“Good,” he murmurs. “We’ll see him in the morning.”
I nod, blinking hard.
Then Logan gets out, comes around, opens my door, and holds his hand out.
Like he always does.
Like he always will.
I take it, stepping down into the warm evening air.
And when he laces his fingers through mine and leads me inside—past the noise and the laughter and the familiar chaos of boys pretending everything is fine—I realize something with sharp clarity:
This isn’t escapism.
This is a lifeline.
And for one night, I’m choosing it.
36
LOGAN
Having Sloane Rhodes in my room feels like a rule I didn’t know I was breaking until it was too late.
Not because she doesn’t belong—she does, in that quiet, inevitable way she’s always belonged in my orbit—but because my room at the football house has never been soft. It’s always been a place for tape jobs and ice packs and pretending I’m fine.
And then she steps inside with her tote bag that Jade and Blakely packed for her on her shoulder, cheeks still flushed from the sun, and suddenly the air changes.
She does a slow turn, taking everything in. “This is very…” She pauses, eyes flicking over my bed, my PCU flag, the single framed photo of the guys after our rivalry win. “You.”
I lean back against the door as it clicks shut. “Is that an insult?”
“It’s an observation.”
I gesture around. “Welcome to the Brooks Luxury Suite. Complimentary emotional repressions included.”
Her mouth twitches. “Five stars.”
“Thank you. I worked hard to make it unwelcoming.”
She walks to my desk and picks up the lacrosse ball I use on my quads, turning it over. “What is this?”
“Massage ball.”
She lifts a brow. “Weird name for a torture device.”
“It hurts. That’s how you know it works.”
I grab the remote and flop onto the bed, patting the spot beside me. “Okay. Movie time.”
Sloane drops her bag and climbs up, settling against the pillows with her legs tucked under her. I leave an inch of space out of habit.
She glances at the gap, then at me. “Logan.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to sit there like I’m a crazed animal.”
