Chapter Text
By the time I reach the rink, it’s empty.
The overhead lights hum faintly, reflecting off the ice in that too-bright way that makes everything feel colder than it already is. The stands are dark, abandoned.
Coach Jensen stands by the benches, head down, focused on a clipboard.
I recognise him immediately. I looked over the roster before coming here - the names, their stats, anything to make this feel less like a blind jump. Chad Jensen. Mid-thirties, maybe pushing forty. Hard to tell. He’s got that coach look. He's got short hair, a Hawks hoodie on, and a posture like he’s always assessing something, even when there’s no one here.
He already has a solid team this season. What with Phil Graham’s son as their star center and new captain. Phil Graham was a forward for the New York Rangers, and his son is predicted to follow in his footsteps. I only know this because my dad took me to a game years ago, when we were visiting my grandparents in Manhattan. He scored 2 goals against the Philadelphia Flyers, and the game ended 3-0.
“Coach,” I call. My voice echoes more than I expect.
He looks up, eyes landing on me like I’m something out of place. Which, I guess, I am.
“What can I help you with?” Straight to the point.
I hesitate for a second. I hadn’t really planned what I was going to say once I got here. Briar doesn’t have a women’s hockey team. A lot of college’s don’t. Not unless there’s enough interest. Not unless it’s worth the investment.
“You here for the tryouts?” His gaze flicks to the sports bag slung over my shoulder.
“Yes.” The word comes out thinner than I want it to.
“You brought skates?”
I nod. Of course I did. They’ve been in my bag all day, heavier than they should be. Like they knew I wasn’t sure I’d actually use them. He doesn't say anything about me being a girl.
“Show me what you got, then.” No reaction. No judgement. Nothing. He just waits. It takes me a second to realise he’s not going to say anything else. That he's waiting for me to do something.
Right.
I crouch down and pull my skates out. They’re still too new. Barely broken in. My dad bought them over a year ago, before everything - before I stopped, before I decided I was done.
I lace them up quickly, fingers moving on muscle memory alone, then step onto the ice. It feels wrong at first. Not having any gear on, the stands being so empty. No teammates. Just the sound of my blades cutting into the fresh ice and the echo that follows. I push off slowly, testing it. Letting my weight settle. It’s been a while. Long enough that I almost forgot how it feels. Almost.
It comes back quicker than I expect. A few laps, then a few more. My stride evens out, edges digging in clean, familiar. My body remembers what my head’s been trying to ignore. I stop by the benches, a sharp spray of ice kicking up as I come to a halt. Coach Jensen reaches down and grabs a stick from the pile left behind. He still hasn’t mentioned that I’m late. It’s been, what - thirty minutes since tryouts ended? I was here. I made it. I just… didn’t go in.
I stood outside like an idiot, staring at the doors like they were going to make the decision for me. I applied to Briar fully ready to be done with hockey. Told myself it was just a high school thing. Something I used to do. Something that didn’t matter anymore.
Freshman year, I didn’t think about it once. Classes, parties, watching football games. Repeat. And now I’m here. Back on the ice. In front of a coach who’s waiting for me to prove something I’m not even sure I still have.
I grab the stick and push off again before I can think about it too much. Grab a puck from the pile and carry it over to the blue line.
I wind up and take the shot. It’s not my strongest. The contact’s slightly off, but the puck still rockets forward, slamming into the back of the net with a satisfying crack.
Good enough.
I don’t stop moving. Forehand, quick adjustment, wrist shot high glove. The rebound kicks out and I’m already there, shifting my weight, snapping it low blocker before it settles. I circle back, picking up speed through the neutral zone. Cut in tight. Toe-drag across my body, smooth, controlled, release. Top shelf.
My edges bite hard as I stop, pivot, and come back the other way. This time I skate in like a breakaway. Fake forehand, pull it to my backhand, and lift it just under the bar.
It slides in clean.
Of course it does. I’ve done this a thousand times before. I just forgot.
Forgot how it feels when everything lines up. When your body moves without hesitation. When the ice feels like the only place you actually make sense.
I slow to a stop, breath steady, chest rising just enough to remind me I’m still here. Still-
I glance up. Coach Jensen is leaning against the boards, watching me. Really watching me. He gestures me over. I skate back, slowing as I reach the bench. “What’s your name?” He asks.
“Faith.”I hold his gaze, trying to read something in his expression. Anything. But I get nothing.
