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Chapter Eighteen

Logan

E mma steps out of the bathroom wrapped in one of the old towels we keep stacked on the back of the door, her hair piled on her head in a messy knot, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water.

She looks… better. Softer.

The tightness in her shoulders seems to have eased, and she’s humming some off-key tune under her breath as she rifles through her bag for clothes.

I lean against the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with cautious relief.

Maybe it really was just a bad night’s sleep. God knows I’ve had those lately. Maybe I imagined the tension this morning…

Wouldn’t be the first time I got caught offside.

“Feeling better?” I ask, voice light.

She glances at me with a half-smile. “Much. Hot water works miracles, even up here.”

I nod, letting myself breathe a little easier. “I was about two seconds from coming in there to check on you. Thought you might’ve drowned.”

Emma laughs.

It's a little too loud, too fake… but hey, after the way she pulled back from my kiss this morning, right now, I’ll take it.

“Sorry. I just zoned out in there for a minute.”

She walks past me, towel tucked under her arm, wearing leggings and a long sweatshirt. To my surprise, she leans up on her toes and kisses my cheek like everything’s fine.

I watch Emma as she moves around the bedroom, getting dressed with quick, efficient movements.

Something still feels off, but I can't put my finger on it.

"So," she says suddenly, voice too bright, "I was thinking about the Arena Experience Day. We should finalize the book list for the kids' story time when we get back."

I frown. "The book list? You're thinking about that now?"

"Well, yes. But I'm second-guessing some of my choices." She pulls a brush through her hair, not meeting my eyes in the mirror. "And I need to order those custom jerseys we talked about."

"Emma—"

"Oh, and remind me to call Sophia about the setup for the hot chocolate station. I want to make sure we have enough space for both that and the book display."

I step closer, confused by this sudden business focus. Is this her way of pretending everything is fine? When it's clearly not.

"Hey, slow down. We've still got two days here. The competition isn't until next week."

Emma nods too quickly. "I know, I know. I just... want to be prepared. This space could really change things for me, Logan."

She finally looks at me, but her eyes slide away almost immediately.

"And I should probably check in with Lucy again. About the café. Make sure everything's running smoothly."

I reach for her hand, stopping her nervous fidgeting.

"Emma, what's going on? Ten minutes ago you were practically catatonic in the shower, and now you're running through a business checklist like we're heading back tomorrow."

"Nothing's going on," she says with a forced laugh. "I just need to stay focused. That's all. The shower helped me remember some things I need to take care of."

"In the middle of our getaway? The getaway you were excited about less than twenty-four hours ago?"

She pulls her hand away, busying herself with folding the towel. "People can multitask, Logan. My business doesn't stop just because—"

"Because what?"

I step closer, watching Emma's face carefully. The bathroom steam has left a dewy sheen on her skin, but something's changed in her eyes. They're distant now, clouded over like the sky before a storm.

"Because what?" I repeat, softer this time, reaching for her hand.

She looks up at me, and my chest tightens. The warmth in those golden depths is gone. That sparkle that's been there since our first night together, the one that made me feel like maybe I wasn't such a lost cause after all.

Instead, she's looking at me the way she looks at Mr. Harrow when he comes in for his daily americano. Like I'm just another customer. Just another guy who walks through her door.

"Because we're here," she finishes flatly. "That's all I was going to say."

I drop my hand, feeling the distance between us expand like ice cracking across a lake.

“C’mon,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Aren’t we supposed to be catching fish and slapping pucks with beer in hand?”

I blink, thrown by this weird shift in mood.

“Sure.”

This morning she looked like she wanted to crawl out of her skin. Now she’s cheerleading the idea of outdoor sports.

Yeah. Something’s not right.

Still, I follow her out.

We end up on the lake’s edge with fishing rods propped against logs, a puck balanced on a flat patch of frozen ground from a shaded corner that hasn’t fully thawed.

Nate’s already cracking open a beer, and Cole’s calling it “drunken preseason conditioning.”

Emma laughs in all the right places. She throws back a swig of beer and claps when Cole tries to slapshot the puck into an old tree stump and misses by a mile.

From the outside, she looks relaxed. Normal.

But every time I glance at her, her shoulders are too still. Her face too tight. Her laughs a little too polished.

And I know that version of her.

The one who performs when she’s not okay.

