cherry juice blues

this is soooo crazy (sorry I keep saying that) but thank you, thank you, thank you! seriously that means more than you'll ever know!

The Song

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc (2nd pov)

wc: 1.9k 

an: this is a shorter one but very pivotal one!

previous (part 8) | next (part 10)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

You don't get much done once you get to the boys' house. Obviously, you know better than to believe the chaos of that house would allow you any time to study. You weren't mad about it, you love watching your friends just hang out while you chirp in every now and then. Tucker was finishing the 'celebratory' gumbo, as Dean and Garrett played some random shooting game, and you were with Logan. That quiet corner of the living room he mentioned—"perfect for studying"—turned into you and him cuddled up absentmindedly on your phones. Every now and then he'd show you some stupid Instagram hockey reel, and you'd do the same by jokingly showing him an edit of a hot celeb.

Then you remember tomorrow. Tomorrow is Thursday, Thursday is the open mic at the Rusty Anchor you promised Justin you'd make it to. Then you realize your song isn't finished. You told yourself last Thursday, after callback, to stop being a shell of a person and get on that stage and perform something. But you don't even have that something finished.

You're off the couch before you even finish the thought, shoving your phone into your pocket. "I gotta go."

Tucker looks up from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. "The gumbo's almost done-"

"I know, I know, save me some." You're already grabbing your bag, and Logan's watching you with that careful look, the one that says he's reading you like a chapter he's already memorized. The rest of the boys also stare in confusion as to why you're abruptly leaving.

"Tomorrow. The open mic. I told Justin I'd be there, and I don't have a song, and if I don't finish it tonight I'm going to show up with nothing and embarrass myself in front of-" You stop yourself. Everyone. "I just gotta go."

Tucker's face softens. "Go. I’ll save you some for later."

Dean raises his bottle in a salute. "Break a leg, or whatever the musician version is. Tune a string."

"Don't break a string," Garrett corrects. "That's the musician version."

"l'll text you when I'm home," you say, already heading for the door, and you're two steps out when you realize Logan's right behind you, jacket half-on, keys in hand.

"I'll walk you," he says. It's not a question.

"It's a five-minute walk. I'm fine."

"I know you're fine." He holds the door for you, and the evening air hits your face, cool and clean. "I'm walking you anyway."

The words land somewhere soft. You don't argue. You say your goodbyes and step out into the cool night air, and the walk back is quiet and quick, your head already spinning through verses and bridges and half-finished lines. Logan keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, not pushing.

"Your song's not done," he says. Not a question.

"No."

"And it's due tomorrow.”

"Not due." You sigh. "I just promised myself I'd do it. Get on that stage and actually play something of my own for once. And I've got..." You count on your fingers. "A chorus. Half a verse. And a very strong feeling that I'm in over my head."

"You'll figure it out." He says it so easily, like it's a fact of nature, and you don't have the energy to argue with that kind of certainty. And with that sentiment, the two of you have made it outside your dorm. 

Before you can turn on your heels Logan tells you, "Text me when you're done."

"Then you might not be hearing from me for a while."

"That’s fine. Just text me when you're done." He's already turning, already heading back the way they came.

"Don't stay up too late, Eurydice."

"Don't call me that."

"Goodnight, Trouble."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling as you unlock the door and slip inside. The apartment is dark and quiet, Hannah and Allie both out, late-night shifts at the diner. You don't turn on the big light. You just grab your guitar from the corner of your room, settle onto the edge of your bed, and pull the notebook from your bag.

The song comes out half-formed at first. Simple chords, the same ones Justin helped you shape in that practice room, a progression that's become muscle memory. You strum through it once.

Twice. The verse you have is good. The chorus is close. But the bridge is a wall, and every time you reach it, your fingers stall.

With a groan, you lay your guitar to the side and fall flat on your bed, grabbing your phone for a distraction. Your thumb finds Instagram out of habit. And that's when you see it—the post from today. The first photo. You holding onto Logan's hands.

You look at it for a long moment. Too long of a moment. Shaking your head, you set your phone down and get back to writing.

You stare at the notebook in your lap, at the half-written lines. You tap the pen against the page, looking for the next line, the one that'll make it click.

You grab your guitar and just let your fingers find the chords and your pen find the page, and the words come out the way they've been sitting in your chest all week.

I keep a map of all the places I've been, but none of them look like home.

The chorus is already there, it’s the one you Tuesday, the one about wanting someone you aren't sure you can have. You play it twice, letting it settle, and then the second verse opens up under your hands.

I've been searching for miles, down every road that I've traveled alone.

You pause. The rhyme is there. And the line that wants to come next isn't about wandering at all. 

But home was never a place, it was your hands.

You stop strumming. The word hands hangs in the quiet of your room. The words you sang when you were with Justin. Just a random line you had thought of, but it's not. Because you know those hands. You know exactly which hands you're writing about. You've watched them wrap around a solo cup at parties, felt them when they were tucking your hair behind your ear, the one that patiently waited for yours when leaving a crowd, and you remember the way your palm fit against his like it had been measured.

The song isn't about Justin. It was never about Justin.

It's about Logan.

The realization sits there, heavy and undeniable, and you set the guitar down on your lap, heart beating somewhere in your throat. You look back at the page. Home was never a place, it was your hands. The words are so plainly, painfully true that you don't know how you didn't see it sooner. You wrote the song about wanting someone you aren't sure you can have. You started it with Justin in that practice room, thinking about the boy who's been in your head since freshman year. But the line in front of you, you weren’t thinking about Justin when you said it. Your fingers stall on the strings.

"Oh," you say to the empty room. Just that. Just oh.

You sit with it for a moment, the weight of it settling into your chest, and then you keep going, because the song isn't finished, and tomorrow is coming, and some things you can't outrun.

The bridge comes easier now. The words spill out the way they do when you stop trying to control them. You write about a voice that says I know you like a fact, about wanting to stay somewhere even when staying scares you more than leaving. You write the rest without thinking, the way you've learned to trust the words when they come. Your fingers move through the chords, it's simple, the way Justin showed you, the way a song should be when it's honest—and the second verse spills out.

I stared out looking for a sign, chasing a name I thought I knew,  but the only thing that ever felt like mine was the way I found my way to you.

That's not about Justin. You knew that a minute ago, and it still lands like a punch to the gut. You let out a breath, shake out your hand, and play it from the top. The chorus opens up, and you sing it into the quiet of your room, your voice small and raw but steady.

I keep a map of all the places I've been, but none of them look like home. I've been lost trying to fit, lost in the image. But home was never a place, home was never a place, home was never a place, it was your hands.

When you finish, the clock on your desk reads 2:47 a.m. Wow. Then you remembered you promised to text Logan back once you were done with the song. But how do you casually text the person you just wrote a song about that you finished said song? You stare at your ceiling for a moment or maybe three. Very unsure how to feel right now. You're thinking about all the little sly comments Allie has made, even your mom, and think about how they might have been right. Then the devil on your shoulder takes you down several pegs with doubt. It’s been a business arrangement. It’s been fake since the beginning, all just an act. For Justin. For the guy you’ve liked for three years. Not the guy you’ve been friends with. Why risk it? Then you remember. The rule book that you yourself made up for the business deal. A repetitive thought, “Rule four: No feelings,” and a voice screaming, “This would ruin everything,” circle your brain as they dance together in harmony.

You are harshly snapped out of the overloaded overthinking when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. Logan's name lights up the screen.

Logan: send proof of life? you finished yet?? tell me you haven't fallen asleep on top of your guitar.

You look at the message. Then at your guitar. Then at the page. And you have absolutely no idea what to say to him. Then you look at Logan's text, still glowing on your nightstand. You have to say something. You quickly grab your phone and type out the first thing you can think of while your brain is running 100 mph.

You: yep just finished actually. going to bed now. goodnight. 

Short, simple, and doesn't leave room for more. Perfect.

You don't wait for a reply. You lie back down in the same position you've been in for what may be the last hour. The ceiling blurs. The lamp softens. You have class in the morning. A boring lecture, but unfortunately an important one so you need sleep. You also have the open mic where you promised yourself you’d performed the song at. The song is finished, and tomorrow you'll have to decide what to do with it.

Your eyes close somewhere between one breath.

Home was never a place. It was his hands.

And you fall asleep before you can finish the thought.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

previous (part 8) | next (part 10)

The Callback

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc 

wc: 6.8k

an: okay okay i may have been eager to put out all of these chapters in a span of twoish days. i am all caught up to what i have planned and edited. now be patient with me as i figure where this is going. i do know that this is going to be quite a long story so buckle up. also a little bit of jealous Logan ;))))))

previous (part 7) | next (part 9)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Tuesday bleeds into next Wednesday, and Wednesday dissolves into a blur of lines and blocking notes and Allie running Persephone's monologue in the shower until Hannah threatens to move out. And then, somehow, it's Thursday.