“Well, Faith,” he says, “where’d you learn to skate like that?”
“Ashford Academy,” I answer. “I was on the varsity women’s team. It’s a high school in Michigan.” I add in the last bit as I’m not sure how familiar he is with high school women’s hockey. Most likely, not very.
“A good one too,” he says. “Scott O’Reily went there, right?” That catches me off guard. I nod. “Yeah.” Scott was signed at 18 by the Edmonton Oilers and is one of our few alumni who currently play in the NHL. He must’ve noticed my surprise because he chuckles as he takes the stick from my hands.
“You’re not bad, Faith.” A pause. “What made you choose Briar?” How come you didn’t pick a college where you could actually play is what he really wants to say. And he’s not wrong for thinking that. I received an offer from the University of Michigan. Their women’s team is relatively strong, winning their fair share of playoff titles. It’s a Division 1 team. Playing for them had long been a dream of mine. But instead I ended up here. Trying out for a Division 1 men’s team. It’s almost completely unheard of. No way they would risk having a woman on their team. Not with them potentially making it as far as the Frozen Four this year.
“I actually came here to study Biology… That’s my major.” I say instead. I’m not sure what else to say. After what happened during my senior year I put hockey behind me. I focused on my studies and having a strong GPA. I barely scraped by as top 15% of my class, but luckily Ashford wasn’t exactly brimming with students ready to study natural sciences. A lot of them were solely interested in hockey, and got by with a full-ride scholarship.
“Biology, huh.” Coach Jensen doesn’t seem all that convinced. He studies me for a second. “Must be demanding.”
“Yes, sir.” Silence stretches between us again.
“You want to play for the Briar Hawks?” He asks eventually.
The question lands heavier than it should. Do I? I thought I had put it all behind me. But getting to step back on the ice had brought so many memories rushing back. There’s a reason I started playing hockey in the first place. My father’s always been a die hard Red Wings fan for as long as I can remember. Our home team based in Detroit. And as his only child, he taught me everything he knew on the ice. He never played in the pros himself, but he was a forward on his college team. Like me. And I know how much he loves the sport. It didn’t matter that I was a girl. Out on the ice it was just me and him, and our shared love for hockey.
“Hockey’s a very demanding sport, Miss Faith.” He continues when I don’t respond. “Brutal, sometimes. And I’m sure you’ve seen our boys—“ he glances out toward the empty rink, like he can already see them there “—they’re very... aggressive.”
“I’ve been playing since I could walk.” I say. A small breast of a laugh escapes me. “I know what I’m getting into.”
He nods slowly. “So you know how competitive it is. How hard it is to make a D-1 roster. Hell, some of the kids who come here - talented kids - don’t even make it onto the team. I only allow the best of the best to represent us.”
“I’m aware, sir.”
“And I’m sure you’re also aware we don’t have a women’s team.” His tone shifts slightly. More deliberate now. “Although technically we are required to provide equal athletic opportunities for everyone…" he sounds like he's reciting from the school's website. "Which means we’re required to allow tryouts. Not to offer spots.” I nod again. I know exactly what this is. A technicality. A courtesy.
“But,” he adds, tapping the clipboard lightly, “as it seems, you missed tryouts.”
That— that hits me harder than anything else he’s said. My stomach drops. “Oh.” Brilliant response.
“I’m sorry, Faith. Maybe next year.” He gives my shoulder a brief pat before looking back down at the clipboard, like the conversation is already over. I glance at the page. Names. Lines. Decisions already made. People who showed up on time.
I unlace my skates in silence, fingers moving slower than they did earlier, like something’s weighing them down now. I shove them back into my bag a little harder than necessary. My eyes sting, and I blink it away immediately. Absolutely not.
I’m not even sure why I’m this upset. Even if I’d made it in on time, I probably wouldn’t have made the team. No way a group of D-1 guys would just accept a girl skating alongside them. Maybe as a benchwarmer, I think bitterly. If that.
By the time I get back to my dorm room, it’s empty. The room feels quieter than usual without Alexa in it. Too still. Too… mine. We’ve been roommates since freshman year. Met during freshers week when we realised we’d been assigned the same room. She’s a biology major too, somehow surviving the same workload I am, but everything about her is the complete opposite. Alexa lives like nothing bad has ever touched her. All sunshine and rainbows. Someone who doesn’t automatically assume the worst.
