That word makes my throat burn because help is what I want and what I hate.
Because wanting help means admitting I can’t carry this alone.
And I can’t.
I just don’t know how to say it without falling apart.
I swallow hard. “We can get it tomorrow.”
Logan’s gaze holds mine. “And if he needs it tonight?”
My chest tightens.
Because he’s right.
And I really hate it when he’s right.
I exhale slowly, forcing the anger down like it’s a physical thing I can swallow. “Fine.”
Logan stills. “Fine?”
“I’ll go,” I say quickly, because the idea of him driving somewhere alone with that knee makes my stomach twist into knots. “I’ll go get it.”
Logan’s brows lift. “You don’t have to.”
“Yes,” I say, voice clipped. “I do.”
Logan studies me for a beat, then nods once, like he’s choosing not to fight me on it.
“Okay,” he says—then winces, like he realized the word is banned.
I glare anyway.
He clears his throat. “Do you want me to come with you?”
My stomach flips.
The idea of being trapped in a car with him—alone, quiet, close—makes my pulse spike.
“No,” I say too fast.
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Right.”
I grab my keys off the hook, then stop, turning back.
Logan is leaning on his crutch, watching me with that careful expression again.
I hate that he looks like he’s trying to protect me from myself.
I hate that it works.
“Stay here,” I order.
Logan’s brows rise. “Bossy.”
“Someone has to be,” I shoot back.
His mouth curves faintly. “Yes, Coach.”
