🔥NEW POPULAR READ🔥

Prologue

Harper POV

The August sun hits like a spotlight when I step off the bus, and for a second, it’s hard to tell if the heat prickling under my skin is nerves or excitement. Probably both.

College. A new start. A clean page.

No one here knows who I was in high school — the quiet girl with the perfect GPA and the predictable life. Here, I get to decide who I am.

The student tour guide waves a clipboard in the air. “Welcome to Hartwell University! Let’s get started over by the quad!”

I adjust the strap of my bag and fall in with the crowd, doing my best to look like I belong. The campus smells like fresh-cut grass and coffee, and everyone’s talking over each other — new roommates, majors, dorms, everything at once.

And then I see him.

Of course I do.

Logan Shaw.

He’s standing a few rows back, hair still that messy brown that always looks like it should’ve fallen in his eyes but never quite does. Same careless grin. Same stupid confidence.

He’s got a hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, and even from here I can see how his arms have filled out since high school. He laughs at something a teammate says, loud and easy, like the world’s already decided to make room for him.

My heart drops, just a little.

Because for a second — only a second — I’m back in that hallway at West Ridge High, listening to him brag about skipping prom for “playoffs,” like feelings were a distraction, like people were just background noise to his goals.

Guess some things don’t change.

I square my shoulders and look away.

The tour guide points toward the bell tower, saying something about its history since the 1800s. Half the group’s listening. The other half is either texting or staring at the girl with the clipboard. Typical.

When I glance back again, Logan’s looking right at me.

Not by accident. Not even pretending it’s by accident.

His gaze is steady — curious, almost like he’s trying to remember if he’s supposed to know me. Then he smiles, small and lazy, like he does remember, and I instantly hate that it still does something to my stomach.

I tear my eyes away and focus on the map in my hands.

He’s just a guy. Just another athlete with a swagger and a scholarship. And I’m not the girl who waits around for people like him anymore.

By the time the tour ends, my nerves have settled into something steadier — determination, maybe. I can already picture the next four years: classes, sorority rush, internships. A life that’s mine.

But as I leave the group, I hear that laugh again — deep, confident, exactly the same as it used to sound echoing down locker-lined halls.

I glance over my shoulder.

Logan’s surrounded by new teammates already, his hand gesturing wildly as he talks. Girls drift past, pretending not to stare. He doesn’t notice me — or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Either way, I tell myself I’m relieved.

Because this is my new start. And Logan Shaw? He’s just part of my past.

Even if, for some reason I can’t explain, the thought of him still makes my pulse skip like it’s stuck between wanting to run away and wanting to look again.

——

Logan POV

The dorm smells like sweat and floor cleaner — that weird mix that somehow makes it feel like home.

My bag hits the floor with a thud, hockey sticks rattling against the wall. The room’s small, just two beds, two desks, one window that doesn’t open all the way. Nothing special, but it’s freedom.

Cole Matthews is already there, sitting backward on his desk chair, tapping a hockey puck against the wall like it’s a nervous tic. He looks up when I walk in. Blond hair, cocky grin, and shoulders that say he lives in the gym.

“Shaw, right?” he asks.

“Yeah. Logan.”

“Cole.” He grins, tossing the puck into the air and catching it. “You play defense?”

“Yup. You?”

“Center. Looks like we’ll be keeping each other alive this season.”

He stands, offering a handshake that’s a little too firm — the kind of thing athletes do when they’re sizing each other up. I match it.

Instant competition. Instant respect.

⸻

Later, I follow him to the rink. The place is freezing and loud — metal scraping, coaches barking, pucks slamming into boards. Heaven.

Coach Rourke blows his whistle the second we step on the ice. “Freshmen, line up!”

I knew college hockey would be brutal, but I wasn’t ready for this. Every sprint feels like punishment, every drill a reminder that being good in high school means nothing here.

By the end, my legs are shaking. My lungs burn. Cole’s grinning like a maniac.

“Still alive?” he asks.

“Barely,” I manage.

“Good. Means you did it right.”

We both laugh, and just like that, I know he’s going to be the closest thing I’ve got to a brother on this team.

⸻

By the time orientation rolls around, we’re walking into the crowd like we own the place.

We don’t, not yet. But someday, we will.

The tour guide’s this perky senior with a clipboard and a too-bright smile, talking about campus landmarks and alumni donors. None of it sticks. My head’s still half on the rink — the rhythm of blades on ice, the echo of the whistle.

Then, out of nowhere, I see her.

Harper Lane.

My brain stalls for a second.

She’s standing near the front of the group, sunlight catching her hair, posture straight like she’s got something to prove. She’s different — confident, sharper, not the soft-spoken girl I remember from back home.

I nudge Cole. “That’s someone I know.”

He glances her way, then back at me. “You dated?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Just knew her.”

He smirks. “You want to know her, though.”