It’s only 5pm, so she’s probably still at the library. The place where we unfortunately find ourselves most evenings these days. Organic Chemistry 1 has really been kicking our asses lately. Which makes me even more worried for Organic Chemistry II next semester. Our professor seems adamant on breezing past the topics without stopping long enough for anything to actually sink in. Then assigns about two hundred pages of reading like that’s reasonable. And the labs— Three hours of recrystallization this Tuesday. It was brutal. And I’m pretty sure I still smell like ethanol.
I drop my pink sports bag by my bed and let myself fall back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. I should probably change, but after my disastrous tryout that wasn’t even really a tryout today, I can’t be bothered. Instead I grab my phone and find a bunch of unread messages from the group chat. Livvy and Isla are already talking about some football after-party tonight. It’s Friday night and the team just got back from some game. Judging by the noise I passed on the way here, I’m guessing they won. I’m not really in the mood. But maybe that’s exactly why I should go. Some cheap tequila to drown my sorrows in, and a cute guy to hookup with.
I haven’t been going out much lately. Not that I’m super against them, I just don’t have the time. Or energy. It seems like I don’t have much time for anything these days. I tried the whole relationship thing last year. It didn’t stick. We barely saw each other much during the semester, and when summer came around, I realised I didn’t actually miss him. Not in the way you’re supposed to. James was… fine. Nice. Too nice, sometimes. Like he was waiting for me to turn into this version of a girlfriend that didn’t exist. Someone who’d show up to all his games, smile on cue, stand beside him while he showed me off to his teammates.
He’s a wide receiver for Briar football. Which is exactly why I’m not thrilled about the idea of a football frat party tonight. He’ll be there. And if the rumors are true, he won’t be alone. Not that I blame him. It’s been two months.
I’m just about to come up with an excuse not to go when the door slams open.
“Fay!” Alexa bursts in like she’s been holding in energy all day and finally has somewhere to put it. She drops her books onto her desk in a messy pile that definitely isn’t staying contained for long. While Briar U might be known for their extensive sports programmes, they’re not exactly the best when it comes to housing. While freshmen usually have to share rooms, there’s not enough suites to go around for the older students. Which means a lot of the sophomores still have to share a room. Luckily, they were lenient enough to let me and Alexa share a room this year too. The room is split cleanly down the middle. Her side is chaos. Clothes draped over her chair, her desk covered in makeup and hair products she somehow uses all at once, fairy lights strung unevenly along the wall. Polaroids taped up above her bed — friends, family and a few of her family’s dog Camille. Her bed is unmade, as it is most days. She claims there’s no point fixing it if she’s just gonna mess it up again. I gave up arguing about that months ago.
My side is— different. Everything has a place. Clothes don’t touch the floor. Ever. My desk is clear, my bed made, everything where it’s supposed to be. If it’s not, it feels wrong. Like the whole day’s off before it even starts.
“You coming out with us tonight?” Alexa asks, already halfway across the room. She must see the hesitation on my face because she rushes to add, “I promise it’ll be fun. And I won’t leave you. At all. And I’ll make sure James doesn’t come anywhere near you— unless you want him to, obviously, I mean do you—”
“If I say yes, will you stop talking.” She freezes. Then grins.
“Yess!” She launches herself onto my bed, and I immediately shove her off. She barely even protests as she tumbles onto the floor, laughing. Absolutely not. God knows where her clothes have been. Probably all over that senior she’s been hooking up with lately. Apparently the hottest man alive, if Alexa’s to be believed.
“Is Dean gonna be there?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. She lights up instantly. “Of course he’s gonna be there. That’s how I found out about the party.”
Of course it is. I bite back a comment. I’ve heard enough about Dean to know exactly how this ends. He’s been all she’s been able to talk about lately. I don’t want to ruin things for her, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a massive player. She says she doesn’t mind, but I’m not so sure anymore. I know as soon as he moves onto the next willing puck bunny, she’s gonna spiral and be heartbroken for a year. And then I’ll be left to pick up the pieces. Not that I mind. After only knowing her for a year, I’ve learnt that there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for this girl. And if that includes kicking some hockey player’s ass then so be it.
“Fine,” I sigh. “But only because I need to forget how terrible today was.”
Her expression shifts immediately. “Oh shit. That was today?” I stare at her. Not like I had spoken about it almost everyday for the past week. “Yes.”
“What happened? Did they not want you?”
