Chapter Text
The Hawks win the game against Eastwood, barely, and absolutely no thanks to Logan.
It was a slapshot from Tucker late in the third that put them up 4-3 over the visitors, and the way the younger man’s eyes are still shining with pride as they unlace their skates and undress is almost enough for Logan to forget how pissed off at himself and his performance he is. Almost.
“Hey, it’s okay man. We all have off games. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Garrett’s quiet baritone startles him, momentarily jolting Logan from his internal spiral, and he shakes his head trying to clear the cobwebs that have gathered. He’s more out of it than he’d realized not to notice the captain take a seat on the bench beside him, but Logan plasters on a smile and nods, “yeah, right.”
Unfortunately years of friendship means Garrett sees right through him and his poor attempt at apathy, and the crease between his eyebrows deepens as he tries again. “Logan, it wasn’t even that bad-“
Damn. Garrett is in full comfort mode, which means however bad Logan thought the game went, it must’ve been worse. Fuck. Standing, he pats the other man’s shoulder, because deep down he really does appreciate the attempt at reassurance, even if he can’t bring himself to accept it right now. “Thanks, G. Look, I uh, I gotta run, Jules is waiting in the truck. I’ll see you at home.”
With that he shoulders his duffle, gives a nod to the rest of the guys, and before any of them can try to cajole him into joining them at Malones for a drink, or two, or three, makes his way to the change room door, pointedly not looking back.
—
He might not have played well, but he did play hard, and that’s the explanation Logan finds himself clinging to for why his body aches, every footstep feeling heavier than the last as he audibly groans tossing his duffle into the bed of his truck. Climbing into the driver's seat he allows himself a split second to close his eyes as he leans against the headrest, before turning to look at his younger sibling on the passenger side.
Jules looks worried. He registers that somewhere in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t have time to process it before they’re announcing, “you played like shit.”
It’s a statement, not an accusation, and Logan huffs a dry laugh. Jules sugarcoats nothing, and it’s one of his favourite things about them. “Yeah, I did.”
“You look like shit too.”
That surprises him, especially the softness with which Jules says it. Shrugging, he mutters, “I’ll shower at home.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Jules, I don’t-“
He’s not even sure where that sentence was going, but he doesn’t have time to figure it out before Jules is cutting him off with a questioning, “How long have you been sick?”
Blinking in confusion, Logan stares at them. “What?”
Rolling their eyes, teasing grin tugging at the corners of their mouth, Jules repeats themselves. “Sick. You. How long?”
“I don’t- …I’m not-“ he’s interrupted by a deep cough bubbling from his lips, and Jules looks much less surprised by this than he feels.
“Keys.”
Rubbing his chest in an attempt to clear away some of the crud that seems to be accumulating as they speak, Logan is once again confused. “Huh?”
“Keys. You’re not driving.”
Usually he’d fight them on this. Logan hates anyone else behind the wheel of his baby, and that includes mechanic older brothers and annoying (but well intentioned) younger siblings. Tonight though he finds he doesn’t really have the energy to go toe to toe with Jules about it. They’re stubborn, more than even he is sometimes, and that’s what he tells himself as he drops them into the outstretched hand. He’s tired. He had a rough game. He doesn’t want to argue. It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s still feeling winded. Absolutely not because closing his eyes is the only respite from the throbbing headache that started somewhere in the second period. Jules arches an eyebrow, clearly having expected more of a fight, but wisely says nothing, just opens the passenger door and makes their way around to the drivers side as Logan slides across the bench seat, welcoming the coolness of the window against his forehead, eyelids drooping shut before he can stop himself.
—
“John. We’re here.”
His siblings' voice feels far away. Muffled, like they’re underwater. Or maybe he is.”
“John!” They’re firmer now, his name accompanied by a gentle shake of his shoulder, and Logan’s eyes fly open. “I’m- I’m awake.”
Sitting up, doing his best to get his bearings, Logan swallows, trying to ignore the sharp pain that accompanies it. The rink is less than ten minutes from his place. Had he really fallen asleep in that little time?
“You passed out as soon as I turned the truck on. I told you you shouldn’t drive.”
Oh.
Jules is studying him with real concern now, and Logan hates it. He’d hate the attention from anyone, but coming from Jules it just fills him with guilt. They’re not supposed to worry. Not about him, not about the future, not about cleaning up their moms mess. He and Jeff have worked really fucking hard to shield Jules from the reality of a lot of it, and now here he is screwing it up,
Vaguely aware that he’s being spoken to, Logan pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to focus. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I’m supposed to go meet Morris and Daisy at Malone’s. But I’m gonna tell them I can’t make it.”
Fucking hell, his little sibling is going to cancel plans to take care of him. Exactly what Jeff has been doing for their mom for years, exactly what he’s going to be doing post graduation next year. Exactly what they’ve sworn to each other Jules will never have to do. Determined to keep it that way, Logan straightens with a sudden burst of resolve and shakes his head. “Go, Jules.”
“You kinda seem like you’re dying, John.”
The words are light, but Logan knows them well enough to pick up on the anxiety under the surface. “Not dying. Promise. Look, I’m gonna head in, shower, and try to sleep off whatever this is. I don’t need someone watching me sleep, and you don’t need to spend your night playing nursemaid. Believe it or not, I’ve had colds before and sur-survih-hitchoo!”
The sneeze hits before he realizes it’s coming, and he pitches forward, spraying the passenger side of his dash.
“Nice, dude.”
That’s more in line with the little sibling he knows and loves, and this time Logan doesn’t have to fake the smile that ghosts his face. “Seriously Jules, I’m just gonna crash for the night.”
They’re biting their nails, a sure sign of stress, but they do look slightly more at ease, so he figures his reassurance is working. “You sure?”
“If you ask me that again, I might kill you.”
There’s no heat behind his words, just plenty of raspy congestion, but Jules’ soft laugh tells him it’s had the desired effect. “Fine. Just…text me if anything changes?”
Now it’s his turn to soften, gently squeezing their knee as he opens the truck door. “Promise.”
Every achy muscle in his body screams in protest as he lifts his bag from the back, his lean frame shakes with chesty coughs as he climbs the stairs to the porch, and as he fishes for his keys he curses to himself as his nose starts running, causing him to momentarily press his sweatshirt sleeve underneath in an effort to avoid dripping everywhere.
He’ll need tissues at some point, probably medicine too, but the chances of them having anything more than Advil to nurse a hangover is a longshot at best. He also needs to shower. The sweat from the game is still sticking uncomfortably to his skin, his hair plastered to his neck, but damnit the shower is upstairs and standing at the bottom of the staircase both that and his bedroom seem so far.
The house is unusually quiet, the rest of the boys presumably enjoying a well deserved celebration at the bar, and Logan finds himself eyeing the couch. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to rest for a few minutes. To just close his eyes and gather energy before heading up to bed. Before he knows it he’s shuffling in that direction, collapsing onto the cushions, very nearly moaning in relief at how soft it feels. Leaning back, half asleep already, the last thing he remembers thinking is just a few minutes.