Sloane is propped up against her pillows, hair down, face still damp from the shower. She looks small in a way she never does on the court.
Cameron’s expression shifts—pain, tenderness, then something darker flickering under it.
He swallows once, hard.
Then he looks back at me, and his voice drops even lower.
“I need to talk to you.”
The way he says it isn’t a request. It’s a warning.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Cameron’s jaw flexes again.
His eyes cut once more to Sloane, like he’s reminding himself why he’s trying to keep it together. Then he steps back down the hall, turning toward the living room.
“Now,” he adds roughly.
I glance at Sloane. Her eyes are wide, glossy. Her hand tightens around the blanket like she’s bracing for impact.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, barely moving my lips. “I’ll be right back.”
And I follow Cameron into the dark, quiet heart of the house, already knowing whatever comes next is going to hurt.
45
LOGAN
If I know anything about my best friend, it’s that him being silent is way more terrifying than when he’s loud.
He stops in the hallway, glances toward her door, and his jaw works—one hard grind that tells me he’s swallowing something sharp. Then he exhales through his nose.
“You know what,” he mutters. “Let’s just go out front. She seems…calm. I don’t want to get her worked up. Hopefully, she’ll fall asleep.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
We move like we’re in a house made of glass, quiet steps, careful turns. Cameron grabs a jacket off the hook, even though it’s California and it’s not cold-cold. Not really. But grief does something to your skin. It makes everything feel too exposed.
When we step outside, the porch light clicks on, flooding the small space in a warm, yellow wash.
The street is empty. The kind of night where the world feels like it’s holding its breath.
Cameron doesn’t look at me right away. He walks down the steps and onto the sidewalk, stopping at the edge of thedriveway like he’s trying to put distance between himself and the front door.
Like the house is listening.
I follow and stop a few feet away, hands shoved into my pockets. My heart’s beating too hard for how quiet the night is.
Cameron drags a hand down his face before finally turning to look at me.
His eyes are red-rimmed, not crying, but…exhausted in that way men get when they’ve been clenching their grief so long their body forgets how to unclench.
“How’d the draft go?” he asks.
It throws me, and my brows shoot up.
For a second, I just stare at him, caught off guard by the normal question, which is the complete opposite of where I thought this conversation was going to go.