I grin. “Maybe.”

She looks over her shoulder then — not by accident. Our eyes meet. There’s a flicker of recognition, followed by a look that’s hard to read. Not shy. Not impressed either.

That’s new.

Most girls smile back. She just…measures me, then turns away like she’s already decided I’m not worth her time.

It stings more than I want to admit.

⸻

After the tour, the crowd scatters toward the dining hall. I spot her near the edge of the group, phone in hand, pretending not to look around.

I walk up, hands in my pockets. “Harper Lane. Didn’t think you’d end up here.”

She looks up, expression cool. “Neither did I.”

“Guess West Ridge breeds overachievers.”

“Guess so.”

There’s this pause, tight but not uncomfortable. The kind that feels like something could happen if one of us wanted it to.

I give her a half-smile. “You rushing?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll fit right in. You’ve got that whole sorority thing down.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “And you’ve got the hockey player ego. Nice to see nothing’s changed.”

I laugh. Can’t help it. “You always did know how to take the fun out of flirting.”

She smiles, but it’s the polite kind. “You always did mistake arrogance for fun.”

Then she walks off before I can come up with a comeback.

Cole finds me a minute later. “Strike out already?”

I shrug. “Didn’t swing.”

He laughs. “Sure you didn’t.”

But as we head back toward the dorms, I keep glancing over my shoulder — half expecting to see her again, half hoping I don’t.

 Because something about the way she looked at me — like she saw right through the act — makes me feel more exposed than all the ice in the world ever could.

Chapter 1

(4 Years Later)

Logan POV

The house leans a little to the left, like even it’s hungover from last semester. Peeling white paint, porch railing that wobbles when you breathe near it, and a dented mailbox with a faded Hartwell Hockey sticker still clinging to the side. Someone spray-painted ICE HOUSE ’24 across the steps last spring, and the blue letters have already cracked from too many storms.

It’s ugly, but it’s ours.

I drop my duffel onto the porch, stretch, and grin up at the sagging roofline. “Miss me, Ice House?”

The door’s unlocked—of course it is. It always is. Inside smells like beer, sweat, detergent, and a little bit of victory. The perfect cocktail of college glory.

“Shaw!”

Cole Matthews’ voice booms from the kitchen before I even hit the living room. He appears a second later, a case of beer balanced on one arm, his captain’s jacket hanging open. Blond hair messy, sunglasses still on even though the sun’s dipping low. Typical.

He drops the case onto the counter with a thud. “You look like a man ready to ruin his GPA again.”

“Tradition,” I say, and he laughs the same deep laugh I’ve known since freshman year.

The living room hasn’t changed: scuffed floors, a sagging couch rescued from the curb, our championship banners pinned crooked above the fireplace. The moose head someone stole from the campus lodge still wears its crooked plastic crown. Someone added sunglasses to it this summer. Nice touch.

Cole tosses me a can. “To senior year.”

I crack it open, foam spilling over my fingers. “To leaving a legacy.”

We clink cans. The sound echoes through the old house like a battle cry.

⸻

By the time the sun starts bleeding orange through the windows, the house is already shaking. The returning guys show up first, then the new recruits, then half the student body. Move-in day always turns into a full-blown party here. It’s a rule as sacred as icing calls and team loyalty.

The bass from the speaker rattles my ribs. Someone’s chanting the fight song in the kitchen. A group of first-years stand near the stairs, wide-eyed, probably wondering if they’ve joined a cult or a hockey team.

Cole shoves through the crowd to my side. “We’ve been gone three months and they still remember who runs this place.”

“They’d better,” I say. “We built it.”

He smirks. “Careful, co-captain, that ego’s showing.”

“Says the guy wearing his C to a kegger.”

He looks down at his jacket, grins. “Leadership, baby.”

⸻

I head out to the porch for a breather. The air smells like grass and smoke from the grill someone dragged into the yard. Across the lawn, the Greek houses are lighting up with their own parties. You can always tell the difference—frat parties sound like competition; sorority ones sound like strategy meetings with music.

Cole joins me, beer in hand. “You think scouts’ll be around this year?”

“Coach said a few. NHL’s always sniffing for new blood.”

“You’ll get picked up.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “If you stop getting distracted.”

I snort. “Define distracted.”

He gestures toward the yard where a group of girls in matching pastel dresses are crossing the street toward us. “That.”

The Alpha Chi girls. Sorority royalty. They move like they own the campus. And leading them—dark hair, posture straight, expression cool—is Harper Lane.

For a heartbeat I forget to breathe.

Four years ago, she was shy, bookish, the girl everyone liked but nobody really noticed. Now she looks… different. Not just confident—commanding. Like she figured out exactly who she is while the rest of us were still playing at it.

Cole follows my gaze. “You know her?”

“Yeah.”

“She looks like trouble.”

