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THIRTY

LOGAN

It felt like forever since I’d seen MJ—long days of extra drills, strategy meetings, and barely catching my breath as we prepped for the away game.

Sleepless nights where I’d told myself to focus, to keep my head in the game. But every time I closed my eyes, she was there—messy hair, soft smile, looking at me like I was someone worth trusting.

The snap of the ball, the rush of cleats against turf, the rhythmic hum of breath and muscle—practice felt electric today. Every pass, every run, every play connected like clockwork.

I hadn’t felt this smooth in years.

“Nice work, Brown! Nice work!” Coach’s voice and claps cut through the cool morning air as I broke through the defense and touched the ball down across the try line. Adrenaline thrummed through my veins.

I jogged to the huddle, my teammates slapping my back, shouting encouragement. The easy camaraderie felt natural, the way it always had when I was locked in like this.

But today was different.

Since I’d met MJ, something had changed.

At first I chalked it up to superstition—a string of good games that started when she showed up, her laugh cutting through the noise in my head, her smile steadying me in ways I couldn’t explain.

I had told myself she was a lucky charm. Nothing more.

But now, running drills and pushing through tackles, it didn’t feel like luck anymore.

It felt like her.

Like she’d slipped into the cracks of my life without me noticing, making everything brighter, more meaningful.

Practice wrapped up with sprints, the kind of grueling, sweat-soaked punishment Coach loved to dish out. By the time we hit the showers, my legs felt like lead, but my head was clear.

“Brown,” Coach called as I grabbed my gear bag. “Need a word.”

I followed him to his office, the smell of leather and liniment heavy in the air.

“You’ve been playing like a man on fire,” he said, settling into his chair. “Whatever’s gotten into you—keep it up.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

He leaned back, his expression softening into something almost ... proud. “I got the news. You’re getting called up, Logan. Sevens want you back. It’s official.”

The words hit me like a freight train, the air leaving my lungs in one heavy rush.

Called up.

This was it. The second chance I’d spent months chasing. The dream I’d sacrificed everything for was real.

So why didn’t it feel like good news?

Sitting here, staring at his desk, all I could think about was her. The way she smiled, like she didn’t know how beautiful she was. The way she kissed me, like I was someone worthy of her light.

What if leaving meant losing that? Losing her?

What if staying meant losing everything else?

I managed a nod, my voice even. “When do they need me?”

“After this week’s game,” Coach said, his tone light, almost celebratory.

A small sigh of relief escaped me. I still had time to talk with MJ and tell her the news of the call-up and my inkling to decline the offer.

We could figure out what came next––together.

“You’ll wrap up this week’s game, and then it’s straight to training camp with the Sevens squad. They want you ready for the next tournament cycle. Pretty soon, you’ll be headed to South Africa.”

South Africa. Fuck.

I nodded again, the reality settling over me like a weight I wasn’t ready to carry. I’d be facing disappointed coaches, sponsors, and fans. Quitting was essentially setting my entire life on fire and walking away from the blaze.

MJ’s face flashed in my mind—her laugh, the way she kissed me in the truck like she trusted me not to break her.

And here I was, on the verge of leaving the only life I knew behind.

I’d spent years chasing this dream, telling myself it was enough. And maybe it was—until her.

Practice had worn me out, but the ache in my chest had nothing to do with the lingering stiffness in my knee or the burn in my muscles.

Back at the hotel, I reclined against the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through the same notifications I’d already seen twice. The soft hum of the heater filled the silence, but it didn’t drown out the restless energy buzzing under my skin.

Practice had been good—great, even—but the high I usually rode after a session like that felt muted. Off.

I couldn’t wait to talk to her––tell her I was in love with her and hope like hell she felt the same way.

I pulled up MJ’s number, my thumb hovering over the screen. A quick text was all I needed. Something simple to feel like she wasn’t so far away.

Hey. How’s book club? Did they grill you about me again?

I set the phone down and waited.

Nothing. Not even the dots that showed she was typing.

She always answered. Even when it was a short, sarcastic reply, she always answered. The silence felt wrong—like a crack forming in something I hadn’t even realized I was holding together.

It wasn’t like her. My gut twisted as I picked the phone back up, staring at the screen like I could will her reply into existence.

She was probably busy, I told myself. Or tired. Or maybe I was overthinking it.

The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth. I locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed, dragging a hand through my hair.

I paced the room, the carpet soft under my bare feet, but the tension didn’t ease. Not even a hot shower had shaken the feeling that something wasn’t right.

I sat down again, my phone still stubbornly quiet. Even as I tried to tell myself not to read into it, the unanswered text sat heavy in the back of my mind.

What the hell was I doing, anyway?

I’d spent years building my life around one thing—rugby. Focus. Discipline. Always moving forward. And now here I was, sitting in a hotel room, letting my head spin over one unanswered text like I didn’t know better.

But even as I told myself to let it go, the quiet buzz of unanswered questions stayed with me.

The silence hit me harder than I expected. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over her name like just seeing it could give me some kind of answer. I thought about how I would tell her—about the call-up, about everything—but no version of the words felt right.

How do you tell someone you got the second chance of a lifetime and you don’t even want to go?

That conversation was one that needed to happen face to face.

Unable to sit still, I grabbed my running shoes and hit the pavement. The night air was crisp against my skin, the rhythmic thud of my feet against the asphalt grounding me.

The cool air hit my lungs like a challenge, painful and unrelenting. My feet pounded against the pavement, each step a heartbeat, each breath a question I didn’t have an answer to.

The city lights blurred as I ran, their glow too bright, too harsh. My chest burned, my legs ached, but nothing could outrun the thoughts chasing me down.

MJ was there in every step, every breath, every thump of my heart.

I replayed Coach’s words in my mind, the ones he’d said months ago when I’d started on the exhibition squad: “You don’t get second chances in this game, Logan. You’ve got to decide what you want and go after it, full throttle.”

I had agreed at the time, nodding like I understood.

This was rugby. This was everything.

Rugby had always been the answer. The thing that gave my life purpose, that kept me moving forward when everything else felt like it was standing still. But now, with MJ in the picture, the edges of that certainty were morphing into something else entirely.

If rugby wasn’t everything ... what was left of me?

I picked up my pace, my lungs burning, my legs screaming for relief.

By the time I made it back to my hotel, my chest was heaving, sweat dripping down my back. I dropped onto the small bench by the front entrance, the glow of the parking lot lights cutting through the dark as I stared at my phone, heavy in my hand.

MJ’s number was still pulled up on the screen.

I stared at her name, my thumb hovering over the call button.

I could talk with her tomorrow, but even as I set the phone down, something in my chest twisted.

Why was it when you loved someone, tomorrow always seemed too far away?