Page 34

THIRTY-FOUR

LOGAN

The hotel room was too quiet, the kind of quiet that crawled under your skin and turned every thought into a scream. My rugby jersey hung over the back of the chair, its fabric still damp with sweat. Cleats sat abandoned by the door, the earthy scent of grass and dirt clinging to the air.

I paced, the scratchy carpet scraping against the soles of my feet, the ache in my muscles from the game forgotten under the heavier ache in my chest. My knee screamed with overuse, and every step felt like I was wearing down the threadbare rug—and myself along with it.

My phone sat on the desk, the screen dark, but it may as well have been glaring at me.

I shouldn’t have left things like that with her.

Her face haunted me. The way her eyes shone with unshed tears, hard and hurt all at once.

Her voice, trembling but intense: You weren’t going to tell me at all, were you?

She hadn’t even yelled, which somehow made it worse. She had just looked at me, her disappointment hitting harder than any tackle ever could.

I grabbed my phone, desperate for some kind of relief, but the only message waiting wasn’t from her. It was from Coach.

Coach

Congrats again, Brown. You’ll be missed, but it’s time to focus on what’s next.

I tossed the phone onto the bed like it had burned me, the message taunting me.

Focus on what’s next? Coach didn’t even know what that was. He thought it meant playing for the Sevens again, another Olympic run––rejoining the grind of early mornings, endless travel, and a schedule that never let me plant roots.

Fuck that.

I’d spent my whole life chasing that dream. And once it was in front of me again, it felt...different. Hollow. Like the version of myself it belonged to didn’t exist anymore.

My hands fisted at my sides as I tried to push away the guilt and disappointment that would inevitably be thrown my way.

I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, my gaze catching on the jersey draped over the chair. It used to mean everything to me. Every play, every whistle, every moment on the field—it was who I was.

Or at least who I thought I was.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, the stubble on my jaw rough against my palms.

The field used to be the only place I could breathe. She had changed everything.

I should have called her the second Coach pulled me aside. The only dream I wanted to chase was the dream of building a life with her.

MJ had every right to be pissed at me. I should’ve told her. I should’ve sat her down and explained everything before the announcement blindsided both of us. But I hadn’t. And now she was pulling back before I could explain that I was choosing her .

I dropped my head into my hands, the ache in my chest clawing at me.

She was different. She felt like home in a way nothing else ever had. The thought was electric and terrifying all at once.

I had promised her I was nothing like Trent. That I wouldn’t hurt her, and I don’t plan to. I knew I could be the man she needed.

My phone buzzed again, and for a split second my heart jumped, hoping it was her. Frustration swelled as I stared at the screen, and I didn’t even bother reading the message.

I typed out a text to MJ instead.

Can we talk? I didn’t want it to happen like that. I need you to understand.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the send button. My chest felt tight, my breath uneven. I wanted to hit send, but the fear of what her reply might say—or worse, if she didn’t reply at all—kept my finger frozen.

I threw the phone down again and raked a hand through my hair, pulling hard until it stung. My frustration bubbled over, and before I could think twice, I picked the phone back up and hit the number I always called when I needed advice.

“Logan,” Arthur’s voice grumbled on the other end, thick with sleep. “How was the match, son?”

“I screwed up, Grandpa,” I said, my voice breaking despite my effort to keep it steady.

He cleared his throat. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. Are you hurt?”

“It’s MJ,” I admitted, my throat tightening. “There was an announcement at the game about me being called up to the Sevens. I hadn’t told her first. She thinks I’m leaving—that I’m picking rugby over her. And I didn’t get the chance to tell her I want to turn it down. She’s pissed and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Arthur let out a long breath, the kind that usually came before a lecture. “I’ve always told you that life is about choices. You’re certain you’re ready to give it all up?”

“I’m sure,” I said, my voice thick under the weight of the truth. “Maybe there’s a small part of me that doesn’t have a clue what comes next, but I know what I want.”

“I knew you’d get your head out of your ass eventually,” he chuckled. “I know you don’t like disappointing people, son, but sometimes it happens. The best you can do is live your life as authentically as you can. The rest will fall into place.”

The line went quiet for a beat, his words hitting me harder than I wanted to admit. “You know, you could never have had both, boy—not with a woman like her. You went with your heart. I’ve never been more proud of you than right now.”

Hope unfurled in my chest. “Thanks, Grandpa.” I sighed and dragged a hand through my hair. “Now I’ve got to figure out a way to get her to talk to me.”

His soft chuckle floated through the line. “She’ll come around. I have a feeling you aren’t the only one who’s tangled up right now. Maybe try a grand, heartfelt gesture. Greta’s books always have someone screwing things up and having to decapitate a rival mafia boss to prove his love.”

Jesus.

I shook my head and smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again.”

When we hung up, I sat in silence for what felt like hours. My gaze landed on the jersey again, the fabric limp and lifeless over the chair. It was everything I used to be. Everything I used to want.

But it wasn’t about rugby anymore. I was ready to figure out who I was without the field or the constant noise or the medals.

I stood and moved to the window, my reflection staring back at me in the glass. The city lights blurred behind me, but the voice in my head was clear, low, and determined.

I can’t lose her.

My phone buzzed in my hand, pulling my focus back. I turned it over, my chest tightening when I saw her name on the screen.

I immediately answered. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I could tell she’d been crying, and my hand curled into a fist.

“Listen,” I started.

“Logan, I would like to talk.”

One corner of my mouth tugged up at her bold self-assurance.

When I was quiet, she continued: “I don’t know if you leaving means that whatever we have is done, or if we’re talking about a long-distance situation, or what. I love my job. I can’t imagine just, what? Following you around while you travel the globe? My family, friends—my life —is here. I’m asking for some time to process this and figure out what I truly want...then we can talk.”

The words sent a rush of hope and heavy dread through me, twisting in my gut.

“I understand,” I rasped.

Whatever happened next, I knew one thing for sure—I would never go back to the life I had before her.