Page 4

FOUR

LOGAN

The thud of my cleats hitting the hard concrete floor of the locker room echoed in my ears as I trudged toward my locker. The postgame buzz was subdued—understandable, given the way our asses had just been handed to us.

I shoved my bag onto the bench and ripped off my jersey, biting back the sting in my left knee that flared with the movement.

Thirty-four wasn’t old—not in the grand scheme of things. But on the field, surrounded by a sea of twentysomethings with springs in their legs and no concept of limitations, it felt ancient.

A low whistle sounded, and I looked up to see Jack grinning at me. “Rough game, old man.” He was a winger and a decade younger than me. A smirk was plastered on his face as he peeled off his muddy socks.

“Watch it,” I growled, my tone sharper than I intended.

Jack was twenty-four, fast as hell, and one of the younger guys the team had brought on for exhibition matches. He was talented, sure, but the kind of player who didn’t yet understand what he didn’t know.

He laughed, shaking his head. “Relax, Logan. Just saying you could’ve used some WD-40 out there.” He pretended to run in slow motion from the bench. “Grease the wheels a little.”

I shot him a glare that shut him up, but the words stuck.

WD-40. Jesus.

I hated to admit that he might be right. Every ache, every slow recovery, every half-second hesitation on the field, made it feel like I might as well be dead and buried. Every twinge was a whisper of doubt.

Was this the year my body finally said enough?

I wasn’t ready to listen. Not yet. But, damn, it was getting harder to ignore.

The loss stung more than it should have. Exhibition games didn’t count for anything, but they mattered to me. I needed to prove to myself—and to everyone else—that I still had it.

But today I hadn’t.

Since the age of fourteen, my entire life has revolved around rugby. My success and reputation meant everything—it was who I was. It was what got Mom and me out of poverty. One slip could mean losing everything I’d worked for, and if there wasn’t rugby, what the hell else was there?

By the time I hobbled into my apartment later that evening, my frustration was a living, breathing beast.

The small space felt stifling, even though I’d barely decorated it. On the mantel were a few framed pictures of the Olympic team and one of me standing next to Mom as I hoisted a gold medal into the air. Their glossy surfaces caught the fading light through the window.

I dropped my gear by the door and limped to the freezer, grabbing an ice pack and wrapping it around my knee. The stiffness was worse today, but it wasn’t just the physical discomfort that gnawed at me. It was the thought that maybe my body wasn’t going to bounce back the way it always had.

The couch creaked as I sank into it, flipping on the TV for background noise. Some generic small-town news anchor droned about the upcoming fall harvest. I muted it after thirty seconds.

The contrast between this sleepy town and the electric pace of my usual life was glaring. No sprawling cities, no high-stakes tournaments, no constant movement across continents.

And yet the peace here wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, but the memory of a certain sharp-tongued nurse invaded my thoughts.

MJ’s hazel eyes had a way of sparking with fire one moment and softening the next, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to let her guard down or not.

She wasn’t like most women I encountered. Usually they were eager, excited, quick to laugh at anything I said. MJ had been ... different. She didn’t fawn. She didn’t try to impress me. If anything, she seemed hell-bent on resisting whatever pull we might’ve had.

And I liked it more than I should.

But the last thing I needed was a distraction. Especially one as unpredictable as her.

When the silence grew into the wrong kind of quiet, I found myself standing up before I realized what I was doing, tossing the ice pack aside and grabbing my keys.

The drive was uneventful, the sun setting in streaks of orange and pink across the horizon. By the time I pulled into Outtatowner, the town was alive with a gentle hum of activity. String lights hung like boughs across the storefronts, glowing softly as people meandered from shop to shop. I parked my truck near Bluebird Books and stepped out, feeling like an outsider in a place where everyone seemed to know one another.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, exactly, but I walked anyway, my hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket, taking in the town that felt both foreign and familiar.

