Chapter 7: Logan Forces a Choice
The knock wasn't a knock. It was a fist—bone against wood, three heavy blows that rattled the frame and sent a picture hook swinging loose somewhere in the kitchen. Hailey's eyes snapped open. The room was dark. The phone was dead. The silence that followed was worse than the sound.
She didn't move.
Another blow. Harder this time. The door shook in its frame.
"Hailey."
Logan's voice. Not loud. Not shouting. Just her name, spoken through the wood like a confession.
She sat up. The fresh sheets twisted around her legs. Her heart was a fist in her chest, squeezing something hot and painful through her veins.
"Hailey, I know you're in there."
She stood. Bare feet on cold floor. The apartment was a blur of shadows—the coffee table, the couch, the ashtray still overflowing. She navigated by memory.
Her hand found the doorknob.
She opened it.
Logan stood in the hallway light. The fluorescent glow behind him turned his face into something unfamiliar—sharp angles, deep shadows, eyes that burned too bright. He was holding a bottle of whiskey by the neck. Half empty. Or half full, depending on how you looked at it.
"Hey," he said.
"That's all you've got?"
He didn't answer. Just pushed past her.
Into the living room. Into the wreckage. He stopped in the middle of it, bottle dangling from his fingers, and turned in a slow circle. Taking inventory. The empty champagne flutes. The half-eaten nachos. The blanket that still smelled like Derek's desperation.
Then he looked through the open bedroom doorway.
The fresh sheets.
The perfectly smooth comforter.
The absence of evidence.
His jaw tightened.
"You changed the sheets."
Hailey closed the door. Leaned against it.
"So?"
"So." He turned to face her. "That was fast."
"What was?"
"Moving on."
She crossed her arms. The tank top she'd slept in was thin, worn, barely there. She felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
"It's none of your business."
"None of my—" He laughed. Short. Ugly. "None of my business?"
"You heard me."
He set the bottle down on the coffee table. Hard enough that whiskey sloshed up the glass neck and spilled onto the wood. He didn't wipe it up.
"I've been driving around for three hours," he said. "Three fucking hours. Circling this block. Trying to figure out what I was gonna say when I got here."
"And?"
"And I still don't know."
He stepped closer.
"But I know one thing."
"Logan—"
"You're still mine."
He grabbed her wrist.
Not gentle. Not rough. Just firm—fingers wrapped around bone, pulling her toward him until her chest hit his. She felt the heat of him through his coat. Felt the familiar shape of his body, the muscle and bone and skin she'd memorized over two years.
Her nipples tightened against his chest.
She hated herself for it.
"You're still mine," he repeated.
"I'm not—"
"You are."
He kissed her.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't tender. It was a claim—teeth and tongue and the taste of whiskey burning through her mouth. She made a sound. Not quite a protest. Not quite a moan.
Her hands came up. Pressed against his chest.
She could push him away.
She should.
Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark. Wild. The same eyes that had looked at her across a hundred soccer fields, that had found her in every crowd, that had promised her forever and then handed her to his team like a trophy.
"I can't stop thinking about it," he said.
"About what?"
"You. With them."
His hand found her hip. Squeezed.
"I keep seeing it. Over and over. Marcus's hands on you. Derek's mouth. Ty's—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I keep seeing it and I can't—"
"You can't what?"
"I can't stop being hard."
The words hung there. Ugly and honest.
Hailey stared at him.
"You're disgusting," she said.
"I know."
"You made a deal. You shook their hands. You told them they could have me."
"I know."
"And now you're—"
"I know."
He kissed her again. Harder. Walked her backward until her spine hit the wall. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her ribs, her breasts, her throat. Like he was trying to memorize her. Like he was trying to erase every other set of hands that had touched her.
She let him.
Her tank top came off. Ripped, maybe. She heard a seam pop. Didn't care.
His mouth found her neck. Her collarbone. Her nipple. He sucked hard enough to bruise.