Seven o'clock finds you and Allie outside the performance studio, the same hallway that nearly swallowed you whole on Monday. Allie's bouncing on her heels, and you're trying very hard not to think about the way your palms are sweating. Allie nails her callback. She said, “They made me feel like Persephone was made for me. That’s insane.” Allie's energy shifts instantly, her hand landing on your arm. "Hey. You've got this. You walked into that room on Monday and made Professor Horne say lovely. You know what Horne calls the people she doesn't like? 'Next.'

"That's not comforting."

"It's a little comforting." She squeezes your arm. "Okay, deep breath. You're Eurydice. You've been Eurydice since Monday. You just didn't know it yet."

The door to the studio opens, and a girl you don't recognize slips out, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. You and Allie exchange a look.

"Liana Rivas?" A stage manager pokes her head out, clipboard in hand.

Allie gives you a little push. "Go get her, Eurydice."

The studio is different tonight. The chairs are cleared, the floor marked with tape, and a single stool at center stage under a warm work light. Professor Horne sits at a long table with two other faculty members you recognize from the department. They look up as you enter, and Horne's expression is unreadable but not cold.

"Ms. Rivas. Thank you for coming back." She gestures to the stool. "We'd like to hear your Eurydice again. This time, a full cut from 'All I've Ever Known' through the end of 'Wait for Me.' We'll give you a simple accompaniment. Take your time."

The pianist nods at you from the corner. You walk to the stool, your heart hammering, and for a second you're back in the hallway on Monday, hands shaking. Then you sit. You close your eyes. You let the noise go—the faculty table, the stage manager, the fear. You think about the song you made with Justin, the way it felt to find the missing piece. You think about what it means to follow someone into the dark because you believe they're worth it. You open your eyes. "I'm ready."

The piano starts, and you sing. It's different from Monday. Monday, you were surviving. Tonight you're telling a story. The girl who walks into the underworld with her eyes open, who chooses herself even when it terrifies her. Your voice fills the studio, and you feel it catch in the right places, break where it should, soar where the song demands it. When you hit the last note of "Wait for Me," it rings out and hangs, shimmering in the quiet.

No one moves.

Professor Horne sets down her pen. "Thank you, Ms. Rivas. Would you wait outside, please?" You nod and walk out on legs you can't feel. Allie's waiting in the hall, and she grabs your arms the second you appear. "What happened? You were in there forever."

"I don't know," you breathe. "I think I did something. I don't know what."

The stage manager appears again before Allie can respond. "Ms. Rivas? Ms. Hayes? Professor Horne would like to see you both."

You look at Allie. She looks at you. And together, you walk back into the studio.

"Wait- both of us? Together?" You look at Allie, and she looks back at you with wide eyes, her mouth forming a silent what the hell. The stage manager just smiles, a small, knowing thing, and holds the door open wider. "Professor Horne asked for both of you."

You go in together. The studio feels different now. It’s smaller, quieter, the work light pooling on the empty stool. Professor Horne stands, and the two other faculty members look up with the kind of neutral expressions you've learned to read as "we already decided something."

"Ms. Rivas. Ms. Hayes. Thank you for waiting." Horne picks up a clipboard, glances at it, and sets it down. "I'll be direct. We saw forty-two auditions this week. Most of them were good. Two of them were something else."

Allie's hand finds yours, squeezing hard.

"Ms. Hayes. Your Persephone is playful in a way that reads as lived-in rather than performed. We'd like you to lean into the mischief. The role is yours if you want it."

Allie lets out a sound like a punctured balloon, half-laugh, half-sob. "Yes. Absolutely yes. Oh my god, yes."

Horne's mouth almost twitches—the closest thing to a smile you've ever seen on her. Then her eyes move to you.

"Ms. Rivas. Your Eurydice on Monday was lovely. Tonight it was inhabited. You understood something about that character that most people don't—that she walks into the dark with her eyes open. That her choice is brave, not foolish." She pauses. "The role of Eurydice is yours if you want it." The words land like a wave. You hear them, you feel them, but your mouth won't move. 

Allie's grip on your hand turns violent. "Say yes," she hisses. "Liana, say yes."

"Yes," you hear yourself say, and your voice cracks on it. "Yes, I want it."

Horne nods once. "Then congratulations, Ms. Rivas. Welcome to Hadestown." She gestures to the stage manager. "Rehearsals start two Mondays from now. Full read-through, two to five. Don't be late."

The next five minutes are a blur. Allie is hugging you so hard your ribs complain, and then she's crying, and then you're crying, and the stage manager is grinning at you both from the doorway. Somewhere between the studio and the hallway, the reality of it crashes into you—you're Eurydice—and you have to brace yourself against the wall. Allie grabs your shoulders, her face inches from yours, tear-streaked and radiant. "We're doing Hadestown. I'm Persephone, and you're Eurydice, and we're gonna bring the house down."

"We're gonna bring the house down," you repeat, and it comes out like a promise.

You're already pulling out your phone before the thought finishes forming. "I have to call my mom."

Allie nods, still wiping at her eyes. "Go. I'll be right here, ugly crying at the wall."

You duck into the alcove by the water fountain, your fingers shaking slightly as you hit the contact. It rings once. Twice.

"Liana Maria." Your mom's voice comes through warm and teasing. "You never call me on a Thursday unless something happened. What is it? Did you get the role? Don't you dare make me wait-"

"Mom." Your voice cracks, and suddenly you're blinking hard. "I got it. I got Eurydice."

A beat of silence. Then a sound you've only heard a few times in your life—your mom crying, happy, on the other end of the line. "Oh, honey." Her voice is thick. "Oh, my sweet girl. I knew it. I told your tía Rosa you were going to get it. I told her you were the most talented girl in that whole department, and I didn't even need to see the other auditions to know it."

"You're biased."

"Biased and right." She laughs, watery. "Eurydice. That's the one who follows him in the underworld, isn't it? The one who loves hard enough to walk into the dark?"

"Yeah. That's the one."

"Then it's perfect for you." There's a pause, and you can picture her in the kitchen, hand pressed to her chest, the way she gets when she's proud. "Because that's exactly who you are, Liana. You walk into things with your eyes open. You always have." Another pause, softer. "Does this mean you'll be in another show with Allie?"

"Yes. Allie got Persephone.”

"Allie got Persephone!" Your mom's voice goes bright. "That girl is going to eat that role for breakfast. Oh, I have to call your tía. I have to call everyone. My daughter is going to be on a real stage, in a real show-"

"It's a college production, Mom."

"It's a real show with real lights and real tickets and a real audience, and my daughter is the lead." She says it with such finality that you can't help the laugh that escapes you. "Now, you go celebrate. Go have a milkshake or something. And call that Logan boy — he'll want to know."

"Mom-"

"I'm just saying." Her voice is innocent in a way that absolutely isn't. "He's been texting me all week asking how you were doing before auditions. Said he wanted to make sure his girl wasn't nervous." A pause. "His words, not mine."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "We're not—"

"I know, honey. I know." But she says it gently, like she knows something you don't. "Go celebrate. I love you. I'm so, so proud of you."

"Love you too, Mom."

You hang up, and for a moment you just stand there in the alcove, phone warm in your hand, her words settling around you. His girl. 

Allie appears at the end of the hall, arms crossed, grinning. "Okay. Mom's handled. Now who else needs to know?"

"I’m gonna call Logan. He'll want to know."

Allie's grin turns knowing, but she just waves you off. "Go. I'll be here, memorizing my acceptance speech."

You hit his contact before you can overthink it. It rings twice, three times, and you're about to pull the phone away when his voice comes through, a little breathless, like he just sprinted somewhere.

"Lia? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's-" You laugh, because the word okay doesn't even cover it. "Everything's great. I got it. I got Eurydice."

There's a pause. A beat of silence so complete you can hear the background noise shift—the clatter of the hockey house, the low murmur of a TV, someone's laugh cut off mid-stream. And then his voice, low and warm and completely sincere.

"Of course you did."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say? I told you on Monday you killed it. I told you on Tuesday you'd get it. I've been telling you for two years that you're the most talented person I know." A beat. "You finally started listening."

Your throat closes up. You press your hand to your mouth for a second, and when you speak, your voice comes out thick. "You didn't even see the callback."

"Didn't need to."' He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I know what you sound like when you sing. I've known for a long time. The rest of the world's just catching up."

"Logan-"

"I'm proud of you, Liana. That's all." He clears his throat, and you can hear him moving—the rustle of fabric—someone yelling his name in the background. 

"Hannah's going to lose her mind. Garrett's going to try to be cool about it and fail. And I'm going to be in the front row opening night, clapping louder than I'm allowed to. Save me a seat to celebrate with you."

