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.