“I was too late.” The words come out flatter than I expect. “I couldn’t—“ I stop, exhale. “I couldn’t get through the door. And when I did, the coach let me skate, but… that was it. Said I could try again next year.” There it is. That tight feeling in my chest cracks just enough for everything else to slip through. I blink hard, but it doesn’t help. “I know I wasn’t going to make first line or anything,” I add quickly, like I need to justify it. “But I thought maybe — bench, at least. Something.” Because I know I’m good enough. Even now. Even after a year off. “I could’ve played,” I say quietly.
Alexa sits up from the floor, frowning. “That really sucks,” she says. Then, after a second, “Is it because you’re a girl?”
“No. I don’t know.” I swallow. “Maybe.”
“That’s so messed up. They should have a women’s team. Hockey’s huge here, there’s no way you’re the only girl who wants to play.” She’s not wrong.
“Can we just get ready?” I wipe at my eyes before anything actually falls. “I wanna get drunk.”
Alexa’s grin is instant. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
Two hours later, we end up at Isla’s boyfriend’s house. His parents live in Hastings, only a 30 minute drive from campus. And even closer to Greek Row. They live in a nice Victorian house, and are currently away for the weekend. Which makes for the ideal pregame spot.
Music spills out the second we step onto the porch, bass heavy enough to feel in my chest before we even get inside. The front door is wide open, people coming in and out like it’s a revolving door.
The house is already packed. Not in an overwhelming way—just enough people to fill every room with noise and movement. Leo’s friends aren’t all football or frat guys, but they carry the same kind of energy. Loud, easygoing, already a few drinks in. I’m still on my first. Vodka cranberry, mostly ice at this point. I take small sips, letting it last. I know myself well enough to pace it. It doesn’t take much for me to go from fine to tipsy, and I’m not trying to peak before we even get to the actual party.
Alexa, on the other hand— Already gone. She’s halfway standing on the coffee table, arguing with some guy over the speaker. They’re both leaning over it like it’s a life-or-death situation, voices raised over Pitbull blasting through the room. “You cannot skip this!” she insists, pointing at the screen.
“It’s been playing for three minutes!”
“And it should play for three more!”
They both have such similar taste in music, I’m not sure what the point of this feud even is.
Livvy drops into the chair beside me, her curls bouncing slightly as she settles in. She opens her mouth to say something, but I’m not in the mood to talk. Not yet. I down the rest of my drink instead and stand up. “Refill,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. She nods like she gets it.
The kitchen is blissfully empty. No music blasting directly into my skull, no bodies pressed too close. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint echo of the party bleeding in from the other rooms. I hop onto the counter, legs tucked in slightly and grab the nearest bottle. Vodka again. This time I mix it with the lemonade sitting by the sink. It’s warm. I can’t seem to get myself to care.
“Faith, right?” The voice comes from the doorway. I glance up, blinking once as my eyes adjust from the bright overhead light. It’s harsher in here, washing everything out, making him look sharper around the edges. He’s leaning against the frame like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting or not. Dark hair, slightly messy. Clean jawline. The kind of face that’s just… easy to look at. He’s holding a red cup loosely in his hand, fingers relaxed around it like he’s not paying much attention to it at all. He’s cute. I don’t say that out loud.
“Yeah,” I answer after a second, not moving from where I’m sitting. There’s a small pause before he pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, stopping just in front of me.
“You into football?” he asks, nodding slightly toward my shirt. “I think I’ve seen you around.”
I huff out something that almost passes for a laugh. “Hockey.” That gets a reaction. His eyebrows lift slightly, like that wasn’t what he expected. “I don’t really know much about it,” he admits. “Seems fun though.”
“It is.” Short. Simple. I take another sip of my drink, letting the silence stretch just enough that it’s not awkward, but not comfortable either.
“Faith, there you are.” I turn at the sound of my name. Isla walks in, Leo right behind her, his arm already settling around her waist like it belongs there. She looks— effortless. She really does look beautiful tonight, her reddish-brown hair pulled up into a slicked back ponytail. She’s got a black minidress on that compliments her body perfectly. I can’t help but feel a bit underdressed compared to her. I’ve got a denim mini skirt on, with a cropped Detroit Lions shirt. I thought the football shirt would be fitting. While Isla’s got her platform heels on as always, I chose to wear my beat up white sneakers.
“Ready to go?” Leo asks, pulling her back against him slightly. They make a cute couple. They started dating during freshman year, after becoming lab partners.
