetlights hum like they’re tired too. I got back late last night, dropped my bag at my apartment, and tried not to look at my phone—like avoiding it could somehow stop the sting that comes every time I unlock the screen and see nothing.
I sent theI miss youtext on New Year’s Eve. Right before midnight. I just sat there, watching the seconds tick down, typing words I’d deleted a dozen times already.
I miss you.Three words. Easy to send. Hard to live with when they’re met with silence.
I told myself he was just home with family, that his dad was still adjusting, that maybe he needed space. But the longer the quiet stretched, the harder it got to believe it was just space and not distance.
Now, walking through the rink doors, everything feels wrong. The cold air hits, familiar and bitter. The place feels hollow—like the echo of something we broke but haven’t admitted to yet.
I catch sight of Peter near the benches, tossing a puck between his hands. He sees me and his smile falters for half a second before he forces it back into place.
“Hey,” he says, too casually. “Welcome back.”
“Yeah,” I manage. “You too.”
He nods, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Got in last night. The room's a disaster. Pretty sure Shaw lived off takeout and existential dread while I was gone.”
My stomach twists. “He was here the whole break?”
Peter nods. “Yeah, pretty sure.”
“What happened with his dad?” The words come out before I can stop them. I know I shouldn’t be asking Peter what’s happening with my boyfriend's family, if I can still call him my boyfriend, but I can’t stop myself.
Peter exhales, gaze dropping to the ice. “That’s not really mine to tell.”
I nod, throat tightening. “So it’s bad.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but the look on his face says enough. “It’s bad,” he confirms quietly. “He’s… trying. I think he’s doing better now that we’re back, but it’s been rough for him.”
The silence stretches between us. The hum of the rink lights fills it, too loud in the emptiness.
Peter glances up again, eyes softer now. “He’s not okay, Logan. But he still showed up today. That’s something.”
“He froze me out.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I figured.”
There isn’t much else to say, so I head toward the locker room. My heart is firmly in my throat as I push through the doors and see Todd pulling his jersey over his pads. I swallow, trying to dislodge it, but it’s no use.
My mouth is dry as I move toward him. He hasn’t seenme yet, but the second his head pops out of the top of the jersey, his blue eyes find me immediately. His face goes through a million emotions I can’t catch before landing on passive.
Fuckingpassive?That’s what he’s giving me after almost two and a half weeks of silence?
I come up short and pivot to my cubby. No fucking way am I laying my heart out in front of him with the team filtering in—anyone could see him stomp on it.
The sound of the guys getting ready for practice, laughter, teasing—it all blurs. My pulse won’t slow down. Every cell in my body wants to reach for him, and every ounce of pride I’ve got keeps me rooted in place.