The line clicks. You stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to your ear, the dial tone humming, and then Allie's voice cuts through.

“You're smiling like an idiot. That was Logan, wasn't it?"

You tuck your phone away, and your smile doesn't even try to hide. "Yeah. It was." Allie shakes her head, arms crossed, but she's grinning. "You two are hopeless. Absolutely, completely hopeless."

Your phone buzzes again, insistent this time, and you glance down at the screen while Allie's still mid-tease.

Justin: how'd it go?

The name sits there in glowing white letters, and for a second you forget how to breathe. Of course he texted. He knew what tonight was. He'd said break a leg at the door of the practice room like he meant it.

You stare at the screen, and Allie notices the shift immediately. "Who is it?" She leans in, then spots the name, and her eyebrows climb into her hairline. "Oh. Oh. The Australian rockstar."

"It's just a text," you say, but your thumb is already moving.

You: i got it. Eurydice.

Three dots appear instantly. 

Justin: Liana. that's incredible. i knew it the second you walked into that practice room. when's the first show? You: rehearsals start in two weeks. show's in about a month. Justin: then I'll be there. front row. i want to see Eurydice bring the house down.

You smile down at the screen, and Allie makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "He's coming to the show now? You two are gonna be the most tangled love triangle this campus has ever seen."

"It's not a love triangle."

"It's absolutely a love triangle. You've got the boyfriend who brings you tea and the musician who writes songs with you. This is literally a Taylor Swift bridge." 

She holds up her hands like she's framing a headline. "'Liana Rivas: Eurydice, and Also the Star of a One-Woman Drama.'''

"Allie-"

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm saying it's content." She grins. "Now, are we gonna stand in this hallway all night, or are we getting milkshakes? I have a Persephone to celebrate, and you have a Eurydice to celebrate, and I refuse to do either of those things sober."

You pocket your phone, and the weight of the night settles warm around you. The role, the call with your mom, Logan's voice saying I'm proud of you, Justin's text glowing in your pocket. All of it, tangled together, waiting for you to figure out what it means.

"Milkshakes," you say. "I'm buying."

The milkshakes are good—thick, cold, exactly what a night like this deserves. Allie tells the story of the callback to the cashier, to a table of freshmen, to a guy waiting for takeout, and by the time you both stumble out into the evening air, your cheeks ache from laughing.

It's Allie's phone that buzzes this time. She glances at it, then at you. "Hannah and Garrett are at the dining hall. Logan's with them." A beat, and her grin turns wicked. "Looks like the celebration's moving."

Ten minutes later, you push through the dining hall doors and spot them at a corner table. Hannah is waving you over with both arms, Garrett's arm slung over the back of her chair, and Logan beside them, looking up the second you walk in.

“There they are," Hannah announces as you slide into the seat across from her. "The stars of the spring musical. Somehow Garrett was the first to tell me. Keeps talking about it." She nudges him. 

"Hey just a supportive friend. Nothing crazy." Garrett agrees, deadpan. 

"Don't listen to him." Hannah leans in, eyes bright. "He texted the group chat. Multiple exclamation points."

"Multiple exclamation points? That's sweet, Graham."

Garrett's ears go pink, which is deeply satisfying. "It was one exclamation point."

His eyes flicker over. "Logan's the one you should be worried about. He's been checking his phone all night. Thought he was waiting on a trade offer."

"I was waiting on the casting news," Logan says, smooth as ever, not missing a beat. "Which, for the record, I already knew."

"Because you're psychic," Garrett deadpans.

"Because I know Liana."

The words land lightly, but they land. Hannah's gaze moves between the two of you, her head tilting just slightly, like she's filing something away. Then she reaches across the table and squeezes you and Allie’s hands. "I'm so proud of you guys," she says, and her voice is warm and genuine. "Eurydice and Persephone. That's huge. When do rehearsals start?"

"Two weeks. Two to five."

"Every day?"

"Every weekday until opening night." You exhale, letting the weight of it settle. "It's real. I keep waiting for someone to tell me it was a clerical error."

The table settles into easy rhythm—Hannah stealing bites of Garrett's burger, Allie coming back to the table with a tray piled high with fries, Dean's voice somewhere behind you calling something about "the star of the show" before Tucker pulls him toward the salad bar. It's warm, familiar, the kind of chaos you've come to know as family. Then Hannah sets down her fork, and her eyes find yours with that particular gleam that means she's been building up to something.

"So." She folds her arms on the table. "You've had a busy week. Casting callbacks, rehearsals, songwriting sessions..." A beat. "Justin Kohl."

The name lands at the table like a dropped glass. Allie goes very still, very interested in her fries.

"I heard you two have been spending time in the music building. " Hannah's voice is light, but her eyes are sharp. "Writing songs together. Alone. In a practice room."

"Yeah, he's got a song we're working on." You say it like it's nothing, reaching for a fry, but you can feel the table shift around you.

Hannah's eyebrows climb. "A song. Together."

“Together." You dip the fry in ketchup, very focused on the mechanics of it. "He was stuck on the bridge. I helped. It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal," Hannah repeats, savoring the words like she's tasting them. 

"You're writing songs with the lead singer of the band you've had a crush on for three years, and it's not a big deal."

Allie chokes on her water. Garrett suddenly finds his burger extremely interesting.

"It's just - " You pause, trying to find the right shape for it. "He's actually really good. And he was stuck. And I had some words that fit. That's all it is. Two people, one song."

Hannah studies you for a long moment, and you can practically see the gears turning behind her eyes. She's too smart, always has been. She's the one who notices when you're wearing a new lip gloss, when you're quiet in a specific way, when something's shifted. "Okay," she says finally, and it's almost believable. "Two people, one song. That's sweet." She picks up her fork again, twirling it. "So are you two, like—hanging out? Outside of the music building?"

"Just the music building," you say, and it's true, which is somehow the strangest part.

"Mm." She takes a bite of her salad, chewing thoughtfully. "And Logan's cool with it? You spending time with your, uh..." She gestures vaguely. "Creative collaborator?"

The question lands soft, but it lands. Across the table, Logan doesn't even flinch. He takes a sip of his water, sets it down, and shrugs with an ease that's almost too practiced. "I trust her," he says simply. "And I'm not the jealous type."

"Really?" Garrett's eyes gleam. "Because I remember you sucker-punching that guy at Sig Tau last spring for looking at Hannah—"

"That was different." Logan's voice is flat. "He was being a creep."

"And Logan writing songs with a girl he's not dating isn't creepy?"

Logan's jaw tightens, just for a second, and you watch something flicker behind his eyes—something you can't quite name. Then it's gone, smoothed over with a crooked grin.

"Nope. Just art." He turns to you, and his voice is light, but his eyes hold yours a beat longer than necessary. "Speaking of which—you gonna play me this song, or do I have to wait for the open mic?"

"You'd have to earn it, Logan."

The challenge hangs in the air, and for a second the whole table goes quiet. Allie's eyes are practically sparkling. Garrett pauses mid-bite, looking between the two of you like he's watching a tennis match.

Logan leans back in his chair, and that crooked smile spreads slow across his face. "Earn it, huh? And how exactly would I do that?"

"I don't know." You shrug. "I'm sure you'll figure something out. You're a resourceful guy."

"I am." He taps his fingers on the table, thinking. "Could start with tea. A London fog, oat milk, extra foam. Maybe more walks to class. A glass tap at a game or two."

"Those are rookie moves. You're gonna have to try harder."

Hannah snorts, and when you glance at her, she's watching the two of you with an expression you can't quite read—half amused, half like she's doing long division in her head. "You two are ridiculous," she says. "Flirting over song rights."

"We're not flirting," you and Logan say at the same time, and Allie absolutely loses it, slapping the table with her palm.

"That was so coordinated," she wheezes. "You guys rehearse that?"

"Great minds," Logan mutters, but his ears are pink.

Garrett, mercifully, changes the subject. "Alright, enough about songs and exclamation points. You got the part, Rivas. That's the headline." He raises his water glass. "To Lia—our resident underworld traveler."

"To Lia," the table echoes, and you feel the warmth of it spread through you—the clink of glasses, Allie's grin, Hannah's hand squeezing your knee under the table, Logan's eyes on you across the table, soft and steady.

"I'm gonna be terrible at rehearsals," you warn, but you're smiling.

"You're gonna be great," Hannah says. "And we're gonna be there opening night, front row, losing our minds." She pauses, and her smile turns sly. "Me, Garrett, Allie, Logan... and maybe a certain Australian singer-songwriter?"

She says it lightly, but the name lands at the table again, and you feel the shift— Allie suddenly very interested in her fries, Logan's jaw tightening just a fraction before he smooths it over with a sip of water.