“She is trouble,” I say, and I’m not sure if I mean it as a warning or a compliment.

⸻

The girls fan out across the lawn, greeting people, laughing, doing the yearly “welcome circuit.” It’s part tradition, part diplomacy. The Ice House and the sororities trade event invites and charity collabs every fall. The girls know it; we know it. The whole thing’s politics disguised as fun.

Harper doesn’t play it that way. She talks to a few people, polite, poised, but there’s distance in her eyes—as if she’s keeping a ledger of who deserves her time.

She turns her head and spots me.

That quick flick of recognition hits like a body-check. Her gaze lingers for a beat—then she gives the smallest nod, professional, detached, the kind of nod you give an acquaintance at a meeting.

Then she looks past me.

Something in my chest twists. I laugh it off, take another sip. “Still not my type,” I mutter.

Cole grins. “Keep telling yourself that.”

⸻

Hours later, the crowd’s thinning but the music’s still loud. Someone’s yelling for another round of beer pong in the kitchen; a couple’s making out on the stairs; it’s chaos, the good kind.

I’m leaning against the porch railing when the Alpha Chi girls finally start to leave. Most of them are giggling, shoes in hand. Harper’s the last one out, her phone glowing in the dark as she checks messages.

I can’t help myself. “Didn’t think sorority presidents did house inspections personally.”

She looks up, surprised for half a second, then amused. “You really turned this place into a legend.”

“Wasn’t hard. Low standards.”

Her mouth curves. “Still charming.”

“Still pretending you don’t like it.”

She tilts her head, studying me the way she used to study exam questions—looking for the trick answer. “Still sure the world revolves around you, huh?”

I grin. “Only on game nights.”

The porch light flickers between us, and for a moment, the noise from inside fades. She smells like vanilla and something sharper—confidence, maybe.

“You ever gonna grow up, Shaw?” she asks quietly.

I shrug. “Not planning on it.”

Her smile is small, genuine, and gone before I can catch it. “Good luck with that.”

She steps off the porch, heels clicking against the pavement. Her friends call for her down the block, and she waves without looking back.

Cole appears beside me, leaning on the railing. “You gonna keep staring or go after her?”

“Neither.”

“Liar.”

Maybe. But I stay where I am, watching the shape of her disappear into the glow of the streetlights.

⸻

Inside, someone shouts my name—another game starting, another night to waste before the real season begins. I grab another beer, but the fizz tastes flat.

Four years of parties, hookups, noise. All of it’s supposed to feel easy by now.

So why does one conversation with Harper Lane make everything else feel like background static?

I tell myself it’s nostalgia. Familiar face, old memory, nothing more.

But the lie doesn’t stick.

Because when I close my eyes, all I can see is the way she looked at me—steady, unimpressed, unshaken.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like the ice beneath my feet isn’t nearly as solid as it used to be.

Chapter 2

Harper POV

The night hums behind me as I walk down the path—bass thudding through the ground, laughter rippling across the lawn. The air smells like beer and barbecue smoke, the perfume of every Hartwell party.

I should feel accomplished. Another house visit checked off, another social box ticked before classes even start. But instead my pulse still hasn’t settled since I saw him.

Logan Shaw.

Four years of avoiding, and he’s somehow more magnetic than memory ever allowed. Taller maybe. Sharper around the edges. Still that same lazy grin that says rules don’t apply to him.

“Harper, you coming?” one of the girls calls.

“Yeah,” I answer, forcing a smile. “Right behind you.”

They chatter ahead, shoes clicking unevenly on the sidewalk, already gossiping about which hockey player had the best smile. I trail a few steps behind, grateful for the noise—it gives me cover while my thoughts keep circling the same place.

He remembered me. Of course he did. But he looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t have time to solve.

That’s fine. I’ve had years to learn that Logan Shaw doesn’t solve puzzles—he collects trophies.

⸻

Back at the Alpha Chi house, everything smells faintly of lemon cleaner and ambition. Our move-in banners still hang crooked from the staircase, and the living room is stacked with boxes labeled Philanthropy, Recruitment décor, Emergency glitter.

The other officers collapse onto the couch, shoes tossed aside, giggling over selfies from the Ice House party. I drop my bag by the door and take the armchair nearest the window, pretending to check emails.

“Harper, that hockey guy was totally into you,” Becca says. “The tall one. Dirty-blond hair, jawline for days.”

“Cole Matthews,” another corrects. “He’s the captain.”

Becca shakes her head. “No, not him—the other one. Shaw, right? Logan Shaw?”

My fingers still over my phone.

“He’s cute,” Becca continues. “A little cocky, but in a hot way.”

“He’s… fine,” I say, too quickly. “Anyway, we’re supposed to be focusing on recruitment week, not hockey players.”