"Logan—"
"Shut up."
He pulled her off the wall. Pushed her toward the bedroom. She stumbled over the threshold, caught herself on the footboard, and then he was behind her—pushing her onto the fresh sheets, the clean comforter, the bed she'd made to erase him.
Her leggings came down. Her underwear. She heard him fumbling with his belt, heard the zip, heard the soft thud of his jeans hitting the floor.
Then he was on top of her.
Skin on skin. Heat on heat.
He didn't wait.
He pushed inside her with one rough thrust.
She gasped. Her body wasn't ready—still sore from Ty, from Derek, from the hours of being used and using. But he didn't care. He fucked her like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to reclaim territory that had been stolen.
His hand wrapped in her hair.
Yanked.
"You're mine," he growled.
She didn't answer.
"Say it."
No.
He thrust harder. Deeper. The headboard slammed against the wall.
"Say it."
Her nails dug into his back. Raked down his spine. Drew blood.
"You're mine," he said again.
And something inside her snapped.
"Then act like it," she hissed.
He stopped.
Just for a second. Just long enough to look at her—really look at her. Sweat-slicked and furious and beautiful in the dim light from the window.
Then he kissed her.
Not rough this time. Not punishing.
Just desperate.
He fucked her slower after that. Deeper. His hand untangled from her hair and found her face instead—thumb on her cheek, fingers along her jaw. Like he was holding something precious. Like he was afraid she might disappear.
She wrapped her legs around his waist.
Pulled him closer.
His mouth found her shoulder. Bit down. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a mark.
"Mine," he whispered against her flesh.
She didn't say it back.
But when she came—and she did, shuddering around him with a cry she couldn't swallow—it wasn't a surrender.
It was a confession.
He finished inside her a few seconds later. She felt him pulse. Felt the heat spread. Felt his body collapse onto hers like a building falling.
They lay there.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence was worse than the fight.
His weight was heavy. Crushing. She could barely breathe. But she didn't push him off. Didn't want to. Not yet.
Outside, a car passed. A dog barked. The world kept going.
"Hailey."
"Don't."
"I have to—"
"Don't."
He lifted his head. Looked at her. His eyes were wet. She hadn't noticed before.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She turned her face away.
"Not tonight."
"Then when?"
"I don't know."
He slid off her. Lay on his back beside her. Stared at the ceiling.
"I meant what I said," he whispered. "You're still mine."
She didn't answer.
Because she wasn't sure if it was true.
And she wasn't sure if she wanted it to be.
The ceiling stared back at her. Water stains in the corner shaped like a continent she'd never visit. Logan's breath was still heavy beside her, the whiskey sour on his tongue mixing with the salt of her skin. She could feel his come cooling between her thighs, tacky against the fresh sheets she'd put on less than two hours ago.
"You gonna say something?"
She didn't turn her head.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know." He sat up. The mattress shifted. "Something. Anything. Tell me you hate me. Tell me you're done. Tell me you want me to stay."
"I don't know what I want."
He laughed. Not a real laugh. The kind that scraped out of a throat that had nothing left in it.
"That's the problem, isn't it?"
She finally looked at him. His face was wrecked—red eyes, hollow cheeks, a bruise forming on his neck where her teeth had caught him. He looked like a stranger wearing Logan's skin.
"You did this," she said.
"I know."
"You made the deal. You shook their hands. You told them to—"
"I fucking know, Hailey." His voice cracked. "I know what I did. I was there. I watched it happen. I watched Marcus take you into that room. I watched Derek follow you. I stood in my own goddamn living room while my teammates—"
He stopped. His jaw clenched so hard she could see the muscles jumping under his skin.
"While they what?"
He didn't answer.
"Say it."
"While they fucked my girlfriend."
The words hit the air like something physical. Heavy. Wet. Unavoidable.
"And you let them."
"I know."
"And now you're here. In my bed. Inside me. Like nothing happened."
"I know."
"You're pathetic."
