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CHAPTER 15

LOGAN

I was sitting in my truck, trying to delay meeting up with my dad when my phone buzzed. I grinned when I saw it was from Ari. I could spare a few more minutes.

Ari: Treachery, betrayal, a knife in the heart.

Lincoln: Someone give Lancaster a cookie.

Ari: Sarcasm? That’s what you give me when I come to you with those words.

Camden: Is this an SOS type of situation. Or a summer ombre sausages kind of thing.

I snorted, shaking my head.

Me: Good one, Grandpappy.

Camden: …

Ari: As I was saying…

Ari: Wait, why hasn’t Disney responded. We need his simpage.

Camden: Well, you’re not Lincoln…so I’m not sure how much simpage there would be.

Lincoln: Excellent point, Hero.

Ari Lancaster removed Camden James from the chat.

This was my time to shine.

Logan York added Camden James to the chat.

Ari: Shame. Shame. Shame.

Walker: You’ve been watching Bridgerton again, haven’t you?

Ari: Oh, now you show up.

Lincoln: We’re all waiting with bated breath for what you have to tell us.

Ari: Oh, yes. THE TREACHERY!

Ari: I posted a thirst trap for Blake Babycakes Lancaster.

Walker: As one does.

Ari: …

Camden: And…

Ari: I’m never going to be able to finish this story if you keep interrupting me.

Camden: I was trying to act engaged.

Lincoln: A man above men, Hero.

Me: I feel like you’re interrupting yourself here, Lancaster.

I found myself blocked for that one.

I stared at the phone, waiting for someone to let me back in.

I waited…

And I waited…

After fifteen fucking minutes, Camden added me back into the chat.

Me: That was cruel and unusual punishment, gentlemen.

Ari: The fact that you’re back in here is cruel and unusual punishment, actually.

Me: …

Camden: Excellent use of that, Rookie.

I preened at the compliment.

Me: Thank you.

Ari: …

Ari: As I was saying…

Me: You still haven’t told us. What have you been doing?

Ari: My finger is on the remove key…don’t make me do it, Rookie.

Walker: My child is going to be two before this conversation goes anywhere.

I scrolled back through the messages, trying to see if I had actually missed something. But it was mostly just pictures of Disney’s daughter, Isabella, the cutest child on Earth, that had somehow entered the chat. A worthy distraction.

Ari: I posted a thirst trap. DO NOT RESPOND TO THIS UNTIL I’M DONE SPEAKING.

Ari: And that’s when I realized…

A minute passed, and it hit me that I was still staring at my phone in anticipation of what he was going to say.

Lincoln: Please tell me Blake didn’t give you the look right in the middle of the story.

Ari: Oh, are you still there?

Walker: …

Me: Keeping us on our toes, Lancaster. I like it.

Camden: Why can I picture him preening right now?

Ari: Because that’s what he’s literally doing (this is Blake btw).

Walker: Snort.

Ari: Sorry for that interruption. Can’t believe my wife did me dirty like that. Although she’s a baby angel face, and I love everything about her.

Ari: Of note, Disney, that was unladylike.

Me: OMG. JUST TELL US THE STORY.

Ari: So shouty, Rookie.

Lincoln: …

Ari: As I was saying. I posted my thirst trap. Waited for all of you to like it.

Ari: And that’s when I saw it.

Lincoln: I swear if you drag this out again…

Ari: I would never.

Ari: Geraldine is following all of you. ALL OF YOU.

Ari: But not me.

Ari: I’m distraught. Destroyed. Hanging on the edge of the cliff.

Lincoln: …

Camden: …

Walker: …

Me: Shame! Shame! Shame!

Ari Lancaster removed Logan York from the chat.

I snorted and shook my head, feeling considerably better about life, even though I still hated what I was about to do. I took a deep breath and got out of the truck.

My good mood evaporated with every step I took.

Why was I doing this? That was the question of the day. When I could be stalking my new obsession, I was meeting up with the man who hadn’t deigned to come watch me play in my first Stanley Cup until the fourth game.

But only because he had a media event he’d been invited to.

There’d been no excuses for why he’d missed the others, no apologetic phone calls or texts. I was positive he hadn’t even watched the games on TV—judging by the fact he hadn’t called to chew me out about my performance after that first game.

So again, why was I doing this?

Probably because for some reason the inner kid inside me was still waiting for the day when my only living relative woke up…and thought I was worth something.

Pathetic.