They exchange looks—the kind that say our president is pretending again—but let it drop. I’m grateful. I already spend enough energy pretending around campus; I don’t need to do it here too.

⸻

Once everyone drifts off to their rooms, I stay downstairs. The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint music still drifting from across the quad. I open my laptop to review schedules but the words blur. My brain keeps replaying the porch conversation like a highlight reel.

Still charming.

Still pretending you don’t like it.

He hasn’t changed—just refined the act. And I hate that some part of me still notices.

I remember freshman year, before the world decided who we were going to be. He’d been the new hockey prodigy, already gathering followers. I was the scholarship kid from Maryland, trying to blend in. We’d talked twice—once in the dining hall line, once at a study session. Both times, he’d been effortlessly kind and infuriatingly confident.

Then I’d watched him walk across campus with a different girl every week. Always the same type—bronzed skin, dark hair, soft accent.

Hispanic girls.

Everyone noticed. It became a running joke: Shaw’s Rule of Three—three goals a game, three girls on rotation, all with the same look. It wasn’t cruel, just… fact.

And I didn’t fit that pattern. Pale, freckled, Irish on every branch of the family tree. A reminder that whatever small spark I’d once imagined between us had been only mine.

Even now, years later, the memory still lands like a small bruise I pretend not to feel.

⸻

I close the laptop and wander into the kitchen. Someone left cupcakes from the welcome event on the counter, half-eaten and already going stale. I pick at one just to have something to do with my hands.

Outside, headlights sweep across the window—cars still pulling up to the Ice House. I can hear shouting, laughter, someone daring someone else to shotgun a beer. Typical.

I tell myself I’m over it. Over him.

But curiosity’s a quiet disease.

I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching the lights flicker across the lawn like ghosts of every bad decision I’ve never made.

That’s the difference between me and Logan. He leaps; I calculate. He breaks; I build. It’s why I’m President now. Why Alpha Chi runs smoother than any other house on Greek Row.

And why I’ll never be a story in Logan Shaw’s highlight reel.

⸻

The next morning the house wakes early—coffee brewing, hair dryers screaming, clipboards everywhere. Recruitment season is a machine, and I’m the engine.

Becca bursts into the kitchen, phone in hand. “Did you see? The hockey team’s opening party is officially the ‘Welcome Week Mixer.’ Admin even posted it on the events page. We’re technically collaborating.”

Of course we are. Cole Matthews and I coordinated it months ago—a charity tie-in, a little PR polish for both sides. I just didn’t expect him to still feel like a variable I can’t control.

I sip my coffee. “Good. The more visibility, the better for our fundraiser.”

Becca smirks. “Visibility, huh? That what we’re calling it now?”

I arch a brow. “That’s what the university calls it.”

She laughs and heads out.

I stare into the dark swirl of my coffee until it stops moving.

⸻

By afternoon, I’m sitting on the library steps waiting for a meeting, laptop balanced on my knees. Students rush past with maps and iced lattes. It’s hot for September, sunlight bouncing off the stone walls.

And then I hear his voice.

“Still running the world, I see.”

I look up. Logan stands at the bottom of the steps, sunglasses hooked in his shirt collar, hair damp like he’s just come from the rink. He smiles the way people do when they’re testing boundaries.

“Somebody has to,” I say.

He climbs two steps, stopping just close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap and sweat. “You always did like being in charge.”

“And you always did like pretending you didn’t care.”

His grin widens. “Maybe I still don’t.”

“Good,” I say, closing my laptop. “Then this conversation’s over.”

He laughs under his breath. “Still sharp.”

I slide the computer into my bag and stand. The sun hits me full in the face; I squint but don’t look away. “Whatever you’re looking for, Shaw, it’s not here.”

“Who says I’m looking?”

“You always are.”

For a moment neither of us moves. Then he tips an invisible hat and backs away, leaving the scent of ice and arrogance in his wake.

⸻

As I watch him go, a thought I don’t want surfaces—quiet, traitorous.

What if people can change?

I shake it off, tighten my grip on the bag strap, and head inside the library. I have a meeting to run, a chapter to manage, a life that doesn’t orbit around anyone. Least of all him.

 But as the doors swing shut behind me, the echo of his laugh lingers longer than it should.

Chapter 3

Logan POV

The rink smells like detergent, cold metal, and fresh ice—the only three things that ever calm me down.

We’re setting up for the Welcome Week Mixer, which is really just code for * sanctioned chaos with better lighting.* Cole’s got a clipboard, barking orders like this is the NHL Draft instead of a campus event.

“Shaw, get the speakers wired. And don’t let Mikey near the soundboard again.”

“Why, because last time he thought volume eleven was a personality?”

Cole glares. “Exactly.”

I plug in cables, the sharp scent of plastic mixing with the chill from the rink. The team’s in good spirits—music testing, tables set for charity sign-ups, banners half crooked.

