I hate that.
I hate that I might not.
And as I turn toward my room, the only thing I know for sure is this:
Girls’ day gave me a few hours of normal, but normal is temporary.
Logan isn’t going anywhere.
And neither is what happened between us.
Not anymore.
18
LOGAN
The worst part about being injured is how much time you have to think.
On campus, when my body was whole, my days were scheduled down to the minute—lift, meetings, practice, film, class, treatment, repeat. My brain didn’t have space to wander because wandering was how you started questioning everything.
Now?
Now my day is measured in small tasks. Ice. Elevate. Stretch. Eat something. Text Jason if the swelling spikes. Pretend I’m not losing my mind.
And in the quiet of the Rhodes’ house—Pops napping, Sloane tucked away in her room like a thunderstorm behind a locked door—the thoughts I’ve been avoiding creep out and take up the couch beside me like they pay rent.
The staged equipment is still off to the side, wrapped and waiting. Not dramatic. Not taking over. Just…there, like a spare set of keys you don’t want to need.
My knee throbs under the ice pack, a steady reminder that my body is still on the hook for my choices.
So is my heart.
Because Sloane came home from girls’ day with her cheeks pink from laughter she tried to hide, and for a few minutes, I got to see her asherselfinstead of the version that’s braced for impact.
And I liked it.
Which is a problem, because liking Sloane Rhodes is not a cute new development. It’s a lifelong injury. It’s the thing you don’t admit out loud, because the minute you do, it becomes real—and real means consequences.
The biggest consequence being Cameron.
I can still hear Pops joking about us flirting and Sloane choking on her own indignation. I can still see the flash in her eyes when she looked at my mouth—like she hated that her body remembered last night too.
And I can still feel the panic under my skin, because if Cameron sees that look—if he clocks what happened—he’s going to do what any brother would do.
He’s going to protect her.
From me.
I shift on the couch, the ice pack crinkling.
I tell myself I’m here for Pops. For rehab. For being useful.
I tell myself last night was a one-time collision between grief and tension and two idiots who don’t know how to stop fighting long enough to breathe.
I tell myself a lot of things.
My phone buzzes.