"Maybe. He said he'd be there." The words come out lighter than you meant them to, and for a second the table goes still. Hannah's eyebrows are doing a slow climb, like she's watching a puzzle piece finally click into place.

"Justin Kohl," she says, drawing the name out, "is coming to see you in Hadestown. Opening night."

"That's what he said." You shrug, reaching for your water. "He said he wanted to see Eurydice bring the house down."

Allie makes a sound like a tea kettle. Garrett's watching you with new appreciation, like you've just revealed a hidden talent. And Logan—Logan takes a long, slow sip of his water, sets it down, and doesn't say anything at all.

"That's so..." Hannah searches for the word. "Supportive."

"It's just a friend thing."

"Mm-hmm." She doesn't believe you for a second, and honestly, you're not sure you believe yourself either. "Well, the more the merrier. We'll need a whole row. Front row, Logan said. Garrett can save seats."

"I'm not saving seats for that dude," Garrett mutters.

Across the table, Logan clears his throat. "I'm gonna grab another water. Anyone need anything?"

"Nah, we're good," Garrett says, and Logan pushes his chair back and heads toward the beverage station, unhurried, hands in his pockets. Hannah watches him go, then turns to you with a look you know too well. It's her I-have-questions look, the one she wears right before she launches an investigation. "He's quiet tonight," she says, conversational. "Logan, I mean. Usually he's got something to say."

"He's fine."

"Is he?" She tilts her head. "Because you just told the table your—what did you call him? Your creative collaborator. Is coming to your opening night. And your boyfriend didn't say a word."

Allie, who has been suspiciously silent, finally cracks. "Okay, to be fair, that's a lot for one dinner. Maybe we let the girl breathe." She throws an arm around your shoulder. "She's had a big day. Casting callbacks, text messages, exclamation points. Let's not make her head explode before the milkshake.

"Can we talk about something else?"

You say it with a smile, but there's enough edge underneath that Hannah raises her hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay. Truce. I'm done with the interrogation. I will say I am a little offended you haven't shared this song with me."

"I’ve been waiting for the right moment."

“Mmhm.” Hannah rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Fine. New topic. Someone pick something boring."

"Boring," Garrett repeats, thinking. "Okay. Did anyone see the highlights from the Bruins game last night?"

"God, no," Allie groans. "Dad, please. We're trying to have a conversation."

"I'm trying to be helpful-"

"Garrett, no one at this table cares about the Bruins when we have actual Hawks games to watch." Hannah pats his arm. "Love you, though."

Logan slides back into his seat, water in hand, and catches the tail end of the exchange. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," you say. "Just Garrett being a hockey nerd."

"Rude," Garrett mutters, but he's grinning.

Logan's eyes find yours across the table, and there's something warm in them, easy, like the last few minutes didn't even register. "So, the song. Is it any good?"

"It's really good." You don't even hesitate, and you mean it. "Like, annoyingly good. He's got a voice that-" You catch yourself, aware of four pairs of eyes on you. "He's a good songwriter."

"He's got the crowd thing down," Logan says, and his tone is easy, no edge to it. 

"He does." You take a sip of your water. "He told me he's better on stage than off. Said he gets lost in the before part."

The table digests that in silence. Allie looks at you like you've just handed her a wrapped present. Hannah's studying her fork. Garrett is very carefully not looking at Logan.

"That's..." Logan starts, then stops. He picks at the label on his water bottle. 

"That's cool, I guess."

You're not sure what to say to that. The moment stretches, and then Allie clears her throat. "Okay, so, fun fact I learned at callback today—apparently the guy who played Orpheus in the Broadway revival went to Briar. Like, alumni and everything. The department's got a picture of him in the hallway. It's weird. He's looking right at you."

And just like that, the conversation shifts, sliding into something lighter. Allie's storytelling, Hannah's questions, Garrett's dry commentary. It's comfortable, familiar, the kind of night that makes you forget the week was ever stressful.

At some point, the dining hall starts to empty out, and Hannah stretches, checking her phone. "We should probably head back. It's getting late, and somebody's got a rehearsal schedule to prepare for." She looks between you and Allie. She then focuses on you. "You want to walk back with us?"

"Yeah, let's head back."

You push your chair back, gathering your bag, and the table shifts with you - Hannah standing, stretching, Garrett already reaching for her jacket. Allie's pulling on her cardigan, still talking about the Broadway revival guy. Logan rises slower, and for a moment you're both just standing there in the thinning crowd of the dining hall, the noise of it fading around you.

"Good night, Lia," he says, and it's softer than the occasion calls for. "You did something huge today. Don't forget it."

"I won't." You mean it.

"Text me when you're home." He says it like it's automatic, like the words have worn a groove in him, and you catch Hannah's eye over his shoulder—she's watching the two of you with a small, unreadable smile.

"I will."

You step out into the cool evening air with Hannah, and the door swings shut behind you. For a few steps, neither of you speaks. Then Hannah nudges your shoulder.

"You know," she says, "I've known you for three years. And I’ve known Logan for almost two. I've never seen anyone look at you the way Logan does. Not once."

"Logan looks at everyone like that."

"No." She shakes her head, and her voice is gentle. "He doesn't. He really, really doesn't." He does at you, you think to yourself.

You walk the rest of the way in comfortable silence, her words settling somewhere you can't quite reach, and by the time your dorm comes into view, the night has gone quiet and soft around you. Your phone buzzes in your pocket—a text you already know is from Logan, checking in before you even made it home.

You smile, and pocket it, and let the warmth carry you up the stairs.

---------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the weekend blurs by in a haze of preparation. Eurydice's lyrics loop through your head even in your sleep. Before you can blink, another week has gone by, and it's somehow now Wednesday—you just finished a pop quiz in psych that you were surprisingly prepared for. It's a bright, cold afternoon that smells like spring, and a text from Logan that reads simply:

Logan: lunch? there's a spot on the quad that's actually sunny.

You find him there, stretched out on a windowsill, two sandwiches and an iced London fog waiting beside him. He grins when he sees you, crooked and easy.

"Figured you'd need a break," he says. "I heard about the psych quiz. I don’t know how you survive that five hundred people class."

Logan's mid-sentence, gesturing with his hands as he talks about Tucker's latest attempt to perfect his gumbo recipe, saying "he added cinnamon, Lia, cinnamon-", and you don't even think about it. You just raise your phone and snap.

The shutter clicks. He stops mid-word.

"Did you just take a picture of me?"

"Yes." You don't even try to hide it, turning the screen toward him. The photo caught him mid-laugh, head tilted, sun catching the curve of his smile. "Evidence that you exist outside of hockey and water consumption."

"Water consumption," he repeats, but he's already leaning in to look. "That's a terrible angle."

"It's a great angle. You look-" You stop yourself, because the word soft is sitting right there on your tongue. "You look normal. Like a person."

"I am a person."

"Debatable."

He laughs, shakes his head, and takes a bite of his sandwich. And you look at the photo again—the way the sunlight falls across his face, the ease in his shoulders, the way he's looking at something off-camera like it genuinely delights him—and the thought slips out before you can stop it.

That's a boyfriend photo.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You think about the timeline, the careful performance of it all. Two weeks. It just kind of clicked. And then you think about the game, his hand in yours walking home, and how none of it has ever felt like acting.

"Hey." You keep your voice casual, eyes still on the photo. "Should we make it official?"

Logan pauses, sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Official how?"

"Instagram." You look up. "Post a photo or two. Sell the story a little harder. People love a couple that posts." You tilt the phone toward him. "I've got this one. I've got one from the game. And there's one from movie night. Oo, and this one from a party ages ago!"

"Movie night?"

"Sunday. You were asleep on my shoulder during Spiderman. Allie took it." You show him—the two of you tangled on the couch, his head resting against yours, a blanket pooling in his lap. "You look very committed to the bit."

He studies the photo for a long moment. Something shifts in his face, too quick to name, and then he shrugs, easy as anything. "Do it."

"Really?"

"Really." He picks up his sandwich again. "If we're doing this, we're doing it properly. Hard launch. No half measures."

So you do it. You post all four—the pic from the party where he guided you through the crowd and thought it was cute enough to snap, the candid from today, Logan after the game, and the sleepy movie-night photo—and you type out the caption with your heart beating somewhere in your throat:

<3 @johnlogan22

You hit post.

"Okay, now we wait."

You flip the phone face-down on the bench and push it away like it's a grenade, which earns a snort from Logan. He takes a long bite of his sandwich, chewing with theatrical patience.

"How long are we waiting?"

"I don't know. That's what waiting means." You pick up your tea, focusing very hard on the lid.

"People post things and then the internet... reacts. Or doesn't. Either way, it's out of my hands now."

"That's very zen of you."