It’s weird, though. I can’t focus. Every few minutes, my brain reroutes to the same person.

Harper Lane.

President of Alpha Chi.

The girl who looked me straight in the eye last night and told me I was still full of myself.

She wasn’t wrong. But she also didn’t walk away fast enough.

⸻

By seven, the rink’s transformed. Lights string across the stands, music thrums low and steady, and the crowd filters in—hockey jerseys mixing with pastel dresses. Admin calls it a “partnership.” We call it “good PR for bad behavior.”

Cole’s working the crowd like a politician. I stand near the penalty box, drink in hand, pretending not to scan the entrance.

Then she walks in.

Harper.

A fitted navy blazer, crisp white blouse, Alpha Chi pin catching the lights. She’s got a clipboard, a headset, and a presence that makes people part without realizing it. Even from across the rink, I can see the curve of her mouth tighten into that professional smile that hides everything she’s actually thinking.

“Someone looks focused,” Mikey mutters, nudging me.

“Event management’s serious business.”

“Sure. You gonna tell her that before or after you flirt with her in front of the Dean?”

“I don’t flirt.”

Mikey snorts. “You are the flirt.”

⸻

Harper’s giving directions to her girls by the check-in table, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pen tucked behind her ear. She’s not the same girl I used to know. She’s sharper now—every word measured, every movement efficient.

I take a sip of my drink and start toward her before I can think better of it.

She spots me halfway there, eyes narrowing like I’m a quiz she’s already prepared for.

“Mr. Shaw,” she says, smooth and cool. “You actually showed up on time. Impressive.”

“I live here half the year. Hard to be late to your own rink.”

She hums, checking something off her clipboard. “Try not to turn it into a frat party before the guests even get their name tags.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Really? Because history says otherwise.”

I grin. “History’s biased.”

Her eyes lift to mine, steady and unimpressed. “You always were good at rewriting it.”

There’s something electric in the air between us. It’s not warmth—it’s friction. The kind that burns if you touch it too long.

“Relax, Lane,” I say. “I’m on my best behavior tonight.”

“That’s exactly what worries me.”

She turns and walks off before I can answer. I watch her go, fighting a smile that won’t quit.

⸻

An hour later, the rink’s buzzing. Music loud, lights reflecting off the ice, everyone talking at once. The charity tables are overflowing, and Cole gives me a look that says see, we’re respectable.

Harper’s at the microphone near center ice, ready to kick off the formal part of the night. She waits for the room to quiet.

“Good evening, everyone. On behalf of Alpha Chi and Hartwell Hockey, welcome to the annual Welcome Week Mixer. Tonight’s event raises funds for the Children’s Cancer Foundation—so while you’re enjoying the food and music, remember that your donations make a difference.”

Polite applause. She continues, composed, rehearsed.

And maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I never do.

I call out, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear: “You sure you’re not running for mayor, Lane?”

A ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd. Harper pauses, jaw tightening.

Without missing a beat, she smiles sweetly into the mic. “Thank you, Mr. Shaw. I’ll keep that in mind if I ever want a career in public relations—or damage control.”

The crowd laughs again, harder this time, but the victory’s hers. She plays the room better than I do.

Cole leans over, muttering, “You trying to start a war?”

“Just a friendly scrimmage.”

“Don’t make it personal.”

Too late.

⸻

Harper POV

Of course he heckled me.

Logan Shaw has never met a boundary he didn’t test. The rink echoes with laughter, and I smile through it, keeping my voice calm as I finish the announcements.

When I step down, Becca whispers, “You roasted him. I swear he liked it.”

I exhale. “He likes attention, not consequences.”

Still, I feel the pulse of adrenaline under my skin—the strange mix of irritation and satisfaction. He wanted a reaction, and I didn’t give him the one he expected.

As I weave through the crowd, I catch snippets of conversation. Everyone’s buzzing about the event, the turnout, the cause. It’s working. My plan, my organization, my schedule.

Then I hear his voice again.

“Nice speech, Madam President.”

I turn. Logan’s leaning against the rail, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, the kind of picture that makes people forgive bad behavior before it even happens.

“Glad you approve,” I say.

“Oh, I didn’t say that. Just nice delivery. You’d make a killer press secretary.”

“Funny. You’d make a terrible one.”

He laughs, low and warm. “You’ve been thinking about my career path?”

“Only when it intersects with property damage.”

He smirks. “You’re feisty tonight.”

“I’m busy.”

“Can’t be both?”

“I don’t multitask with hockey players.”

That hits something in him—a flicker across his expression, gone too fast to name. “Still got that edge.”

“Still have a clipboard,” I counter, holding it up like a shield.

⸻

The rest of the night blurs into conversations and photo ops, but I can feel him somewhere nearby. Always in my periphery. Laughing with teammates, shaking hands with faculty, and somehow still aware of me.