"I know."
She sat up. Pulled the sheet to her chest. The movement was quick—sharper than she meant. She saw something flash across his face. Hurt. The real kind. The kind that lived behind the anger and the whiskey and the desperate need to reclaim her.
"Logan."
"What."
"Why are you still here?"
He looked at her. For a long time. Long enough that she could see the answer forming behind his eyes before he said it.
"Because I don't know how to leave."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She got up. Walked to the bathroom. Didn't close the door. She turned the water on in the sink—cold, as cold as it would go—and splashed it on her face. Wiped the mascara from under her eyes. Stared at herself in the mirror.
"You look like shit," she told her reflection.
"Hailey."
Logan was standing in the doorway.
"What?"
"Where's your phone?"
She blinked.
"What?"
"Your phone. I've been trying to call you. It kept going to voicemail."
"Battery died."
"Where is it?"
She pointed at the nightstand. He walked over. Unplugged it. Waited for it to power on.
The screen lit up like a slot machine paying out.
Notification after notification. The little numbers stacked like evidence. She watched his face as he read them—watched something dark move behind his eyes, something that had been there all along and was just now finding its name.
"Derek," he said. Flat. "Ty. Marcus. Derek again. Ty again." He looked at her. "They're all texting you."
"Everyone's been texting me."
He scrolled. She could hear the little click-click-click of his thumb against the screen. His breathing had changed. Shallower. Faster.
"You saved their numbers."
"Logan—"
"You saved Derek's number." He looked up. "After he—"
"Stop."
"After he fucked you. You saved his number."
"I didn't save anything. They texted me. The numbers came through."
"But you didn't block them."
She didn't answer.
"You didn't block a single one of them."
"Why would I?"
He stared at her.
"Because they used you. Because I used you. Because—"
"Because what? Because I'm supposed to be ashamed? Because I'm supposed to hate myself for what happened?"
"Hailey—"
"I don't."
The word hung there.
"I don't hate myself. I don't hate them. I don't even hate you—not the way I should."
Logan's thumb moved. He was reading something. His face went pale.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Logan. What?"
He turned the screen toward her.
Ty: "Round two? I can be there in twenty."
The apartment went quiet. The kind of quiet that made her hear her own blood moving.
"Round two," Logan repeated.
"It's not—"
"Round two. Like you're a bar he can just—"
"He's an idiot."
"He's a fucking predator, Hailey. He's—"
"He's your teammate. You wanted this. You wanted all of them to—"
"I wanted us to win." His voice broke. "I wanted us to win and I thought—I thought it would be fine. I thought you'd say no. I thought they'd laugh it off. I thought—"
"You thought wrong."
He threw the phone onto the bed. It bounced. Landed face down.
"I can't do this," he said.
"Can't do what?"
"I can't stand here. In your place. Knowing what happened. Knowing who touched you. Knowing you let them. Knowing you'd probably let them again."
She stepped closer. Close enough to smell him—sweat and whiskey and the come she still hadn't washed off her skin.
"Then leave."
"I can't do that either."
"Why not?"
He looked at her. His eyes were wet again. She hadn't noticed until now.
"Because I love you."
She didn't answer.
"Because I love you and I hate you and I want to hold you and I want to hurt you and I don't know where one ends and the other begins."
She reached up. Touched his face. Her fingers found the bruise on his neck—the one she'd left—and pressed.
He winced.
"Good," she said.
He caught her wrist. Held it.
"You're cruel."
"Learned from the best."
He pulled her hand away. Stepped back. Looked at the phone on the bed like it might bite him.
"We could stop," he said.
"Stop what?"
"All of it. Delete their numbers. Block them. Go back to—"
"To what?"
"To us. To before."
She almost laughed. Almost.
"There's no before, Logan. There's only after."
"Then after. We start after. Right now. This minute."
She looked at him.
"You're serious."
"I'm desperate."
"That's not the same thing."
"I know."