I’ve seen her throw on her “Chapter and Grind queen” persona when dealing with a shitty customer, or when she talks about her mom’s passive-aggressive jabs.

I know what it looks like when Emma’s being fine instead of real .

And today she’s acting.

About an hour later, Cole’s starting to talk about lunch, Nate’s packing up the rods, and Emma stands, brushing off her hands.

“I’m gonna go change real quick,” she says, voice light.

I watch her walk back toward the cabin and decide… fuck it. I toss my stick onto the ground and follow her up the trail.

Inside the cabin, the door creaks behind me as I step into the bedroom just as she’s digging through her weekend bag.

“Alright,” I say, quietly shutting the door behind me. My voice is steady, but it costs me. “Talk to me.”

Emma freezes, her back still to me.

“What have I done?” I prompt again.

Emma stands near the dresser, her back to me, arms now crossed tight like she’s holding herself together with sheer willpower.

But I know something’s coming.

I can feel it.

“Come on, Em,” I say, my voice low. “Talk to me. What have I done?”

She turns, and when our eyes meet, I feel it in my gut. Like I've just been hit mid-ice without my gear, the wind knocked clean out of me, that terrifying moment of suspension before the pain actually registers.

“You didn’t even tell me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Tell you? Tell you what?"

“About the trade.”

And just like that, realization crashes through me. My eyes snap wide. The final puzzle piece clicks into place.

Nate. Or Cole. Or both.

I’m going to kill them for opening their big fucking mouths.

But first, I have to fix this.

I take a step back, throat tightening. “Em—”

“No.” Her voice sharpens, slicing through the air like a slap. “Don’t you dare try to talk your way around this, Logan. You’ve had days . Days to tell me. Weeks, even! And you didn’t.”

“I didn’t want to upset you—”

“Oh, fuck that .” Her eyes flash, bright and glassy. “You say I’m important to you. That this— we —mean something. But you couldn’t even tell me something that could rip us apart?”

I exhale slowly, raising a hand. "Emma, I was going to—"

"When?" she snaps. "When it was already done? When you were halfway to another city and I was still standing at the rink wondering why the hell you ghosted me?"

"It’s not like that."

"Then tell me how it is," she demands. "Because from where I’m standing, that's exactly how it looks."

I wince. Her words slice deeper than I expect.

"I didn’t want to worry you," I say, quiet. "It's not even official. I don't even know if it's me being traded. It’s just noise, Emma. There's always noise before the season starts."

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. Just disbelief.

"You think that makes it better? That it's 'just noise'? You say I’m important to you, but you couldn’t even tell me something that could potentially rip us apart. You let me believe we were building something—"

"We are building something," I cut in, desperate now.

But she steps back like I slapped her.

Jesus. My brothers didn’t just open the door to all of this. They kicked it off the damn hinges. Nate’s going to owe me a new fishing rod after this is all done.

"Then why the hell didn’t you trust me?"

I run a hand through my hair, pacing a few feet, heart pounding. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I was trying to protect it. Protect you .”

Emma lets out a bitter laugh that cracks something inside me.

"You don’t protect someone by lying to them, Logan. You protect them by telling the truth. By letting them stand beside you, not behind you."

“I wasn’t lying,” I say, stepping forward. “I was—”

“— Withholding , Logan. That’s the same thing in my book.”

I flinch. Because dammit… she’s not wrong.

She backs up, voice shaking now. “So tell me… Was I just something to keep you warm while you waited for your next city?”

“No!” I say, louder than I mean to. “Christ, Emma, no. I don't even know what I want. The Icehawks don't even know yet.”

I want to tell her it’s not like that.

That trades, contracts, new cities… they’re all part of the game.

That nothing in my world is ever guaranteed, no matter how hard you fight for it.

But that excuse?

It’s not going to matter to a woman like Emma. Not when she’s spent her whole life having to prove she deserves a seat at the table. When people have looked at her dreams and treated them like hobbies. When she’s had to claw her way through whispers and side-eyes just to get taken seriously.

I look at her. Really look at her.

And all I can think is how much she’s right to be angry. Because I’ve been an idiot. I’ve been afraid to tell her and now it's too late.

I’ve handled this like I always do… by trying to shoulder it alone.

“I'm sorry, okay? Emma, I didn’t tell you…” I say, voice raw. “Because I didn’t think this would happen."