So I walk after parking in the visitors’ lot.
Across the campus, the air is warm, sun on my shoulders.
Everything looks normal, and I feel like the one thing that’s out of place.
The one thing that's broken in a sea of calm.
My mind keeps trying to talk me out of it.
Don’t do this.
Don’t cause a scene.
Don’t be the girl who storms into a weight room like a lunatic.
But then my chest squeezes, hard, and all I can think is?—
I have already buried one person I love.
I am not burying another one in silence.
The doors of the PCU athletic center whoosh open as someone walks out the door. I slip inside before they close again, and the cooler air hits my face.
Rubber mats. Bleach. Sweat. The faint metallic bite of iron.
My heart thunders like I’m the one about to take the field.
I pass the lobby. The hallway. The glass trophy cases that reflect my face back at me—flushed, eyes too bright, jaw tight like I’ve been chewing on anger for days.
And maybe I have.
The weight room is loud.
Music. Laughing. Plates clanking. The kind of sound that says everyone here still has a future.
I push through the door.
And there he is.
Logan Brooks.
Sleeveless shirt. Sweat darkening the fabric at his chest. A towel thrown over his shoulder like he owns the place—like he belongs to a world that keeps moving forward no matter who gets left behind.
He’s mid-set with a trap bar, lifting with control, careful like he respects the injury that tried to steal him from the game he loves. He sets the weight down, breathes out through his nose, and reaches for his water.
Beck is there, too, half turned toward another rack, but he sees me first.
His eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s almost comical.
Oh my God.
So I do look exactly as unhinged as I feel.
Beck’s mouth opens like he’s about to speak, then he thinks better of it, because Beck is smart when it counts, and he steps backward, clearing his throat loudly, eyes darting to Logan likegood luck, brother.
Logan lifts his head, his gaze finding me instantly.
And something changes.