It’s infuriating.

He’s every headline cliché: co-captain, record scorer, rumored NHL prospect. Girls whisper his name like it’s a secret spell. And yes—he still has his type. Every photo on social media, every date I’ve seen him with, the pattern’s the same.

Hispanic girls.

And me? I’m not that. Not his type, not even in the same hemisphere. I remind myself of that whenever my heartbeat does something stupid in his presence.

It’s almost comforting, knowing the boundary’s built-in.

Except it doesn’t stop me from watching him when I shouldn’t.

⸻

Halfway through the event, I’m at the donation table when Logan joins me, holding two cups of punch. He offers one.

“Peace offering.”

I raise a brow. “Is it spiked?”

“Would I do that to you?”

“Yes.”

He laughs. “Fair. It’s clean. I think.”

I take it, sip carefully. It’s just fruit punch, too sweet. “So what’s the occasion? Feeling guilty about the mayor comment?”

“Guilty? No. Impressed, maybe.”

“Because I didn’t crumble under public humiliation?”

“Because you owned it.”

I study him. “You surprise me, Shaw.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good luck with that.”

He tilts his head, smiling. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like me?”

I set the cup down slowly. “You ever get tired of assuming you’re irresistible?”

The air between us goes still, stretched tight like a pulled thread. I see the flicker in his eyes—part amusement, part curiosity, something that wasn’t there before.

Then Cole calls him from across the rink. Logan steps back, expression unreadable. “Duty calls.”

He walks away, and I tell myself I’m relieved.

I’m not.

⸻

When the night ends, I’m alone by the doors, clipboard under my arm, watching as the hockey guys finish cleanup. Logan’s laughing at something Cole says, and for a second, he looks younger. Less legend, more human.

He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring.

I look away too late.

He raises his hand, mock salute, grin easy. I shake my head and pretend it means nothing.

Because it should.

But the truth is—it doesn’t.

  Not anymore.

Chapter 4

Logan POV

The rink is quiet again.

The morning after any event always feels like the world exhaled without me. The floor’s slick with condensation, banners half-fallen, stray glitter clinging to the boards. I like it like this—silent, hollow, just the echo of my skates cutting through the ice.

It’s early. Six a.m. early. Everyone else is asleep, maybe nursing hangovers. I’m out here skating laps, trying to erase last night from my head.

Or maybe just one person.

Harper Lane.

That’s the problem with her—she doesn’t fade. She lingers, like the scent of her perfume on my hoodie from when she brushed past me at the end of the mixer. Something citrus and sharp.

I’m not used to women who leave residue.

Usually, they’re fun, uncomplicated. Smiles, no strings. I know my type: the girls who make an entrance, who like attention as much as I do. Who keep it easy, surface-level.

Harper? She’s none of that. She’s substance disguised as control. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t need to be looked at to be noticed. And that—it messes with me.

⸻

I finish another lap, breathing hard, when I hear a door slam behind me.

Cole.

He’s in his sweats, coffee in one hand, expression that of a man already exhausted by my existence. “You’re insane, Shaw. Do you sleep?”

“Skating clears my head.”

He snorts. “Yeah? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to skate your feelings into submission.”

“Feelings?” I shoot him a look. “You’ve been talking to Mikey again.”

“I don’t need to. You’re obvious.” He sits on the bench, sipping his coffee like a coach ready to dissect my psyche. “You were glued to Harper Lane last night.”

“I wasn’t glued to anyone.”

“Uh-huh. You heckled her during her speech.”

“It was a joke.”

“Then you spent the next hour staring at her like she’d personally rewritten your playbook.”

“Jesus, Cole—”

He holds up a hand. “I’m not judging. I just need to know if I’m about to lose my co-captain to a campus power struggle with Alpha Chi.”

I glide toward the boards, resting my arms on top. “It’s nothing. She gets under my skin, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I noticed. You only get defensive about the people who do.”

I look away, tracing a line in the ice with my skate blade. “She’s not my type.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “Your type.”

“Yeah. You know what I mean.”

“Enlighten me.”

I shrug, suddenly hating this conversation. “You’ve seen the girls I date.”

He leans back, unimpressed. “I’ve seen you collect trophies. That’s what you call dating?”

“Come on, man.”

“No, seriously. Let’s unpack this. Your type is… what? Glossy hair, perfect tan, all angles and filters?”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s accurate.”

I run a hand through my hair, jaw tight. “You’re saying I shouldn’t have a type?”

“I’m saying your type keeps you safe.”

That hits deeper than I expect.

Cole continues, voice even. “You go for women who look perfect because perfection doesn’t ask questions. They don’t call you out. They don’t challenge you to be more than the highlight reel.”

I glare at him. “And Harper does?”

“Harper’s the kind of woman who sees through the game. Which is exactly why you’re interested and exactly why you’ll screw it up if you’re not careful.”

