Logan
bathroom mirror, Logan studied the dark purple and green splotches across his ribs. He avoided skimming the areas with purple bruising and walked his fingertips along where the green faded into yellow.
“Fuck,” he groaned, still tender to the touch, and checked his bare torso. None appeared as fresh as the one pressed against his ribs on the left of his body. “I don’t want to ice it more.”
Coach Dorsey had authorized a scrimmage at yesterday's practice. The match ended in disaster when one of the Larson twins accidentally incited a dogpile. Logan sustained bruises from ending up at the bottom of the pile.
Logan flipped the sink on, holding his hand under the faucet until the water ran warm. He cupped his palms together and filled them with water, splashing his face to dampen his skin. He washed his face until a stinging sensation jumped across his cheeks.
Logan adjusted the damp towel around his neck, keeping it from falling into the sink. His hair flopped over his eyes, still dripping with water, and those same rivulets slid down the slope of his bare back, stopped by the waistband of his sweats.
He had fallen asleep on the couch hours ago after tucking Issac in, waking up to flashes from the television he watched before passing out unceremoniously. The early morning infomercials, running non-stop at two A.M., pushed away sleep.
He crawled in the shower around two-fifteen and emerged a new man around two-twenty-five.
Logan shut off the tap and dried his face with the towel, shaking out his hair like a dog. He blindly snapped up the clean shirt he tossed on top of the laundry basket belonging to the shared bathroom. Much like he and Issac shared a bedroom, the whole Beckett house shared one bathroom.
Bathrooms cost extra, even in middle-of-nowhere small-town America.
Logan pulled the shirt overhead, straining when his abdomen ached with tenderness from the bruising. He tucked the t-shirt into the waistband of his sweats and ambled out of the bathroom, quickly shutting the light off before it poured through the crack in his and Issac’s bedroom door.
He moved through the darkened house, feeling his way through the hallways with his hands pressed hard against the wall. He patted while walking until he bumped into the living room archway, brightened with the muted commercials on the television.
Logan moved into the kitchen, flipping on the light to illuminate the empty table where his laptop was propped open, humming silently. He pulled out a chair and sat down, more awake despite the early hour.
He planned to work on his modules and practice quizzes for school over breakfast. Still, he had nothing better to do than lounging around and unsuccessfully waiting for sleep. Logan booted up his computer and covered his eyes when the screen flashed awake, left on the brightness setting from earlier in the day.
Logan rose from his chair while his computer buffered, wheezing and groaning. He paced the short distance between the kitchen table and the fridge, stomach growling a little. Maybe he’d raid the refrigerator for a snack if his computer took too long.
Fortunately, his computer flashed with the password screen, and Logan typed it in, able to open the manual and the browser for his practice quiz. He picked up the supplemental manual from the seat beside him and flipped it open to the dog-eared page. Testing on OSHA and safety requirements like CPR were necessary . . . Logan worried enough about his knowledge of math and wiring fundamentals.
"Question one—how many beats per minute should you do for chest compressions in CPR?" Logan rubbed his eyes, selecting the button he thought had the correct answer. "A hundred beats per minute . . . right."
He scrolled through the short, ten-question quiz on CPR since his OSHA one wasn't due for another three days. A dull pang of boredom nestled in his body between every question, itching for him to do anything but the quiz in front of him.
Much like a buzzing fly swarming around his head, Logan begrudgingly ignored the urge to pace around the kitchen tiles or check the fridge and see if any new food appeared on the shelves. He clicked the answers and checked the supplemental manual before submitting the assignment.
At the sight of a perfect score, Logan stepped away from the laptop and tossed open the fridge, pulling out the materials for a PB&J. The familiar aroma of strawberry jam and creamy peanut butter reminded him of elementary school when he used to eat a PB&J every Friday.
He stared at his ingredients, assembled them on a flimsy paper plate, and took a bite. Something about him being a full-on adult, lurking in the kitchen at nearly three in the morning while eating a PB&J sounded oddly depressing.
He thought he’d have a handle on his life by now. The younger him would be disappointed that he hadn’t been scouted by some hockey team where he had a chance to go pro. He should shelve his childhood pipe dream and help the bitter pill of reality go down easier.
But hope and all its addictive allure hooked him onto the chance of maybe. Maybe a scout might find him with a good deal. Maybe he and the boys would win the Anderson Cup and prove all the naysayers wrong. Maybe he had a future as a pro athlete and could pull his mom and Issac out of hardship.
The thought of “maybe” made a fool out of him.
Mid-bite, Logan turned to close his laptop for the night and plug it in on the counter, but the sudden collision of something small into his legs stole his focus. He glanced down, spotting Issac's green race car-themed pajamas, and the fluffy mess of his hair smushed to one side, likely from his pillow.
"Hi, buddy," Logan softened his voice and scooped his little brother off the floor. "Why aren't you sleeping?"