"I'm a very zen person."

“Very believable." He laughs, easy, and the tension in your shoulders loosens a little. The sun is warm on your neck, and for a moment you let yourself just sit with it.

"I've never hard-launched anything before," you admit. "This is uncharted territory."

"Me neither." He tilts his head. "My last public relationship was announced via a Fifth Line post Jules wrote without asking. I found out when Tucker texted me a screenshot."

"That's terrible."

"That's my life." He grins, crooked. "You're a significant upgrade in the announcement department."

"Because I have a good eye for angles."

"Because you didn't post a blurry photo of me at a party with a caption about 'a good one.'"' He shudders, but he's smiling. "Jules has never forgiven me."

"Jules forgives everyone."

"Jules forgives everyone except the guy who ate their leftover pad thai in the hockey house fridge freshman year. They still brings it up at holidays."

You laugh, and the sound of it hangs in the warm air, easy and unforced. Logan's watching you with that look again—the one that makes your stomach do a slow, unfamiliar flip.

The phone buzzes, face-down, and you both glance at it.

"That's probably it," he says. "The moment of truth."

You turn the phone over.

The screen is a wall of red notification bubbles, and your breath catches before you even read a word.

Seventeen likes. Twelve comments. A follow from someone you don't recognize.

"Okay," Logan says, leaning in. "How bad is it?"

You scroll to the top and start reading aloud.

hannahwells: THE CAPTION. THE PHOTOS. I'M SCREAMING. alliecathayes: movie night photo is so intimate i feel like i'm intruding thedeandilaurentis: when's the wedding tuckerj: i reserve all bragging right for being the first person to know garrett.g: you two are disgustingly cute. please stop julesloganthethird: called it. i called it FIRST. screenshot proof available on request

Logan laughs at that one, shaking his head. "Jules has been waiting for this day since sophomore year. I'm never going to hear the end of it."

Your phone buzzes with a text. Then another. Then three more in a row.

Allie: HARD LAUNCH?!?! i am shaking Allie: the movie night photo is a STATEMENT Allie: when was the first photo taken???????? you're in love with him Allie: jk jk... unless

Mom: Liana Maria Rivas. You post that photo and don't tell your mother first? I raised you better. Mom: Call me tonight. Also you two look so cute I could cry. Love, Mom

You laugh, throat tight, and show Logan your mom's text. He reads it twice, then meets your eyes with that crooked smile. "Your mom's my favorite person."

"She's everyone's favorite person."

He glances at the photo on your screen again—the four of them, sunlit and easy— and his voice goes quieter. "You know, for two people who are faking it, we do look pretty good together."

"Pretty good?" You snort, tucking your phone into your lap. "We look like we're in a rom-com montage. The kind where the guy realizes he's in love right as the train pulls away."

"You're really selling that."

"I'm just saying, the lighting's doing a lot of heavy lifting." You gesture at the quad, the sun, the bench. "Anyone would look good out here. It's the golden hour tax."

"Right. It's the lighting." Logan nods slowly, like he's humoring you. "Not the company."

"Definitely not the company." You point your tea at him. "I'm very photogenic on my own."

"I've seen your camera roll, trouble. You've got seventeen blurry shots of a stray cat and exactly one selfie from last semester."

"That selfie was for a group project." You tilt your chin up. "And it was a great selfie."

"It was 2 a.m. and you had a hood on."

"You're impossible." But you're smiling, and so is he, and the moment hangs easy between you. Your phone buzzes again 

Dean: hard launch on the social. the boys are losing it Dean: tucker's writing a whole speech. send help Garrett: i've been asked to formally request that you two stop being cute in public. it's distracting the team.

A new notification pops up at the top of your screen. A comment on the post, from an account you don't recognize—and your thumb hesitates over it. Logan notices.

"What?" he asks. "Who is it?"

"Someone I don't know." You squint at the username. "Some... hockey fan account? 'Fifth Line approved'. Wait, is that's Jules's alt?"

Logan snorts. "Jules has like four accounts. They run the whole rumor mill on a burner." He leans closer to look. "What'd they say?"

"Okay, here we go." You clear your throat, doing a terrible announcer voice. 

"'Fifth Line approved. The prophecy has been fulfilled. I've been tracking this ship since the day Logan carried your textbooks across campus in a thunderstorm.'"' You look up laughing. “Oh my god they’re relentless.”

Your phone buzzes again, a whole new wave, and you glance down to see the group chat exploding.

Tucker's speech has apparently started without you.

Tucker: this is the happiest day of my life. i have prepared gumbo. Dean: he started prepping the second you hit post. there are three pots Garrett: i am not eating three pots of gumbo. Tucker: you will and you'll say thank you. Dean: someone send the screenshot to Jules. their gonna lose their mind.

"Dean's trying to get Jules to repost it," you say, showing Logan the screen. "Is that going to happen?"

"If Jules wants it on Fifth Line, it's going on Fifth Line. There is no stopping them." He tilts his head. "Are you okay with that?"

You think about it. It should feel like a performance. But the photo from today is still on your screen, sunlight and laughter, and it doesn't look like acting.

"I'm okay with it," you say. "As long as the caption's good."

"Jules's captions are always good. Annoying, but good."

Your phone lights up with one more notification, and you glance down expecting another comment. It's not a comment, though. It's a follow request, from an account with a black-and-white photo and a name that makes your heart jump into your throat. justinkohl.

justinkohl.

Your thumb freezes on the screen, and the whole world narrows to that one handle. The black-and-white profile photo. The blue checkmark of recognition. The tiny, unassuming blue button that says follows you in faded text at the top of his profile.

"Trouble?" Logan's voice comes from somewhere far away. "You good?"

"Justin Kohl," you hear yourself say. "Just followed me."

Logan blinks. "The actual Justin Kohl?"

"The actual Justin Kohl." You turn the phone toward him, and for a moment you just stare at the screen together—his profile, his photo, that follow. "He's in my followers. I'm in his followers. There's a level of mutual internet recognition happening that I cannot process."

"That's-"' Logan searches for the word. "That's good, right? That's the plan working."

"The plan working." You nod slowly, still staring. "Yeah. That's what this is."

But your heart is doing something complicated in your chest, and it's not the pure, ecstatic joy you expected. You take a breath, shake it off, and pocket the phone. "Anyway. Your fans are very invested in our fictional relationship."

The afternoon stretches out warm and easy between you, the last of the sandwiches disappearing, the tea going cold in your cup. No more notifications that matter. Just the two of you, and the easy rhythm you've somehow fallen into.

"Library’s gonna be packed tonight," Logan says eventually, stretching. "I've got a paper due Tuesday I haven't started. You want to come back to the house? There gumbo waiting for you, and a quiet corner in the living room that's actually good for studying."

"Studying," you repeat.

"Textbooks. Flashcards. Very boring, very academic activities." He grins, crooked. "You can even show me that song, if you're feeling generous."

"Gotta earn it, Logan."

"I know. I'm working on it."

You gather your things and fall into step beside him, leaving the sunny bench behind. His shoulder brushes yours as you walk, and you don't pull away. Neither does he. And somewhere in your pocket, your phone stays dark and quiet, holding the name that's been in your head since freshman year. Along with the realization that, for the first time in three years, it doesn't feel like the most important name in your life.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

previous (part 7) | next (part 9)

an: i just made some edits cause keeping a timeline for your imaginary story is harder than it looks. also i fixed jules' pronouns! i don't know if anyone even realized, but so sorry it slipped my mind.

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

an: this fic is getting long enough for a materlist and that feels crazy to write out. lmk if you want to be a part of the taglist! i don't know how consistent i will be putting out chapters once i've caught up with everything i have already planned out. and i put word count in ()!

---------------------------------------------------------

The Deal (8.1k) - the one where Liana and Logan shake on a 'fake dating' deal to get the guy.

The Diner (3.8k) - the one where Liana and her roommates grab a late-night, early morning snack and try to interrogate her.

The Regret (5.4k) - the one where Liana wants to call off the deal and gets a surprise visit at work.

The Show (4k) - the one where Liana and Logan ease into the deal and learn about the spring musical.

The Game (12.8k) - the one where Liana and Logan make their big debut as Briar's new 'hottest couple'.

The Audition (7.3k) - the one where Liana pulls herself together and auditions for her dream role.

The Lyrics (3.4k) - the one where Liana spends time one-on-one with her three year long crush.

The Callback (6.8k) - the one where Liana starts to believe in herself plus she hard launches John Logan.

The Song (1.9k) - the one where Liana writes a song that's maybe a little too honest and a little too real.

The Lyrics

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc 

wc: 3.4k

an: heads up it’s a justin chapter! hopefully i gave him some substance.

previous (part 6) | next (part 8)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

You fall asleep smiling after spending the rest of the night celebrating with your roommates. Tuesday arrives too fast, it's freezing in your apartment, and you're halfway through your psych reading when your phone lights up.

