Logan’s expression is calm, but his eyes are careful. Intent. Like he’s giving me something without forcing it into a confession.
“Is this…okay?” he asks quietly.
My throat burns.
I nod once, because if I speak, my voice will break.
“Yeah,” I manage.
Logan’s thumb brushes over my knuckles—one small sweep that feels like a small declaration and a question at the same time.
“Okay,” he whispers, and it sounds like relief.
We start walking toward the exit, hand in hand, the gym echoing around us.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not when we pass the benches and he grabs my bag that Jade must’ve left there. Not when we reach the double doors. Not when the cool night air hits my face and reminds me of what’s waiting.
He just holds on, fingers laced with mine, like if he keeps me connected to him, I won’t drift apart on the way home.
And for the first time all night, I let myself lean into it.
Just a little.
Just enough to breathe.
32
LOGAN
The countdown to the NFL draft is haunting me at this point. It’s everywhere I seem to look.
It’s on the TV mounted high in the lobby, some talking head gesturing at a graphic that reads14 DAYSlike it’s a holiday and not a guillotine. It’s in the way the equipment guys keep the radios a little louder than usual—NFL Network bleeding through the building like background noise you can’t scrub out. It’s in the glances people pretend they aren’t giving me.
Two weeks.
Two weeks until the league decides if I’m an investment or an insurance claim.
Two weeks until my name is either something people clap for…or something they stop saying altogether.
I keep my head down and walk through the facility like I belong here.
Because I do.
Because even when football feels like it’s slipping out of my hands, this place is still stitched into my bones—the smell ofturf and disinfectant, the cold bite of the AC, the echo of voices bouncing off concrete and metal.
Still, my chest feels tight. Not nerves.
Guilt.
Because being here feels like a betrayal when Pops is at home fighting for something as small as a full meal. When Sloane is measuring her life in hospice schedules and “good days,” she pretends not to celebrate.
I swipe my badge and step into the training room.
The sports medicine side of the building is bright in a way that makes everything feel exposed—too many lights, too much white, too much clean. The kind of clean that makes you think about hospitals and paperwork and words likeprognosis.
This is my first full week back working with the medical trainers at PCU, after finishing up my time with Jason. I’ll miss the guy, but I’m glad I’ve made enough progress to come back here instead.