“She’s not interested in me,” I say quickly, maybe too quickly. “She made that clear years ago.”

Cole studies me over the rim of his coffee. “Then why do you still talk about her like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

I don’t have an answer for that.

⸻

He sets the cup down and softens a little. “Look, man. I’m not saying don’t talk to her. I’m saying—don’t dismiss her because she doesn’t fit the picture in your head.”

“You think that’s what I’m doing?”

“I think you don’t even realize you’re doing it. You’ve built this idea of what attraction should look like—hot, flashy, easy. You’ve been living in that lane so long you forgot there’s more than one road.”

I laugh dryly. “You’ve been reading self-help books or something?”

“Maybe. Somebody in this house has to.”

He stands, stretching his shoulders. “All I’m saying is: don’t confuse beauty with compatibility. You chase what’s visible, not what’s real.”

He grabs his coffee, walks off toward the locker room. “And for the record, Harper Lane’s beautiful. Just not in the way you’re used to noticing.”

His footsteps fade, and the rink goes silent again.

Beautiful. Not in the way I’m used to noticing.

The words stick.

⸻

I skate another lap, slower this time, thinking about what he said.

He’s wrong, I tell myself. Harper doesn’t fit into my world, that’s all. She’s all plans and purpose; I’m spontaneous and chaotic. Oil, meet water.

But then I see her in my head again, standing under the string lights last night—clipboard in hand, hair slipping loose, eyes focused on everything except me.

And somehow, she looked more real than anyone else in the room.

⸻

Later that day, the Ice House is buzzing again. Everyone’s sprawled across couches, half-eaten pizza boxes everywhere, music low. It’s the calm before the storm of senior season.

Cole’s reviewing the schedule, Mikey’s scrolling through his phone, and Jimmy’s icing his shoulder from practice.

“Harper posted about the event,” Mikey says suddenly. “Tagged the team, the rink, the foundation. We actually look… functional.”

Cole chuckles. “See? Miracles happen.”

“Comments are blowing up. People saying the hockey team and Alpha Chi should collab more often.”

I ignore them, pretending to study the stats sheet on the coffee table.

Cole catches it. “You going to pretend you didn’t hear that, or should we start planning the wedding?”

“Funny.”

He grins. “Just saying—if you’re gonna make eyes at her all year, at least make it productive.”

Mikey looks between us, confused. “Wait. You and Harper?”

“There’s no me and Harper,” I say.

“Yet,” Cole murmurs.

I throw a cushion at him.

⸻

That night, I can’t sleep.

The house is quiet except for the hum of the old fridge and the faint sound of someone snoring down the hall. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, Cole’s words replaying like a bad loop: You chase what’s visible, not what’s real.

He doesn’t get it. The image—the polish, the control—it’s not vanity. It’s armor.

People expect perfection from me: the star player, the co-captain, the one who never loses composure. It’s easier to date perfection than admit I don’t have it myself.

Harper doesn’t play that game. She never did. Maybe that’s what terrifies me most.

Because if she sees through it… what’s left?

⸻

The next morning, the team meets early for conditioning. Harper’s there again, clipboard in hand, coordinating the volunteer schedule for our charity clinic.

She looks up as I walk by, professional as ever. “Morning, Captain.”

“Morning, Madam President.”

We pass each other, and for a second, her eyes flick toward mine—quick, unreadable.

Cole’s voice echoes in my head. Don’t confuse beauty with compatibility.

But as she turns back to her work, sunlight catching her hair, I realize something unsettling:

Maybe I’ve been doing exactly that.

 And maybe, for the first time, I’m not sure I want to.

Chapter 5

Harper POV

The first week of senior year is chaos wrapped in caffeine.

My planner looks like a war map — highlighted blocks of time, arrows connecting meetings, reminders to eat. Between running Alpha Chi, prepping for recruitment, and coordinating the charity clinic with the hockey team, I’ve had exactly three hours of peace since Monday.

And apparently, I’m a masochist, because I signed up for Sports Media and Communication as my elective. I need it for my PR minor, but I didn’t think I’d actually have to enjoy it.

The classroom’s cold, half the seats already filled when I walk in. Hockey jerseys, sorority sweatshirts, the usual crowd of campus overachievers pretending they’re laid-back.

I pick a seat near the middle. Close enough to look engaged, far enough not to get volunteered.

“Morning,” a voice drawls behind me.

I freeze. I know that voice.

Of course.

Logan Shaw.

He slides into the seat directly behind me like the universe is mocking me personally.

“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath.

“What?” he says, all innocence.

I turn halfway in my chair. “Do you follow me, or is this just karmic punishment for last week?”

He grins — that slow, lazy grin that makes my stomach tighten even when I wish it wouldn’t. “If this is punishment, I’ll take it.”

