Page 3 of The Breakaway

It just makes sense. Rob can pay half the rent, and then we split the second half. That means it would only be one hundred fifty dollars a month for each of us.That was Logan’s argument, and, at the time, it was compelling. Financially, anyway.

But, sanity-wise?

The only rebuttal I could draw on was something I would never say out loud to Logan. Not because Logan didn’t already know, but because he didn’t know that I knew.

I think you’re wrong. Sharla isn’t like that.

Logan’s words still rang in my head, along with Rob’s.

All I’m saying is I think she’s gonna take away your focus. She doesn’t understand the kind of dedication and commitment this takes, bud.

And that wasn’t the first or the last time he made some smarmy comment about me. Rob Thompson hated my guts. Or didn’t think I was good enough for Logan. Either way, the day he moved out would be the day I had my own “celly.”

Logan found me and scooped me back against his chest, dropping his head next to mine. "I'm so glad you came out tonight."

I ran my fingers over the stubble on his jaw. "You know I'm only here for an hour or so."

He kissed my cheek. I rolled my eyes as he sat down in the chair next to me, shoving his hand into the back pocket of my jeans as far as he could before his fingertips hit the wooden seat. I loved that he loved touching me.

Logan was magnetic on and off the ice. He had a smile that would make you feel elated to pay double the price for some shitty T-shirt just because he’d put his hands on it. Everyone else in the bar seemed to rotate around his gravity. Well, around himandRob, but I tried to ignore the fact that he existed.

They were like two burning suns, sucking everyone else into their orbit. When you put them together, the reaction was almost too cataclysmic to look upon with human eyes. Logan was all sunshine and golden lab energy, and Rob was his dark angel counterpart. His brooding, sarcastic balance in the force.

Someone ordered a round of shots for the table. Logan glanced over at me and already knew I wouldn't be drinking. Not only because I hardly ever did, but because if I brought up my rehearsal in the morning again, it would start to feel like verbal flagellation.

Logan held up a hand in solidarity. "Not tonight, bud."

And then there was Rob, carrying over four shot glasses between his hands. "What he meant to say was he'll take double.” Rob placed two in front of Logan.

And thus began our toxic, never-ending ritual. Me, sitting on the chair, glaring at Rob. Logan, laughing and saying things like, "Okay. I guess I can have a little," and Rob, pounding shots with him, with eyes darker and more dead inside than Lucifer's hounds.

I nudged Logan. "You don't have to."

He shrugged. It never took much cajoling. Logan was usually only raising the bar on his behaviour because I was around, which is why every single time something like this happened, it pinched the same nerve.

Sharla doesn't get it. Sharla is bringing you down. Sharla doesn't want you to have a good time and is a distraction from hockey.

Okay, so I expanded on his original statement a bit. But all of that was written in the sneer on his face. Rob thought I wasn't good for Logan, which was ironic since he was the one encouraging him to poison his liver.

I turned back to Crystal and Maddie, joining their conversation, exaggerating my hand gestures, and laughing louder than necessary. Enter phase two, where I pretended that nothing Rob did to influence Logan's decisions mattered to me.

Logan's hand stayed on me for the next forty-five minutes, either in my pocket, tucked into the waistband of my jeans,wrapped around the back of my neck, or running over the fringe of my hair that barely covered my ears.

I’d cut my hair short the previous summer after Crystal did. Logan said he liked it, but all he could talk about was how excited he was for when he could play with it properly again. The only problem? I wasn't sure if I wanted to let it grow out. I loved how easy it was to take care of—how little I had to think about it.

With the tiny pinch of Korean in my genetic code, my hair stayed straight even after a sweaty sleep. With my mother's hearty German stock, it was thick enough to qualify me for a Vidal Sassoon commercial. I also had thighs that could barrel roll a log and barely B-cup boobs, but I was counting my hereditary blessings.

Logan was in the middle of kicking field goals with rolled-up paper straw packaging and his fingers when I leaned over and said, "I'm going to head home."

Logan stopped mid-flick and turned to me with eyes that could have turned Rosie O'Donnell straight. "But I'm going to miss you."

I melted, running my hands through his hair as he pulled me off my chair to stand next to him. He wrapped his arms around my waist and squeezed, making me feel like I was a paper doll. With one movement, he could tear me in two.

"I'm so proud of you," I whispered.

"Wait up for me?"

I nodded. This interaction ushered in stage three, where he pretended he wasn't going to be home at two in the morning, and I pretended I would be naked in the bed with my CD of Usher playing on the stereo. We both knew it wasn't going to happen, but it felt right to fantasize in the moment.

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