“I went potty. Saw the kitchen light on." Issac yawned but nuzzled closer to Logan with his arms slung around Logan's neck. Logan held Issac in one of his arms and inhaled his sandwich before his little brother begged for one. Issac would plead for a PB&J despite hating peanut butter. “When’s Mommy coming home?”
“She’s got a few more hours at the gas station. But I promise they’ll go by faster if you sleep.” Logan swayed on his heels, knowing Issac would be easy enough to lull back to sleep.
“Okay.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Will you sleep too, Logan?”
"Of course I will. But let's focus on you," Logan hummed, kissing Issac's hair and rubbing his back with a free hand. His little brother grew heavier in his arms, and Logan moved slowly toward his laptop, prepared to shut it down.
However, he clicked out of every tab besides the pinned one at the top of the search browser dedicated to Ava Laurier. He had yet to discover a piece of incriminating news or information about figure skating's sweetheart, but he wouldn't give up. He didn't trust her.
When the screen popped up, several new articles appeared at the top of the screen. One possessed a pulsing, red widget with Livestream in the text. Logan's nose crinkled. He leaned in, scanning the article until the words Charity Exhibition entered his line of sight.
Great. Another reason for everyone to sing Ava's praises.
Logan knew walking away would be wise, but he opened the livestream anyway. The live chat sprung to life alongside the donation bar, over three-fourths to its goal. A skating duo dressed in matching blistering lime green spun and struck a pose to the audience's applause.
Thankfully, Logan had the volume of his laptop on mute and bumped it up a few notches. However, he focused on the influx of comments and reading most of them. The enthusiasm of avid figure skating fans hardly surprised him, knowing how passionate people were about sports.
But his mouth twisted when the announcers cut back in from the crowd reactions, “That was Knox Johnson and Sage Naples, Canada's top skating duo, with their interpretation of ABBA's beloved 'Money, Money, Money.' They're always a delight to watch, but our last skater for the evening has the crowd buzzing. Multiple time World Champion skater from America and the girl made of gold, Averie Laurier, is next to skate."
The camera panned down to the side of the rink when Knox and Sage climbed off the ice, sliding on their skate guards. They smiled and waved at the close-up camera, but their attention shifted to someone behind it. Logan already knew who.
The camera caught a small glimpse of Ava’s face and a high ponytail wrapped with a sparkly pink bow before panning to a view of the crowd. The faces visible to Logan showed barely constrained excitement, and the livestream comments weren’t less overjoyed.
People went berserk for Ava before she even appeared on the screen, and the chat's speed tripled from the influx of messages, plenty of them spammed letters on the keyboard.
A rogue Ava, marry me! had him bewildered, and the rest of the messages continued to scream her praises. The mere sight of her face caused donations to push the online goal to over ninety percent complete. Logan's stomach turned when counting the mounting number of dollar signs with every monetary gift.
Imagine what that type of money could do for uniforms, better equipment, and promotion for the Winter Wolves.
Jealousy coiled tight and low in his stomach, settled in its favorite spot. Yet, Logan struggled to walk away from the computer. The camera panned for a second time, and the announcers hushed their commentary to watch as Ava entered the ice.
Several men in black carried her out to the middle and positioned her arms and legs for her. A few laughs erupted from the silent crowd, but Ava didn't move or change her facial expression from a painted smile on her startlingly pink lips. She looked like a doll.
The spotlight's beam and the soft pink lights around the stadium shone on her, leaving her sparkling. The fabric of her jumpsuit and elbow-length gloves—in the same shade as her lipstick—exploded with small microcosms of light like a million stars were stitched into her outfit.
Then, the music started.
Barbie Girl blasted out from the speakers around the arena as Ava moved. Logan groaned; Ava as Barbie felt obvious, given how she carried such a princess attitude. But the comments and audience devoured it.
There weren't many negative comments, but each slid underneath Logan's skin. They hadn't been directed at him; he wasn't Ava's biggest fan, but comments about her body crossed several lines of basic fucking decency.
His hand twitched to type some snarky reply, especially to the idiot rating her looks with a blank profile picture. He became sidetracked when the donation bar exceeded its goal by an extra ten percent and sent virtual confetti across the screen.
The next thing he knew, Ava danced out of her spin and hit a final pose with her hands propped behind her head and a wink for the camera, smiling despite her chest's shallow rising and falling.
“Averie Laurier never disappoints!” the announcers squealed on the heels of their own applause, snapping Logan out of his head. He closed the tab entirely and shut the laptop in disbelief that he watched the whole thing.
But, in his arms, Issac let out a little whine, “Logan, she’s so pretty!”
Logan paused, and part of him swallowed an immediate response, drenched in annoyance. Not Issac, too. “You think so, buddy?”
"Yeah! She skates so pretty!"
“I’m sure she does.”
“Can boys figure skate?” asked Issac, and Logan swore his heart stopped. He stared at his little brother’s eager eyes and couldn’t bring himself to answer. Of everyone in town, losing Issac to Ava would hurt more than any of the guys on his team.