Justin: still good for 2? practice room's booked, third floor of the music building. bring a song if you got one.

You stare at your phone, then at your closet, then back at your phone, and the panic hits you like a freight train.

"What do I wear? What does one wear to a songwriting session with your crush who thinks you have a boyfriend? Is there a dress code? Is there a vibe? Am I supposed to look effortlessly cool or like I didn't try at all?"

Allie looks up from the kitchen counter, a spoonful of yogurt halfway to her mouth. 

"Lia. Breathe."

"I can't breathe. I'm wearing the wrong thing, and I don't even know what the right thing is."

"You're not wearing anything yet. That's the problem." She sets down her yogurt and pads over to your open closet, surveying the chaos like a general inspecting troops. "Okay. Rule one: no dresses. You're going to sit at a piano, not a garden party."

"Right. No dresses."

"Rule two: no effort." She pulls out a cream-colored sweater from your closet, holds it up, shakes her head, and shoves it back. "The whole point is to look like you threw something on and it happened to look perfect. That's the illusion."

"That's an impossible illusion. I've never looked effortlessly anything."

"You will today." She yanks a band tee and holds it against your chest. "This. Dark jeans. The gold hoops. Messy bun, but intentionally messy. You look like a songwriting muse. You're just being friendly. Cool. Casual. Unbothered."

"Unbothered," you repeat, and the word feels like a lie already.

"Unbothered," Allie confirms. 

You type it out a reply to Justin before you can lose your nerve, thumb hovering over send for exactly one second too long

You: still good. see you at 2.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Justin: can't wait. i've been working on something i think you'll like.

---------------------------------------------------------

It’s 2:01 as you walk up the steps of Briar Music Hall—you thought showing up a tiny bit late amplifies the ‘chill, unbothered’ vibes. The music building is old brick and narrow hallways, the smell of wood polish and old sheet music hanging in the air. You take the stairs to the third floor, each step louder than the last. Once you make it to the final floor, you take slower steps to steady your breathing as you find the practice room at the end of the hall.

The door is cracked open. Piano music spills through the gap, something slow and searching, a melody that stops and starts, like someone thinking out loud. You push the door open. Justin's at the piano, fingers resting on the keys, head bent over a notebook. He looks up when you step in, and his face breaks into a slow, easy grin.

"There she is." He shifts on the bench, gesturing at the chair beside him. "I was starting to think you'd stood me up."

"Sorry. Got caught up." You slide into the chair, setting your bag at your feet. The room is small and warm, soundproofed, the walls lined with corkboard. Just you, him, and a piano.

"So." He turns on the bench to face you, that grin still hanging there. "Your boyfriend's okay with you hanging out with a musician? I heard hockey guys get territorial."

"He's not the territorial type." The lie comes out easily, smoother than you expected. "He's got his own thing going on. I've got mine."

"Mmm." Justin nods, something flickering in his eyes. He flips his notebook open, tapping the page. "I've got a song I've been stuck on for a week. I need a second set of ears. You in?"

"I'm in. Play it for me."

Justin grins and turns back to the piano, rolling his shoulders like he's about to step onstage. "Alright. Be gentle. It's not finished, so don't judge the ending too hard."

He sets his hands on the keys, takes a breath, and plays. The opening is sparse, just a few notes, low and searching, like someone feeling their way through a dark room. Then his voice comes in, softer than you've ever heard it, no stage bravado, no crowd to play to. Just him, and the piano, and a melody that keeps circling back to the same unanswered question.

I've been chasing a light that don't exist,

drawing maps to a place I've never been

The chorus lifts, and there's something aching in it, something he's clearly been turning over for days. His fingers find the chords easily, but he fumbles the transition into the second verse, pulling back with a wry grimace.

“There. That's the wall." He taps the sheet music. "Every time I get here, it falls apart." 

You're quiet for a second, the last notes still hanging in the air. The song is good. Really good. And something in it, that searching, that circling, feels familiar in a way you can't quite name. "It's not falling apart," you say. "It's just missing something. Like the verse is asking a question the chorus isn't answering yet."

Justin's head tilts. "Go on."

"The first verse sets up this whole thing about chasing something you can't find." You lean forward, gesturing at the page. "But the chorus jumps straight to the feeling without earning it. What if the second verse gives the answer instead of the problem? Like-" You hum a line, improvising. "Maybe I'm not lost. Maybe I'm just not there yet."

Justin stares at you. Then he turns back to the piano, plays the transition again, and hums your line against it. His fingers slow. He plays it twice, three times, the melody shifting, settling, clicking into place.

"Maybe I'm not lost..." he mutters, almost to himself, and then his eyes snap up to you, bright. "That's it. That's the whole song."

"It's just a line-"

"It's the line I've been missing for a week." He laughs, shaking his head. "I told you. I had a feeling about you."

"Play the whole thing through." You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. "From the top. I want to hear it all the way."

Justin raises an eyebrow. "Bold. I haven't played it from start to finish in days."

"Then today's your lucky day."

He laughs, low and easy, and turns back to the keys. This time he doesn't stop to explain. He just plays. The song unfolds like a story. When he reaches the transition that's been giving him trouble, he doesn't fumble it this time. He plays your line—maybe I'm not lost, maybe I'm just not there yet—and the whole thing clicks into place like a key turning in a lock. The last chord fades, and the room goes quiet.

"That's it," you say. "That's the song."

"Yeah?" He looks at you, and there's something open in his face, unguarded. "I've been chasing it for a week. And you fixed it in ten minutes. I owe half of it to you."

"It was already there. I just told you where the bridge was. You built the thing."

"Maybe." He tilts his head, considering. "Or maybe I just needed the right person in the room." He glances at you. A silent connection is felt. 

“Where did that inspiration come from?” Your eyes looking into his. The question hangs in the air between you, and Justin's easy grin flickers, just for a second. He looks down at the piano keys, running a thumb over the edge of the wood.

"Honestly?" He shrugs. "It's about being in your twenties and having no idea who you are yet. That sounds like a joke, but-" He gestures vaguely at the room, at the instrument, at everything. "I've been doing this band thing since high school. I've got the look, the songs, the whole ‘bad boy with a heart of gold' thing the press eats up. And half the time I feel like I'm playing a character I wrote when I was seventeen."

You stay quiet, letting him talk.

"There's this version of me people see on stage. And then there's me, sitting in a practice room at nine in the morning, trying to figure out if I even like the music I'm making or if I just like the way it looks." He meets your eyes. "That line you gave me? Maybe I'm not lost. That's the closest I've gotten to saying it out loud." He pauses, not sure if he should continue. "You've got an ear. I knew it the second I walked into the diner." He tilts his head. "You write too, right? You said you were a music minor."

"I-" The words catch. You think about your own notebook, the one shoved at the bottom of your bag, full of half-finished lyrics and melodies you've never let anyone hear. "I try. I've been stuck on something for a while, actually."

"Stuck how?"

"Stuck like your song was stuck. Like the words are there, but they won't line up." You shrug, looking away. "Writer's block, I guess. It's been weeks."

Justin's quiet for a second. Then he slides off the piano bench, gesturing at the seat. "Here. Sit."

"What?"

"Your turn." He crosses his arms, leaning against the piano. "Play me what you've got. I'll be your second set of ears this time."

Every instinct in you says no. Run. Make an excuse. That notebook hasn't seen daylight in months. But Justin's just standing there, patient, waiting, and the piano's warm and close, and you think about Allie’s pep talk.

"Play it exactly like it is," Justin says, settling into the chair you vacated. "Stuck and all. That's where the good stuff lives."

You let out a breath, and your hands find the chords before your brain can talk you out of it. The opening is simple. It’s four notes, a little hesitant, like the song itself isn't sure it wants to be heard. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to, soft and unsteady at the edges.

I keep a map of all the places I've been,

but none of them look like home…

The melody falters at the end of the verse, exactly where it always falters, and you pull your hands off the keys. "See? It just stops. There's no door out."

Justin's quiet for a moment. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Play the verse again. Just the last line."

You do. The same four notes, the same unresolved ache.

"Now hold the chord," he says, and you do, and he hums a note against it that’s higher, unexpected, a question hanging in the air. "What if the answer's not home? What if it's who?"

The note lingers. Your fingers find the next chord before you think, and the line falls out of you like it was waiting:

But home was never a place—it was your hands

The song opens up like a door swinging wide. You play the verse again, and this time it carries a melody where there was only a wall before. Justin watches, nodding slowly, and when the last note fades, the room feels different. Lighter.

"There it is," he says softly. "That's your door. So where’s your inspiration from?”

