She turned toward the door.

That’s what he repeated like a mantra at the start of freshman year, sitting on the worn couch in the Briar hockey house, a bottle of Jack in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling her Instagram like a masochist.

“I’ve been making a mistake all year,” he admitted, voice rough. “And it wasn’t Grace. It was thinking I had to get over her to be ready for something real. But I’m not getting over her, Romi. I’m getting to you.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he muttered, shoving the phone under a cushion.

Not in the way his best friend Dean was—all swagger and sharp grins, collecting hookups like hockey trophies. No, Logan was the quiet kind of wanted. The steady boyfriend. The guy you brought home to your parents after the bad boys had their fun.

John Logan was used to being wanted.

Romi raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been moping for three weeks. It’s November. The season’s started. We have a game tomorrow. And you’re sitting here getting drunk alone while your teammates are at the party down the hall.”

“No.” She leaned forward, her voice softer now. “Your mistake wasn’t Grace. It was thinking she was the only one who could want you.”

Romi’s breath hitched. “Logan…”

Or so he kept telling himself.

Logan’s hand moved before his brain caught up. He caught her wrist. Gentle. Just enough to stop her.

“What if,” he said slowly, “I stopped looking in the wrong places?”

Then she smiled—small, crooked, the one she only ever gave him—and said, “About damn time, hockey boy.”

Logan looked up. Ramona “Romi” Perez stood in the doorway, arms crossed, dark hair tumbling over one shoulder. She wasn’t dressed up—just Briar sweatpants and an old T-shirt—but somehow she still looked like she belonged on a magazine cover. It was annoying. She was annoying.