Logan sighed, “Yes, boys can figure skate . . . but you told me a few days ago how excited you are about hockey season starting." He silently willed Issac to remember how much he liked hockey so he didn't need to field a dozen more questions about figure skating.
Issac shrugged and wiggled out of his grip, but Logan managed to set him down on the floor. He watched his little brother yawn and run out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing toward the bedroom.
Sighing, Logan headed after him and found Issac buried underneath the covers of the trundle bed. Despite the humid evening, his brother flopped around like a beached fish until he found a comfortable spot to stay warm.
He kissed Issac’s head and mumbled, “Sweet dreams, buddy. Lots of sweet dreams about starting hockey in a few weeks.”
“Goodnight, Logan . . . I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Logan lingered in the dark with his fingers lightly stroking through his little brother’s hair until his breathing evened out. He stepped back, hesitant at first, and grabbed his phone off the cramped desk tucked into the corner of the room. He backed out and shut the door, careful to stay quiet.
Too upset to sleep, he wandered back to the kitchen and cleaned up any leftover scraps from dinner off the dishes in the sink. Logan worked in silence, comforted yet pained by it simultaneously.
He reached for the threadbare dish towel hung on the stove's handle and dried off his hands, slightly pruned from the water exposure. His phone grew warm in the pocket of his sweatpants, and he checked it. No new messages.
Logan knew his teammates were likely enjoying the weekend, out with friends, or living their best lives as stupid teenagers while he sat home with no one checking in. Maybe it was stupid of him to care so much, but he couldn’t let it go.
Logan sat at the table and fiddled with his phone, staring at the blank screen, and begged a text message to come through. But his loaded stare did nothing but waste sleepless moments in the empty kitchen.
He placed the phone face down, quickly backtracking to flip it over and dial his mom’s number. Logan listened to the dial tone and the ringing, biting hard into his lower lip.
His mom worked night shifts alone, and he never stopped telling her how much it worried him. But the need for money kept her stationed on late night shifts, and he suspected she wasn’t sharing the full extent of why her boss chose her for the graveyard hours. Deep down, he suspected it was a punishment by the greasy little weasel who owned the gas station, and Logan would love to knock the other front tooth in and make his mouth match a jacked-up Jack-O-Lantern.
Logan's anxiety continued to spike for each ring left unanswered. Still, he hung onto the line, promising to immediately dial again if he reached her voicemail. However, the other line picked up right as the last ring buzzed.
“Logan, honey. Everything okay?” his mom asked, and while she sounded out of breath when answering, Logan exhaled the aching breath he held in his chest.
“Yeah, everything’s okay,” he promised. “Issac woke up, but I put him back to bed. Wanted to check on you and make sure you're safe."
"You're such a sweetheart. No one's stopped by the station for hours, so I've taken a few snack breaks and spent almost all my time hopping between radio stations. One of the late-night radio stations is running a contest for concert tickets, and I've started calling in as a joke. But hey, winning wouldn’t be so bad.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I’m glad you’re safe. I can hang up.”
His mom clicked her tongue, "Not so fast. You're never up this early in the morning unless something's bothering you too much to keep you from sleeping. So, what's up?"
“I have no clue what you mean.”
“Logan Henry Beckett. I can tell when you're lying, even if I can't see your face. I can hear the scrunch of your nose."
Logan almost stuttered because he had been scrunching his nose, but not intentionally. Fuck, she was good. Instead, he played it off, "It's been a long day. Practice for hours was exhausting. Not to mention spending time with Issac over at his friend's house during the afternoon. He's not the best swimmer, but we need him to be good at hockey instead.”
He rushed the words out, but the phantom of what had his mind in a frenzy too messy to sleep lingered on his shoulder. Does she ever worry about him ending up like Dad? Does she think he should give up on the hockey dream and enter the workforce early? Does she still believe in him like she promised?
“You need rest, Logan,” If she sensed his lie, his mother skimmed past it and let Logan’s dishonesty disappear into the night to haunt him another day. "You're still a growing boy, and have a great season ahead. I know how important it is for you to be in top condition. I'll be home soon."
“Growing boy? I’m a man.”
“You’ll always be my baby boy.”
"Mom, you know I get sappy when I'm sleep-deprived. Cut that out," Logan groaned, mostly kidding. There went the double-edged sword of wanting to greedily accept every word of his mom's praise but not having the courage to admit the worst of himself.
His mom laughed sweetly, “Then, get some sleep. I’ll be back in a few hours for breakfast, and I can’t wait to see you boys again.”
“I love you, Mom. Be safe.”
“I love you, too, Logan. Always.”
Logan hung up and stared at his phone when he set it down. His eyelids hung heavily, but the bitter sting of tears pushed them wide open. His knees scrunched onto the chair, and he tucked into himself awkwardly with his tall frame.
His mom had so much on her plate, so he couldn't burden her with his crisis of self-faith. He took it as his cross to bear and would either figure out how to fix it or fake it until the end.