The question catches you off guard. Your heart stumbles, and you think about the line, about who your hands wrote it for. About who you were thinking of when the melody finally clicked. The room feels very small all of a sudden.

"It's about someone." The words come out quieter than you meant them to. "I think. I don't know. I didn't even know I was writing it until you said who, and then—" You gesture at the piano, in the air where the line still hangs. "That just came out. I don't even know where it came from."

Justin studies you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. 

"Well. Whoever they are, they've got good hands."

A laugh escapes you, surprised and a little breathless. "I don't even know if it's one person. It might just be the idea of someone. Home as a person instead of a place."

"Mmm." He nods slowly, turning back to the keys, playing a soft, idle chord. "My therapist would have a field day with that one."

"You have a therapist?"

"Touring musicians equals existential crisis incoming. It's basically a job requirement." He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Anyway. Whoever it's about—or whatever it's about—that line's real. You can't fake that."

The room settles into a comfortable quiet. His fingers wander over the keys, picking out your melody now, weaving it with his own. Two songs that fit together like they were always meant to.

"So. Thursday? I'll have a full second verse by then. And you" he points at you, "are going to tell me who those hands belong to."

"Actually, I got a callback email this morning for Thursday." The words tumble out, and you watch Justin's expression shift—curiosity sharpening into something brighter.

"You got a callback?" He leans forward. "For what?"

"Hadestown. The spring musical." You can't help the smile tugging at your mouth. "Eurydice."

"Eurydice." Justin says the name like he's tasting it. "That's a hell of a role. Yeah, that tracks. After what you just did with that bridge, I'd cast you in everything."

"It's just a callback. Doesn't mean I got it."

"It's not just a callback, Liana." He says your name with a kind of weight that makes your stomach do a small, stupid flip. "They don't call back people who can't do the job. They call back people who scare them a little." He grins. "You definitely scared me a little."

"Mission accomplished, then."

"What time’s the callback?" he asks, and there's something careful in his voice, like he's already working out the logistics.

“Seven." His eyebrows lift. "Thursday at seven." A beat. 

You feel the small collision of plans settle between you "Yeah," you say. "I know."

"Then I guess I'll just have to be the only one bleeding on stage Thursday." He shrugs, easy, like it costs him nothing. "You go do the Eurydice thing. Break a leg, steal the show, all of it. And if you're free after—or next week—you can come make up for it." He tilts his head. "I’m there almost every Thursday. The door's always open."

There's a promise in that, soft and unassuming, and you tuck it away next to the song you just made together.

"Yeah, I'll make the next one." The words come out steadier than you feel, and Justin's smile softens into something almost shy, like he wasn't expecting you to say yes.

"Good."' He nods, a little too fast, like he's trying to play it cool and failing. "Next Thursday, then.”

Justin picks up his guitar and starts absentmindedly quietly strumming, not glancing up as he asked, “Will your boyfriend be making it next Thursday?”

You’re caught off guard. “Who?” but quickly recover “Oh! Umm Logan. I'm not sure. It’s- it's complicated.”

Justin's eyebrows lift, and he nods slowly, like he's filing that away somewhere carefully. "Complicated. I know that one." He doesn't push, just lets the word hang between you, and somehow that's worse than if he'd asked a hundred questions.

"What about you?"' You tilt your head, watching him. "Anyone complicated in your life?"

Justin's fingers are still on the guitar strings, and for a second he looks almost caught. Then he laughs, a short, quiet sound, and shakes his head. "Me?" He gestures at himself with the pick. "I'm the complicated one. That's the whole problem."

"How's that work?"

He considers the question longer than you expect. His thumb drags across the strings, a single low note. "I'm not great at the before part," he says finally. "I'm great at the song. I'm great at the stage. But the before part—the coffee dates, the small talk, the 'so what do you do for fun'—I never know what to do with my hands." He holds them up, palms out. "Figuratively. And literally."

You laugh, and it comes out warmer than you meant it to. "You seem fine to me."

"That's the performance." He says it simply, without self-pity. "On stage, I know exactly who I am. Off stage, I'm still figuring it out. Most people want the version they saw from across the room." He looks at you then, steady. "You're the first person in a while who asked about the song instead of the show."

The words land somewhere soft in your chest. The room feels smaller, quieter, the piano scales from down the hall fade into background noise.

“That's a nice thing to say," you manage.

"It's not nice. It's true." He sets the guitar aside, fully facing you now. "Most people hear the band and think they know me. You heard half a song and found the missing piece in ten minutes." A pause.

"That's not complicated. That's just. Easy. In the best way."

"Easy, huh? Careful, I might get used to that." Justin laughs, and it's a real one, low and warm, the kind that crinkles his eyes. He leans back, studying you like you're a chord he's just discovered. "I think I'd be okay with that. Getting used to easy."

“That's a dangerous thing to say to a girl who just fixed your bridge."

"Then consider me a danger magnet." He picks the guitar back up, not to play, just to hold it, and something in his posture loosens. "I mean it, though. This is the most I've talked to someone without feeling like I'm performing in... I don't know, months. Maybe longer."

The room feels warmer than it did a minute ago. The piano scales from down the hall have stopped, and the quiet that settles between you is the comfortable kind, the kind you don't have to fill.

"Must be my sparkling personality," you say.

"Must be." His eyes hold yours a beat too long, and he's the first to look away, glancing at his phone.

"Shit—I've got a band thing in an hour. I should let you go before I keep you here all afternoon." He stands, and you do too, the bench scraping softly against the floor.

As he walks to collect his things, your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out. A text from Logan.

Logan: how's the jam session? should i be “jealous”?

You feel your face heat before you even finish reading it. You type back quickly, trying to keep your expression neutral.

You: he's a musician. you're a hockey player. different species entirely. Logan: so that's a yes, i should be jealous.

You're mid-laugh when you realize Justin's watching you, head tilted.

"Logan?" he asks, and there's something careful in his voice, something almost curious.

"Logan." You pocket the phone. "Just checking in. He does that."

"Checking in." Justin nods slowly, turning back to the piano. "I remember what that's like. Having someone who checks in."

There's a beat of quiet. His fingers find the keys again, picking out a soft, idle melody.

"Anyway. I'll text you." He grabs his bag. "I should probably go"

"Right." You stand too, shoving your hands in your back pockets. "I'll see you when I see you.” 

He’s almost at the door when he calls out. “And, Liana—break a leg Thursday. Eurydice's got nothing on you." And with that, he’s gone. 

The walk back to the dorm is slow and easy. The campus is golden in the late light, and you replay the last hour in pieces. The way the bridge clicked into place, the way Justin's eyes lit up when you sang, the way he said he wished you luck on your callback. And underneath it all, Logan's text, warm and steady in your pocket. You climb the stairs to your floor and push open the door to your room, letting it swing shut behind you. Allie's voice drifts from the living room.

"That better be my roommate with an update about a certain Australian rockstar."

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. It's quiet in your room, the afternoon light slanting through the blinds, and for a moment you just stand there, the day settling warm around you.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

previous (part 6) | next (part 8)

The Audition

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc 

wc: 7.3k

an: thank you again for reading. this one is long with a lot of filler but i just really like the banter of the group!

previous (part 5) | next (part 7)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Sundays are often spent—if not at work—at the boys' house.

Whether that's at the kitchen counter attempting to do your homework while Tucker cooks up a feast like it's Thanksgiving. You always ask if he needs help, but it is always immediately shut down from a very locked in hockey player turned chef. Or it's spent slumped on the couch watching a movie with the rest of the group, absolutely getting destroyed in Super Smash Bros by a very annoying Dean, or demolishing them in Just Dance.

Sundays might just be your favorite day of the week. You've never had a solid group of friends throughout your childhood so any time spent with the core four and your best friends, you feel an immense amount of gratitude. For once you feel like you belong.

Today you've all settled on movie day. Hannah suggested it since you and Allie have been wrapped up in panic mode practicing lines for the audition tomorrow. You agreed because even you have realized the unnecessary stress the two of you have caused.

You're tucked between Allie and Logan, with Logan's arm behind you as you cuddle into his side, playing the convincing 'honeymoon phase of the new relationship'. It honestly feels normal, but you don't let yourself think too much into it. You all are halfway through Spiderman: Homecoming, one of your favorites, when your phone starts buzzing with a FaceTime call from your mom.

You don't even hesitate. You hit accept, and your mom's face fills the screen-warm kitchen light behind her, hair pulled back, that knowing smile she gets when she's about to tease you. "Mija! There you are. I was starting to think you forgot you had a mother!"

"Never, mami. I'm at the boys' house. Movie day."

"Movie day!" She claps her hands together. "Oh, that sounds lovely. Who's there? Let me see everyone!"