On that note…

I walked into the bar, the familiar pit in my stomach tightening with each step. There he was right in the middle of it all, holding court like a king surrounded by his loyal subjects. The laughter around him was too loud, too eager, like everyone was auditioning for his approval.

And they probably were. He thrived on that.

Unlike me, who wanted to be surrounded by people I could respect and who I wanted to be like someday, a “circle of trust,” so to speak. My father preferred his crowd to be the kind that tripped over themselves just to suck up to him—more like hyenas than anything else. The kind who’d laugh a little too hard at his jokes and nod a little too quickly at whatever stupid thing he decided to throw their way. His taste in friends was as deep as his taste in women. Hence his three divorces since my mom had left us.

He still looked good, though. A close reflection of the NFL star he’d been. Grant York kept himself up like he had something to prove, and even in this bar he was wearing a lean, polished suit, and his hair was perfectly styled. His smile flashed, all teeth and charm, and the group around him ate it up like they were starving for it. But I’d seen that smile too many times to be fooled.

As I made my way across the room, the anxious knot in my chest tightened. They never went well, these meetings. They always started with him throwing out some backhanded compliment, then spiraling into passive-aggressive remarks about my career or life choices. And I’d sit there, pretending it didn’t bother me, while his entourage looked on like they were watching the main act at some twisted theater.

I stepped closer, feeling the weight of his presence before I'd even reached him. His head turned, eyes locking onto me. The smile didn’t falter, but there was something in his gaze—a flicker of something unreadable, maybe disappointment, maybe indifference. I couldn’t tell, and at this point, it didn’t really matter.

“Well, well,” Dad said, his voice dripping with smooth confidence as his arm lifted in that too-casual gesture, like we were just catching up after a round of golf instead of walking into another verbal sparring match. “Look who decided to join us.”

I forced a smile, already bracing myself. “Hey, Dad.”

The eyes around him shifted toward me, the piranhas recognizing me as someone else they could potentially leech from. Unfortunately for them, I had a no-leech policy.

Dad didn’t hug me. Didn’t even pretend to. Instead he leaned back in his chair, hands gesturing dramatically as he dove into a story that was so tired, I could recite it in my sleep. “So there we were, fourth quarter, two minutes left on the clock, down by six. The whole stadium was on its feet. You could feel the tension, you know? Everyone was holding their breath.” He paused, like he always did, soaking in the admiration from the guys around him.

I mouthed the words as he continued, eyes lighting up like this wasn’t the millionth time he’d told the story. “Coach calls a timeout, pulls us all in. Everyone’s looking at me— everyone . It was like they knew who the ball was going to.”

The group around him leaned in, nodding along like this was some new revelation.

“So we line up,” he said, his voice lowering like he was building suspense. “And the ball snaps. The defense comes at me hard, but I spin right past them. The crowd goes nuts . I can still hear the roar.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He always acted like he could still hear that roar.

“Then…” Dad said, leaning forward as if he was actually saying something important. “I see it—the gap. I go for it, full speed. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten. Touchdown! Game over. I won the Super Bowl for them.”

The guys around him exploded into applause, laughing and slapping him on the back like he was still the star of the night. “Hell of a play, man,” one of them said. “Best I’ve ever seen.”

I could even do the dramatic pause he always used right before the big moment—that was how many times he’d told that story. His friends leaned in, though, hanging on every exaggerated detail like they hadn’t heard it a million times too. But that’s what they were there for—to worship at the altar of Dad’s past.

I sat there, fading into the background, just part of the scenery. I could have been anyone, really. He’d glance my way once or twice, just enough to acknowledge my presence without ever actually speaking to me. The conversation flowed around me, the spotlight firmly on him, while I became the invisible son at the edge of the table. I couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that he’d decided to ignore me today instead of insulting me.

Probably better.

It went on like that for at least thirty minutes. Him talking, them nodding and laughing in all the right places, while I sat there pretending I wasn’t counting down the seconds until I could leave. My foot tapped under the table, a slow, growing beat of impatience.

Until I finally was sick of his shit. I stood up, pushing my chair back a little too hard, the legs scraping against the floor. “I’ve got to get to the arena,” I said, the lie easily slipping out.

Dad barely looked up. “That’s all you can spare for your old man?” he said sarcastically, like I’d been the one ignoring him this entire time.

I felt the burn of the comment, harsh and familiar. But I swallowed it down and said nothing. What was the point of arguing? It was always the same with him. He was always right.

Without another word, I turned and walked out.

I had much better things to do than sit through a recitation of Grant York’s glory days. I needed to continue to work on how to get my girl.