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Chapter Twenty-Six

Logan

B ig Mike’s office feels like it always has.

Like power wrapped in pine, steel, and cold air-conditioning that runs too hard no matter the season. The massive floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk frames the practice rink below, currently empty, but the ghost of a thousand drills and bruises still lives in that ice.

Framed jerseys line the right-hand wall. Green and gray shirts of captains of past decades, a legacy stitched in sweat and blood.

On the left trophies gleam behind glass. The Stanley Cup we won in Vegas last season dead-center, flanked by years of hard-earned banners from rivalries across the country.

Beneath it all, a sleek conference table stretches like a runway of broken dreams and quiet retirements. I’ve sat at this table before. A few contract renewals. Some strategy sessions and leadership talks as I rose through the ranks of the team.

But this time, I already know how this meeting ends.

Coach Brody is leaned back in one of the leather chairs, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he's trying not to grind it into dust. Our captain, Blake Maddox, sits beside him, elbows on the table, tension radiating off him in waves.

Despite lining up next to me on the ice for nearly a decade, Blake won’t look at me this morning. Not yet, anyway.

Big Mike stands when I enter, all business in a suit that's too sharp for a hockey-obsessed town.

“Logan Kane,” he says. “Appreciate you coming in early.”

I nod and sit without a word.

The walls feel closer than usual. The Icehawks crest behind Big Mike’s chair stares at me like it knows it’s the last time we’ll meet like this.

“I've got a flight to catch, so we better get right to it,” Big Mike says, folding his hands on the table. “Listen, Logan… You’ve been the backbone of this franchise for almost a decade. You’ve led this team through some of its hardest—and proudest—years.”

He gestures to the Stanley Cup trophy behind us. The memory of lifting that is something that will stay with me forever, no matter what happens next.

I nod again, staying silent.

“Look, there’s no easy way to say this,” Coach Brody says, finally meeting my eyes. His voice is rough. “After the success of last season, we’ve been fielding trade offers to keep the momentum we've built through our current roster strength."

Big Mike chimes in over the top. "As you would know by now, we've had plenty of interest. And Seattle’s offer…"

He glances to Blake, then to Coach Brody who shifts awkwardly in his chair.

"The trade with Seattle makes sense for the long-term vision of the Icehawks,” Coach Brody says with finality, the look in his eyes different to the one I saw in the locker room two days ago.

Big Mike adds, “You’ve been a pillar, Logan. But the time has come.”

There it is. The break. The shift. The goodbye behind velvet words and measured tones.

But I don’t flinch. I don’t explode or kick and scream. I don’t punch walls or tip the table upside down or storm out like they’re probably bracing for.

Because all I can hear is Emma…

Her laugh echoing down the lake. The sound she made when she reeled in that tiny trout and demanded we name it “Captain Sassy.” I hear the soft moan she made against my neck when I kissed her for the first time.

The way her fingers curled in my shirt when I told her I loved her, after crawling to her to forgive me for being an idiot.

I think of her shelves at Chapter & Grind—the one by the kitchen still missing the final screws. The one I promised to finish weeks ago and still haven't.

The stool Grandpa Walt always complains about. I told him I’d fix it just so he'd stop complaining.

And now there’s the new café space.

It's big and empty. Brimming with possibility that Emma doesn't shut up about in her moments of quiet reflection.

She’ll need help wiring the espresso machine.

Mounting those vintage hockey signs we found in that dusty antique shop on the drive back down the mountain.

She's talked about making the kids’ reading corner a permanent place inside the new store, and I'll be fucked if anyone but me is gonna help make that happen for her.

They’re still talking. Coach Brody and Mike and Blake, voices low and carefully respectful as they reveal details of the trade.

But the thing is… I’m already gone.

Not in a bitter way.

Just moved on.

Because for the first time in my life, I realize hockey doesn’t own me. Not anymore.

She does.

I stare at the ice through the window, remembering my mother's final call. Her voice had been thin, strained, but still so determined to sound normal.

"It's just a check-up, Logan. Nothing to worry about."

Three weeks later, she was gone, and I was in Denver, playing the most important game of my rookie season. I didn't check my phone until after we'd won. By then, she was already gone, and the funeral arrangements were set for the day of our next game.

I played while they buried her.

I played while my brothers stood shoulder to shoulder without me.

I played because hockey was everything. Because I thought that's what she would have wanted.

But now, I wonder if what she really would have wanted was for me to be there. To say goodbye.

I think of the small fishing village on Finland's coast where she grew up. The place she'd describe on quiet winter nights when I was a kid. That place I've always dreamed of visiting.

Stone cottages with red roofs. The smell of the Baltic. How the northern lights would dance across the water in winter.

Now I picture taking Emma there.

Walking those same shores my mother once walked. Finding the cottage where she was born. Showing Emma the place that made half of who I am.

I can see Emma sketching the harbor, collecting shells, laughing as I teach her the few Finnish phrases my mother taught me.

And suddenly it's so clear.

I've given everything to hockey. My youth. My body. Even my chance to say goodbye to my mother.

I won't make that mistake again. Not with Emma.

Blake leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Logan. You okay?”

I blink, refocusing on him.

They’re expecting a storm.

But I just… exhale.

“Yeah, you know what… I am."

There's a brief silence, but I take the moment to clear the air.

"I’ve been chasing pucks since I was five,” I say quietly. “My whole life, I thought this”—I nod around the room—“was the dream. And it was. It’s been one heck of a ride, it's meant everything to me.”

My voice catches, but I push through.

“But now… I’ve got a different dream.”

Big Mike frowns. “Logan, we know this is hard—”

I look up, meeting his eyes directly for the first time since I walked in.

"I'm not going to Seattle," I say simply. “Thank you. For everything. Coach, for giving me a jersey. Mike, for giving me a team. Blake, a family.”

