Chapter Text
“That was so good!” Hannah says in your ear, her arm around you. “Wasn’t it?”
“It was,” you say, your smile a little strained.
She’s flushed from the excitement of the game. She cheered and clapped almost the whole time
. You did a little. It’s not that Briar didn’t do well—they crushed Eastwood, in fact, 6-2. But you’re a little overwhelmed by all the noise. You’d like to leave as soon as you can.
“Are you sure you don’t wanna come?” Hannah asks as you go down the bleachers.
“I’m okay. I have a paper to write.”
She pouts. You don’t know why—after all, you weren’t invited. You couldn’t attend Dean and Beau’s birthday party even if you wanted to.
“Okay,” she says, finally acquiescing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. Good luck with your hard launch.”
Hannah bites her lip, her eyes shining. “Yeah, we’ll see what Garrett has planned. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the dorm?”
“I’m alright, really. I can take the shuttle.”
She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.
She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.
You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.
“Hi.”
You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.
“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.
“I wasn’t invited,” you say.
He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?
“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”
You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”
“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”
“Oh. That’s confusing.”
He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”
People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.
You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.
“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.
“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”
“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”
That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.
“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”
“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”
“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”
“We are?”
He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”
“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”
“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”
You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.
“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”
You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.
Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.
But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be.
“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”
Logan grins. “Awesome.”
“You have nice teeth.”
He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”
“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”
Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?
“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh…”
“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”
You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”
“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”
You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”
“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”
You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes.
Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.
“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay.”
People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered.
“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”
You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.
“What were you listening to?” he asks.
“Brown noise.”
“Is that a band or a song or…”
“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”
He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”
“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”
“So you don’t listen to music?”
“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”
“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”
“Will you really?”
Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”
You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.
Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.
“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.
You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.
Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.
“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.
The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks.
You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”
“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”
You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”
He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”
As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.
You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.
You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?
“Can I refresh that for you?”
You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup.
“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”
He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”
Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.
“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of parties?”
“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”
Ben frowns. “Are you together?”
“He drove me here in his car.”
He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”
“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”
His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”
You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”
Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”
Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway.
“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”
Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.
“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”
Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”
“Together for what? Sex?”
Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation.
“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”
Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground.
“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”
“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.
“Hey.”
Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you.
“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.
You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is.
Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”
“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”
“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”
Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest.
“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”
Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”
“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”
Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face.
“Fine. Fucking whatever.”
He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar.
He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”
Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”
You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.
You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight.
“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”
“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”
You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”
“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly.
You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment.
“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”
You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”
“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs.
You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”
“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”
“Because she didn't kiss him?”
Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”
He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.
“I'm hungry, actually,” you say.
He hums. “Good.”
“How is that good?”
“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”
“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”
****
“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”
The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.
“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.
“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.
“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”
It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.
“What?”
He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”
“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.
“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”
“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”
“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”
“What did you do?”
“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”
“I guess so.”
“What do you want?”
It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.
Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend.
Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood.
“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”
“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”
You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.
“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it.
It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.
“So do you.”
He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.
“You played really well,” you say.
Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”
He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it.
“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.
“Goodnight,” he says after you.
It’s only after you get to your room that you realize that you’re still wearing Logan’s wings.