“Yeah,” I say, hopping down from the counter and finishing my drink in one go.
Stronger than I thought. The room tilts for half a second, just enough to throw me off. I steady myself with a hand against the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the guy’s hand lifting slightly, like he was about to help, but he stops himself. I don’t even know his name. I forgot to ask.
Alexa and Livvy appear as we head out, falling into step with us as we move through the house and out onto the patio. Halfway down the steps, I stop. Wait. Did I— “Wait, I need to-“ I forgot to check if I forgot to turn off the lights.
“Fay.” Alexa cuts me off instantly. “I watched you turn them off.” I blink at her. Sometimes I swear she can read my mind. “Right.” I force the uncomfortable feeling away and keep walking.
The party’s already in full swing by the time we get there. Music so loud it drowns out everything else, bass vibrating through the floor, through my chest, through my ribs. The whole place feels like it’s moving, like the walls are barely holding it together. Alexa leans into me, her voice loud in my ear. “So— how do you feel about Luke? Isla said you two were hitting it off earlier.” I laugh.
“I didn’t even know his name until just now.”
She gasps like I’ve offended her personally. “So what? He’s hot. And he clearly likes you. You should go for it.” She nods toward the ping pong table. I follow her gaze. He’s already looking at me. And the second he realises I’ve noticed, he looks away.
Subtle.
I look him over properly this time. Tall. Athletic. The kind of build that screams sports without being overly bulky. Strong arms, broad shoulders. He looks like he could be on the football team, but I don’t recognise him. Not that I go to games unless I have to. Football’s never really been my thing. Isla and Livvy dragged me into that world. They’re both varsity cheerleaders, that’s how we met.
Back when I was still playing the role of supportive girlfriend, showing up to James’ games, clapping at the right moments, pretending I cared. Isla introduced herself like she’d known me forever. The rest just… stuck.
“Go,” Alexa mouths, nudging me toward the table. I go.
Luke grins when I step up beside him, handing me the ball. “You wanna play?”
“I’m not very good,” I say.
It’s a lie. A complete one. I’m actually really good. It just feels weird stepping into their game like this. Like I don’t quite belong here. They don’t seem to mind. If anything, they’re a little too interested. I lean over the table to line up my shot and catch one of them staring. He’s looking down, clearly trying to get a better view of my ass. I scoff under my breath. Subtlety really is a dying skill.
He stands out immediately. Not because he’s trying to. Because he doesn’t have to. He’s bigger than any of the other guy’s crowded around the table. Not taller necessarily, though he has a few inches on most of them. Just broader. Built like someone who spends most of his life throwing his body at people for fun. His navy t-shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that feels unfair, sleeves tight around biceps that look ridiculous under the dim frat-house lighting.
When he catches me looking, he doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitches.
Asshole.
His eyes are what catch me off guard, though. Bright blue. They’re fixed on me with an intensity that makes it obvious he’s not paying attention to the game anymore.
Or maybe he wasn’t even paying attention in the first place.
I lean over the table to serve, and sure enough, when I glance up again he’s still looking. Not at my face.
My grip tightens around the ping pong ball as I pick it up from the cup it just landed in. Some men truly have no survival instinct.
“Logan,” one of the guys beside him says, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “You gonna drink it or what?”
A few of them laugh.
Logan finally drags his attention away from me, and reaches for the cup. He downs it in one go. I roll my eyes as I toss the ball into the air.
The ball hits the table, ricochets off the edge, and disappears somewhere into the noise and bodies behind me. No one really reacts. The game keeps going like I didn’t just lose track of what I was doing. I don’t care. Or I pretend I don’t. Because I can still feel it - his eyes. Logan’s. Burned into the side of my face even when I’m not looking at him.
“Again,” Luke says, sliding another ball toward me. I shake my head slightly. “Later.” My attention drifts before I can stop it. Across the room. And that’s where I see him. James. It’s like my brain lags a second behind reality, like it takes time to process that he’s actually here and not just some unlucky coincidence my alcohol is inventing. Except he is here. Leaning against the far wall, relaxed in a way I remember too well. Same easy smile. Same posture like nothing in the world has ever actually stressed him out. And next to him—
Of course. A girl. Blonde. Perfectly curled hair. Short black dress, hand resting lightly on his arm like she belongs there without even thinking about it. I’m not sure if this is the same girl I’ve been hearing about. Brooke.