Coach Brody’s jaw tics. Blake looks like he’s fighting something in his throat.

"I'm not sure what effect this will have on the trade deal with Seattle," I say, standing up from the table. "But now... that's not my problem. Big Mike, Coach Brody… As of this moment, I'm officially a retired hockey player."

The room freezes.

Coach Brody's mouth falls open. Blake's eyes widen like he's just seen a ghost.

"You're—what?" Big Mike sputters, half rising from his chair.

"Retiring," I repeat, the word feeling strange but right on my tongue. "Effective immediately."

Coach Brody recovers first, the hint of a smile on his lips, like he feels somehow influential on this sudden change. "Logan, are you sure about this?"

Big Mike's face has turned an interesting shade of red. "We're in the middle of negotiations with Seattle! Millions of dollars—"

"I understand that," I say calmly. “But I’ve found a new dream now. And I need to go get her. I can compensate the loss, or payout what's left of my contract with the Icehawks. Whatever needs to be done, I'll do it. But my mind is made up. I'm retired.”

The silence that follows is thick. Shock. Or maybe just respect.

I don't know. And I don't fucking care.

I reach across the table, shake Big Mike’s hand. Then Coach Brody’s. Then Blake’s.

And then I turn toward the door.

Head high. Heart full. Finally certain that for the first time in my life… I’m not chasing a puck.

I’m chasing her .

I slam my bag into the truck bed and yank the door open so hard it bounces back against my knee. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting to her.

My hands shake as I jam the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I'm already shifting into reverse, tires spitting gravel as I tear out of the arena parking lot.

Iron Ridge blurs past my window.

The diner where we had breakfast, the brewery from the festival, the corner where I first saw her fumbling with those coffee samples months ago.

Before I knew I loved her. Before… everything .

The truck climbs the mountain road, and I grip the wheel tighter.

But I feel… lighter.

For the first time in years, I’m not wondering who I’m supposed to be. Or what I’m supposed to sacrifice to stay on the roster. Or which bone I’ll break next to prove I still belong.

Because I already know where I belong.

With her .

Emma Carter came into my life like a sugar-sweet hurricane, all coffee stains, sarcasm, and those ridiculous handmade bookmarks she made me cut out.

She changed me.

Not in the way people talk about in those romance novels she keeps by her bed. Not some dramatic transformation or physical makeover.

But in the small ways that actually count.

The way I wake up now thinking about making her coffee before she stirs. The way I've started reading the books she leaves on my nightstand, just so we'll have something to talk about while she bakes the muffins ready to sell the next day.

I never needed any of that before. Never wanted it.

But now, she's made me feel human again.

She's taught me that mornings weren’t just for early skate and protein shakes. That they could be for lazy pancakes, sleepy kisses, and her fingertips brushing the scruff on my jaw while she murmurs nonsense about iced maple lattes and opening hours.

Now I can't imagine breathing without it.

I'm not just a name on a jersey. Not a contract to the suits in the boardroom. Not a body without a purpose.

I'm a man . Her man.

My foot pushes harder on the gas. Because shit… what if she thinks I left?

What if right now she’s thinking I chose the game over her? What if she thinks she wasn’t enough?

She doesn’t know I walked out of that office for her .

A red light slows me near the middle of town, and I smack the steering wheel once, trying to keep from crawling out of my skin. I roll to a stop just as the radio cuts to a new segment.

"— and finally, congratulations to Chapter & Grind, winner of the Icehawks Community Outreach Program! Owner Emma Carter will be expanding her popular bookstore and café into Icehawk Arena, bringing her famous 'Hat Trick' blend and literary magic to hockey fans all season long —"

I slam my palm against the steering wheel, a smile breaking across my face.

"That's my girlfriend!" I shout to the world, beaming from ear to ear.

I push the gas pedal to the floor, my truck eating up the pavement. The tires screech as I whip into a parking spot in front of Chapter & Grind, not caring that I'm half on the curb.

I throw the door of my truck open, not bothering to shut it behind me.

"Emma!" Her name tears from my throat, my boots pounding against the pavement.

I reach for the door handle, yanking it… but it doesn't budge.

My eyes snap to the window, where the CLOSED sign hangs crookedly in the glass. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush.

Closed?

Chapter and Grind is never closed this early. Never.

I press my face to the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes to block the glare. The lights are dimmed inside. There's no movement behind the counter. No Emma arranging muffins or wiping down tables or scribbling in that notebook of ideas on how to grow her business.

Just emptiness.

"Emma!" I call again, my voice bouncing off the glass and back at me.

My heart slams against my ribs, a trapped animal trying to break free. Where is she? She should be here, celebrating her win. She should be here so I can tell her I choose her. I always choose her.

I bang on the door with my fist, hard enough that the glass rattles in the frame.

"Emma!" The word comes out more desperate this time.

No answer.

I try the handle again, rattling it uselessly. I step back, scanning the windows of her apartment above the shop. No lights there either.

Panic crawls up my spine, cold fingers digging into my skin. My mouth goes dry.

Fuck.

I'm too late.

I turn around, leaning my back against the cold glass of her shop. I slide down until I'm sitting on the concrete, my head in my hands.

"She's not there."

The voice startles me.

I look up to find Grandpa Walt standing a few feet away, his weathered face calm despite my obvious distress.

"Walt." I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping in my hurry. "I need to find her. I need to tell her—"

His eyes twinkle knowingly. "That you're choosing my granddaughter over hockey?"

"Yes."

Walt studies me for a long moment, like he's measuring the weight of my words against some invisible scale only he can see. Finally, he nods, seemingly satisfied with what he finds.

"She's not here," he repeats, more gently this time. "But I know where she is, young man."

I step closer. "Take me to her."