Swish.
The women erupt into screams. We’re all jumping and hugging and laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
“No!” Miles shouts, dropping to his knees.
“That’s game!” Miranda yells, pumping her fists in the air.
The guys are in various states of defeat—Jaden lying flat on his back on the court, Cade with his hands on his head, and Logan shaking his head but laughing.
“You guys are the worst winners,” Finn groans.
“And you guys are the worst losers,” Penny shoots back.
We all collapse onto the gym floor, sprawled out in a sweaty, exhausted pile of humans. I’m lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. My hair is stuck to my forehead, my shirt is damp with sweat, and every muscle in my body is screaming.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this good.
Logan drops down beside me, propping himself up on his elbow. “So? Was I right?”
I turn my head to look at him. “About what?”
“That it would be fun.”
I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” I say breathlessly. “You were right.”
His grin widens. “I usually am.”
I reach over and shove his shoulder weakly. “Don’t ruin it.”
He laughs, the sound warm and easy, and lies back on the floor beside me.
All around us, people are still talking and laughing—trash-talking the game and already planning the rematch. Miranda is doing a victory lap around the court. Ari is trying to convince Bash to admit she’s better at defense than he is. Delaney is lecturing Max about how he needs to take this more seriously.
And I’m here, lying on a gym floor surrounded by people I barely know, sweaty and exhausted and happy in a way I didn’t think I was allowed to be anymore.
For the first time in a couple of years, I feel light.
Logan’s hand finds mine on the floor between us, his pinky hooking around mine so gently.
And I don’t pull away.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
LOGAN
Ilove having Tessa at my place. I love everything about her being here—except for the reasons she is.
I find her to be the most beautiful, fascinating woman I’ve ever met. But I can’t tell her that. I refuse to be the guy who makes a move on a woman who’s carrying so much, who’s still finding her footing after escaping an abusive relationship. Yes, I flirted with her at the coffee shop even though I knew something was off, but I didn’t know the extent of it. Now that I do…all I want is to support her, to be here in whatever way she needs.
Over the past week, I’ve watched her heal—physically, as the bruise on her face faded from dark purple to yellow-green to almost nothing, and emotionally too. She’s opening up and laughing more. She’s looking lighter. Happier. Yesterday at the basketball game, I watched her collapse on the gym floor, breathless and grinning, and something in my chest cracked wide open.
I know she still has a long road ahead of her, and I know we haven’t heard the last of Preston. But there’s more good than bad now, and I’m so damn grateful for that.
She emerges from the hallway, her hair still damp from a shower, wearing a cute pair of cutoff jean shorts and a yellow tank top that makes her skin glow. I recognize the outfit instantly from our online shopping spree the other day. I had to practically force her to add it to the cart because she kept insisting she “didn’t need that many clothes.”
“Oh,” I say, pausing mid-flip with the spatula hovering over the pan. “That outfit looks really good on you.”