Apparently, she’s James’ new girlfriend. The thought lands a second too late, like my brain was still hoping it wasn’t real. My grip tightens around the edge of the table. Right, okay.
I take a slow sip of my drink. It doesn’t taste like anything anymore. Just sweet and sharp and warm in the back of my throat. Alexa is somewhere behind me, laughing too loud at something. Livvy’s voice cuts through the music briefly, but it doesn’t stick. Everything feels slightly too far away. And then I feel it again.
That weight. Logan’s attention. Still on me. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who can keep his attention on something, or someone, for too long.
I don’t know what expression I’m wearing, but I fix it quickly. Flatten it out. Reset. Because I refuse to look like anything right now. James laughs at something the girl says. I catch it out of the corner of my eye and it hits worse than I expect it to.
Two months. Apparently that’s all it takes.
“Faith,” Luke says, closer now. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie automatically. Except it comes out wrong. Too flat. Too late. I step back from the table. “I need another drink.” No one argues.
The kitchen is busier now than it was earlier, but I still push through it. Shoulders brushing past people I don’t recognise, laughter bouncing off the counters, cups everywhere like no one plans on cleaning any of this up ever. I grab whatever bottle is closest. It burns a little more going down this time. Good.
I’m not sure how many I’ve had at this point. Not enough to be gone, but enough that the edges of everything feel softer than they should. I turn around, leaning back against the counter—
And there he is again. Logan. Like he just… followed. He’s not leaning this time. Just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me like he’s trying to figure something out without asking directly. “You always disappear like that?” he asks.
I blink at him slowly. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about to bite someone’s head off and then decide not to.”
A laugh almost comes out of me, but it dies halfway. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced. There’s a pause. He glances past me, briefly, toward the noise of the party. Then back to me. “You looked like you needed a break,” he says, quieter this time. That annoys me more than it should.
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
Another pause. This one stretches longer. He’s too close in a way I didn’t notice until now. Not invading, just present. Like he actually decided to stay in the same space as me instead of orbiting it like everyone else. And I hate that I notice that. Because I do. Outside, the bass shifts. Someone cheers too loudly. Glass clinks somewhere behind us. I finish my drink without thinking. Bad idea.
The room tilts slightly when I put the cup down. I steady myself on the counter again, slower this time. Logan’s eyes flick to my hand. “You’re done for the night,” he says.
I let out a short laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You’re done for the night.”
“I didn’t realise you were in charge of that.”
“I’m not,” he says simply. “But you’re not exactly steady right now.”
That makes something sharp flare in my chest. “I’m fine,” I repeat, but it’s weaker this time. Even I can hear it. He doesn’t argue. Just studies me for a second. Then sighs like he’s made a decision.
“Come on.”
“No.”
He raises an eyebrow slightly. “No?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Fair,” he says. No offence taken. Which is worse somehow. “Then I’ll call you an Uber.”
“I don’t need—”
I stop. Because I see him again. Not Logan. James. Still across the room. Still laughing. Still holding her hand like it’s nothing. And something in me just… tips. He hasn’t even glanced my way once. Like I don’t exist. Like what we had meant nothing to him.
I turn back to Logan too quickly. “You know what,” I say, “actually—never mind.”
His brows knit slightly. “What?”
I step closer before I can think better of it. Too close. He doesn’t move away. Which is the problem. Because now I can smell his cologne. Something clean. Something real in a room that suddenly feels too loud and too fake and too full of people I don’t want to look at anymore. “Nothing,” I say.
And then I grab his shirt and kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not soft. Not anything like it should be. It’s messy and wrong and fueled entirely by vodka and anger and the fact that I just saw my ex with someone else. For half a second, he doesn’t react. Then he moves—
Not into it. Away. Carefully.
He pulls back just enough to break it, hands lifting slightly but not touching me. “Hey,” he says, voice lower now. Steadier. “Hey—stop.”
I frown, blinking up at him. “What?”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he says, not unkind. Just firm.
The words don’t land immediately. Then they do. Heat crawls up my neck, embarrassment cutting through the haze for a second too sharp to ignore. He exhales once, like he’s trying to decide something. Then he nods toward the hallway.
“C’mon,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re going home,” he repeats, already turning slightly like he expects me to follow. And somehow, I do. Because the party suddenly feels too loud again. And James is still somewhere behind me. And Logan is the only thing that feels… steady enough to walk toward.