She walked to the bed. Picked up her phone. The screen was still lit. Ty's message. Derek's message beneath it. Marcus's beneath that. A stack of men who'd touched her, tasted her, left pieces of themselves inside her.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
"Don't," Logan said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't text him back."
"I wasn't going to."
"Then what—"
She turned the phone off. Set it on the nightstand. Turned to face him.
"You want to go back?"
"Yes."
"We can't."
"I know."
"But we can try."
He looked at her. Hope flickered across his face—small and fragile and doomed.
"What does that look like?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she reached for him. Pulled him close. Pressed her lips to his—not a kiss. Just a press. Just contact. Just the two of them in a dark room with too much history and not enough future.
"Stay," she said.
"Okay."
"Not because you want to. Because you can't leave."
"Okay."
"And tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow we figure out what we are."
He nodded.
They lay down. On the fresh sheets. Clean. Different. The same bed where she'd been broken open by Ty and Derek and Marcus, where she'd broken Logan open in return.
He held her. She let him.
Neither of them slept.
And somewhere across town, three phones buzzed in the dark.
Derek: "I can't stop thinking about you."
Ty: "You up?"
Marcus: "We should talk."
The messages piled up. Unanswered. Waiting.
And in Hailey's apartment, the silence grew teeth.
It was Marcus who broke first.
Not by calling—by showing up. His knock was softer than Logan's had been. Three taps, spaced out, like he was giving her time to pretend she wasn't home. She heard Logan's breathing change beside her. Felt his arm tighten around her waist.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
He didn't answer. Just lay there, stiff as a corpse, while the knocking continued.
"Hailey." Marcus's voice came through the door, muffled but clear. "I saw Logan's car outside. I know you're both in there."
"Shit," Logan whispered.
She untangled herself from the sheets. Pulled on a t-shirt—Logan's, from the floor. Walked to the door. Opened it.
Marcus stood in the hallway. Hoodie. Jeans. Hands in his pockets. The same look he'd had earlier that night, when all of this had started. Before the champagne. Before the deal.
Before everything.
"Can I come in?"
"No."
"I need to talk to you."
"About what?"
"About what happened."
Logan appeared behind her. Shirtless. Rumpled. The smell of sex still hanging off both of them like smoke.
"What are you doing here?"
Marcus looked at him. Then at Hailey. Then at the bedroom doorway behind them, where the fresh sheets were visible, tangled and unmistakable.
"You slept together."
It wasn't a question.
"Get out," Logan said.
"I didn't come here for a fight."
"Then why are you here?"
Marcus pulled his hands from his pockets. He looked at Hailey—really looked. And for the first time, she saw something she hadn't noticed before. Something raw. Something she didn't have a name for.
"I came to say I'm sorry."
Logan laughed. Ugly. Loud.
"You're sorry?"
"Yeah."
"You had your face between her legs. You fucked her how many times? I don’t even know. You sent me that video—"
“Marcus sent you what?” Hailey stammered. She didn’t even realize she was being filmed.
"I know what I did." Marcus glared.
"Why are you sorry now?"
Marcus didn't answer. Just stood there, looking at Hailey like she was a question he'd been trying to answer for hours.
"I liked it," he said, finally.
"What?"
"Everything that happened tonight. I liked it. I wanted it. I've wanted it for months."
Logan stepped forward. Hailey put a hand on his chest. Held him back.
"Keep talking," she said.
Marcus looked at her. Something shifted in his face. Something that looked almost like relief.
"I don't want it to be over." He sighed. “That’s why I took the video, too.”
Her phone buzzed. Then Logan's. Then Marcus's, deep in his pocket.
Three buzzes. Three phones. One sender.
Hailey crossed to the nightstand. Picked up her phone. The screen was lit.
A group message. From Derek.
"Where's everyone at? I'm outside Hailey's. Saw your cars."
She looked at Logan. He looked at Marcus. Marcus looked at the floor.
"I think," Hailey said, "you should all come in."