The tattoo shop caught my eye first, its neon sign glowing in the window. Inside, a man with sleeves of ink leaned over a customer as they discussed a design. I lingered by the door, glancing at the drawings taped to the window—a mix of delicate florals and bold, edgy pieces.

“You thinking about getting something?” a woman’s voice asked, pulling my attention.

I turned to see a petite woman with angular features and a confident smirk. Her hair was bleached icy blond, and she wore a leather jacket and short miniskirt despite the crisp September air.

“Not today,” I replied, giving her a polite smile. “Just looking.”

She tilted her head. Diamond piercings in her cheeks glinted as she studied me with a curiosity that felt a little too perceptive. “You’re not from here, but also not a tourist.”

I looked down at my jeans and jacket. “Is it that obvious?”

Her laugh rang out as she pulled a cigarette from her purse. “Very. You’re the rugby player.”

My brows lifted in surprise. “How’d you know?”

“Small town,” she said with a shrug. The woman placed the cigarette to her lips, but didn’t light it. “People around here like to talk, and you gave them plenty to talk about when you followed MJ into the bookstore.”

I nodded slowly as the woman continued to suck on the unlit cigarette. “Do you need a light?”

“Nah, I quit.” She smiled and gestured toward the shop. “It just annoys the boss that I still take breaks.” The woman vaguely gestured across the street. “If you’re looking for MJ, you’re in the wrong place. She’s working tonight.”

“I’m not—” I started, but she raised a brow, cutting me off.

“Sure you’re not.” Her smirk widened as she stepped back and dropped the cigarette into her purse. “Good luck, city boy.”

Before I could respond, she disappeared into the tattoo shop, leaving me feeling both amused and utterly confused.

I wandered aimlessly for a while longer, down to the end of the lighthouse pier and back up again. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spilled out from the town’s local bar. It would’ve been easy to step inside, grab a drink, and blend into the crowd, but my heart wasn’t in it.

I was restless, unsure of what I was even doing here.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, seeing Trent’s name flash across the screen. I answered on the third ring, bringing the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice neutral as I made my way toward my truck.

“Hey, man,” Trent said, his tone light. “How’d today’s game go?”

I sighed, ignoring the fact I was still favoring my knee. “We lost.”

“Damn. Thought you were the golden boy of the exhibition matches,” he joked.

“Yeah, well, not today.” I rubbed a hand over my face, fresh irritation prickling under my skin.

“Come on, man,” Trent said, his tone turning vaguely patronizing. “It’s just an exhibition game. You’re not playing for a medal here.”

“I know that,” I snapped, the edge in my voice surprising even me. “I just ... something isn’t the same anymore, and I don’t like it.”

“Getting old sucks, doesn’t it?” Trent joked, but there was an undertone to his words that didn’t sit right. “Don’t sweat it, though. You’ll get through the offseason and be back to training before you know it.”

“Maybe,” I muttered, my grip tightening on the phone. Next season was starting to feel like a distant, fragile hope—a final chance to prove I wasn’t done yet.

“Anyway,” Trent continued, his tone shifting. “You’re probably drowning in postgame groupies. We need to catch up soon so I can get in on that.”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing the word out. “Thankfully, there aren’t really any groupies here.”

There was a pause, and then Trent chuckled lightly. “Thankfully? You really are losing your edge. Where are you?”

“Outtatowner.” I smiled, because even the name was quirky and charming.

He laughed again. “Well, you’re in the middle of nowhere. What’d you expect? There’s absolutely nothing memorable about that shitty town.”

I harrumphed a noncommittal noise. I could feel my irritation growing, so I ended the call before I let my shitty mood ruin my best friend’s night too.

When the call ended, I stared at the screen for a moment before slipping it into my pocket. I looked around the quaint little town. It really wasn’t half bad if you were into blueberries, crappy diners, and nurses who were excessively hot and wanted nothing to do with you.

I chuckled because, let’s face it, I just happened to like all three.