I glare. “This class requires actual attendance and effort. You sure you’re in the right room?”

He leans forward just enough for his breath to graze my shoulder. “You’d be surprised what I can do when I’m motivated.”

My pulse skips. I hate that he knows it.

Before I can respond, Professor Kellner walks in — a middle-aged man with a love for metaphors and too much coffee. “Welcome, everyone. This course explores how athletes and teams build image through media narratives.”

Perfect. Because what I really want is to analyze the PR machine of the man currently sitting behind me.

⸻

For the first thirty minutes, I focus on my notes, or at least pretend to. But Logan’s presence is magnetic — quiet, steady, impossible to ignore. He doesn’t fidget or whisper or check his phone. He just… listens.

It shouldn’t surprise me. But it does.

When the professor splits us into pairs for a “mini-project,” I silently pray for divine intervention.

Of course, there is none.

“Shaw and Lane,” Kellner calls. “You’ll start us off. You’ll be analyzing how team image affects fan perception.”

I close my eyes. “Of course we will.”

Logan smirks. “Guess we’re stuck together, Madam President.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say automatically.

He leans back, amused. “You prefer Harper, then?”

I hesitate. “In class, it’s fine.”

He says it once, quietly. “Harper.”

The way my name sounds in his voice is a problem I refuse to acknowledge.

⸻

We meet later that afternoon in the student union to work on the assignment. I bring my laptop, notes, and an iron determination to get through this with zero distractions.

Logan brings coffee. Two cups.

“Peace offering,” he says, sliding one across the table.

“Is this your new thing now? Caffeine diplomacy?”

“Seems to work better than sarcasm.”

He’s not wrong. I take a sip — black with cinnamon, somehow exactly how I like it. I hate that he remembered.

We start talking about the project. He’s unexpectedly articulate, analyzing headlines, recalling stats about public scandals, media pressure. I can’t help watching him when he talks — the way his brow furrows slightly when he’s thinking, how his voice drops when he gets serious.

He’s different from the loud, cocky version of himself I remember.

“Why communications?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He shrugs. “You’d be surprised how much of hockey is PR. People don’t just want wins — they want stories. The golden boy, the comeback, the rivalry. It’s all a game off the ice, too.”

“That’s… oddly self-aware.”

He chuckles. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not. Just—impressed, maybe.”

He looks at me then, really looks. “That’s a first.”

I break eye contact, pretending to scroll my notes. “Don’t get used to it.”

⸻

We work for another hour, mostly in silence, until I catch him studying me.

“What?” I ask.

He smiles, faintly. “You really hate being looked at, don’t you?”

“I don’t hate it. I just prefer it for the right reasons.”

“And what are the right reasons?”

“When someone’s listening, not judging.”

He nods slowly, like he gets it more than I want him to. “For what it’s worth, I’m listening.”

I feel that sentence like a touch.

Dangerous.

⸻

When we finally pack up, I stand, gathering my things. “Thanks for not being useless today.”

“Thanks for not biting my head off.”

“Don’t make it sound like an invitation.”

He laughs under his breath. “No promises.”

As we walk out of the student union, the late afternoon sun cuts through the glass, spilling gold across the floor. For a second, we fall into step — his hand brushing mine just enough to make me aware of every inch of air between us.

I step back, fast. “You don’t have to walk me.”

“I wasn’t. Just headed this way.”

“Good.”

He smiles, unbothered. “Relax, Harper. I’m not trying to ruin your reputation.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

He tilts his head, amused. “We’ll see.”

And then he’s gone, walking toward the rink, hands in his pockets, leaving me standing in the sunlight with a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to behave.

⸻

That night, I’m in my room, laptop open, trying to finish our write-up. But the words blur. I keep thinking about him — about the way he said my name like it meant something, about the steadiness behind the arrogance.

It doesn’t fit. Logan Shaw isn’t supposed to listen. He’s supposed to flirt, win, leave. That’s the pattern. He’s the definition of temporary.

And me? I don’t do temporary.

I tell myself that’s the difference. That’s why this will never be anything. Because Logan only ever belongs to himself — a lone wolf pretending he’s fine with it.

And I’m not the girl who tries to tame that.

At least, that’s what I keep repeating as I type his name in our project file —

“Shaw & Lane: Image, Identity, and the Illusion of Control.”

The irony isn’t lost on me.

⸻

Two days later, I walk into class again, armed with coffee and armor. Logan’s already there, lounging back like he owns the room. He catches my eye and gives a small, knowing smile.

It’s not cocky this time. It’s quieter.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because now I don’t just see the athlete. I see the man beneath it — smart, intense, guarded. The kind who makes you want to peel back every layer even when you know better.

I sit down, keeping my gaze on the board, pretending I don’t feel the pull between us.

It’s not attraction, I tell myself. It’s tension. Pure, academic tension.

I don’t believe it for a second.