You turn the camera, and the couch erupts. Dean's already leaning in, waving like he's on a game show. "MRS. RIVAS!" Dean's voice cuts through like a foghorn, and suddenly he's in your frame, shoving his face next to yours, grin enormous. "You look beautiful as always! Remember me?"

"Dean, you charmer." She's beaming. "Of course, I know exactly who you are. You're the one who convinced my daughter to do karaoke at that party, and she lost her voice for a week."

"That was a gift to the world, Mrs. Rivas. She sang 'Valerie' and the whole room wept."

"No one wept," you say flatly.

"Garrett wept. I saw it."

"I did not," Garrett calls from the couch, not looking away from the TV.

Dean grabs the phone from your hands, and the call becomes a living creature, passed from person to person. 

Behind him, Garrett leans into frame, waving once. "Hi, Mrs. Rivas."

"Garrett, mijo, you look skinny. Are you eating? Is Tucker feeding you?"

Tucker gives a sweet "Hi, Mrs. Rivas, I am so definitely feeding them. Garrett eats like a bird, I swear to God. Hope you're doing well," 

"Good boy, Tucker. You tell them." and she asks about his mom's gumbo recipe like they're old friends. "Where's my Hannah? And Allie? Where are my girls?"

Hannah and Allie crowd into frame, and your mom practically glows. "There they are! My beautiful girls! Allie, that dress is adorable. Hannah, you're glowing, honey, that boy's good for you." 

Then Dean points the phone at Logan. "Look who we found, Mrs. Rivas. Your favorite."

Logan raises a hand from where he's sprawled, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Hey, Mrs. Rivas."

"John Logan." Your mom's voice goes warm and singsong, the way it always does when she says his name. "My handsome handyman. How's my favorite boy?"

"I'm good, Mrs. Rivas. Real good."

"Good. You keeping my daughter out of trouble?"

"I'm trying my best, ma'am."

"He's terrible at it," Dean whispers.

"Hush, Dean." Your mom waves him off, then her eyes sharpen on the screen. 

"So you finally stopped calling him annoying and started cuddling up to him, hmm?" She presses a hand to her chest. "I always hoped you two would end up together. I told your father, I said, 'That Logan, he's got good hands. Always fixing something.' Handsome and a handyman. That's a keeper, Liana."

"Mami, please we’re just-"

"Don't 'Mami, please' me. I see what I see." She winks at the camera. "You look good together. Real good.”

Somewhere behind you, you hear Allie snort, barely smothering a laugh. Hannah's eyebrows have climbed toward her hairline. And Dean is mouthing something at you that looks a lot like your mom ships it. The whole couch is watching now, and your face is on fire.

"Liana. Mija, I need to talk to you. Just you. Grab your phone and go somewhere quiet."

The room goes still, everyone suddenly very interested in the movie again. Dean hands the phone back to you with an exaggerated bow. You take it, mouthing a quick sorry to the group as you stand, and Logan shifts so you can climb past him, his hand brushing your knee in a way that's probably an accident but doesn't feel like one.

"Where should I go?" you ask your mom, already moving toward the stairs.

"Somewhere private, mija. I have questions."

Logan's room is the first door on the left at the top of the stairs. You've been in here a hundred times, but it still feels different when you're alone—the bed unmade, a hoodie draped over the desk chair, the faint smell of his cologne and something like cedar. You close the door behind you and sink onto the edge of his bed.

"Okay," you say, holding the phone up. "Privacy achieved."

"Finally." Your mom's face settles into business mode, the same look she gets before she asks about your grades. "Alright, mija. Start talking. And don't you dare give me the 'we're just friends' speech, because I have eyes."

"I don't know what you-"

"Liana." She says your name like a verdict. "Every time I call, it's 'Logan helped me with this' and 'Logan's being annoying about that' and 'Logan, Logan, Logan.' I've heard more about this boy in two years than I have about your actual classes."

"That's because he's around a lot," you say carefully. "He's one of the guys. They're all around a lot."

"Mija, I love all those boys like they're my own. Dean's a sweetheart, Tucker's a darling, Garrett's a good boy even if he's a little intense." She leans into the camera. "But I have never heard you talk about anyone the way you talk about John Logan."

Your stomach does a small, complicated flip. "Mom, it's not—"

"Don't 'it's not' me. I saw the way you were sitting next to him on that couch. That boy's arm was around you like it belonged there." She raises an eyebrow. "You two looked good together. Really good. You’re clearly meant for each other!" She throws her hands up. "The way he looks at you, mija. Like you hung the moon."

"He does not look at me like that."

"He does! I've been watching him for two years! That boy fixes things for you. He is always checking on you. He-" She stops, squinting at your face through the screen. "Wait. Why are you turning red? You're turning red. I can see it even on this tiny screen."

"I'm not turning red."

"You're turning red, and you're sitting on a bed, and it's not yours, is it?"

You glance down at the worn sheets beneath you, and the silence is damning.

"Mija." Her voice drops, softer now, almost gentle. "Just tell me. Are you and Logan together?" The question hangs in the air, the room quiet around you, Logan's cologne still clinging to the pillows. You could lie. You've been lying to everyone all week; why not your mom? But she's your mom. She always knows. You are an open book when it comes to her, a quality you are very grateful for and recognize as luck.

"Okay, okay." The words come out in a rush, and you drop your voice even though the door is closed.

"It's fake. It's all fake."

Your mom blinks. The screen goes quiet for a second-the kind of quiet that means she's recalibrating. "Fake. The... the whole thing? The cuddling on the couch?"

"That was real. Well, no, it was-" You rub your forehead. "We're not together, Mom. We're pretending to be together."

"Pretending." She repeats the word like she's tasting something unfamiliar. "Why in God's name would you pretend to date John Logan?"

You open your mouth. Close it. The truth sits on your tongue—Justin, the plan, the whole elaborate scheme—and for a second you almost chicken out. "Because I need him," you say finally. "For a distraction. A decoy."

"A decoy for what?"

"For Justin." You say it quietly, like the name itself is a confession. "Justin Kohl. The musician. From the band."

Your mom's face does something complicated, recognition flickering through, then understanding, then something that looks suspiciously like disappointment. "The tattooed boy. The one you've been talking about since-"

"Freshman year. Yes, Mom."

"And Logan agreed to this? To be your decoy?"

"It was his idea, actually." You pick at a loose thread on Logan's comforter. "He's getting something out of it too. It's a deal. A mutually beneficial arrangement."

"A mutually beneficial arrangement," your mom repeats slowly, like she's translating it. "Mija, that's not how relationships work. That's how business contracts work."

"I know. That's the point. It's not a relationship."

"Liana." She leans closer to the camera, her face soft but serious. "I've watched that boy look at you for two years. So when he brought you tea on Monday, the London fog with oat milk and extra foam, the one you never told him about, that was part of the transaction?"

You pause. "Wait, how do you know about that?"

"You told me. You were glowing when you told me, mija. You don't glow about transactions."

"That was—I was just surprised. It's a nice drink."

"It's a nice drink that a boy remembered how you like it without you ever saying a word." She settles back, crossing her arms, the picture of maternal satisfaction. "Do you know how long it took your father to learn my coffee order? Three years. Three years, Liana, and he still brings me decaf half the time."

"That's different. Logan's just—observant."

"Observant." She snorts. "Okay, so he's observant. And handsome. And handy. And he looks at you like you're the best thing in whatever room he's in." She ticks the points off on her fingers. "But sure. It's just a deal."

"Mom-"

"I'm not saying anything, mija. I'm just saying." Her voice softens, and the teasing drops away, leaving something gentler underneath. "You've been chasing this Justin boy for three years, and in all that time, has he ever brought you tea?" The question lands somewhere in your chest, soft but insistent. "He's never even learned your name properly," she continues, "until you showed up with another man's arm around you. You think about that."

"Mom, you're not being fair. He didn't know I existed."

"Exactly. And Logan did. Logan always does." She lets that sit for a moment. "I'm not telling you what to do. You're grown. You make your own choices. I just want you to make sure you're choosing the thing that's actually in front of you, not the idea you've been carrying around in your head for three years." You drop your head back, groaning, and your mom's laugh crackles through the speaker, warm and full of love. "Okay, okay, I'll behave." She wipes her eyes. "But I expect a full report after your little audition thing on Monday. And if you bring Logan home this summer, mija, I'm making my good tamales."

 You tilt your head and you stare at your phone.

"I'm making tamales either way, mija, I'm just saying I'd make the good ones." Your mom's still grinning, but you can feel the conversation shifting, so you steer it while you can.

"Actually, Mom. Speaking of Justin." Your mom waits for you to continue. "He invited me to hang out. Tuesday night."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows lift. "This is happening fast. I thought he didn't know you existed three days ago."

"He didn't. But I-" You hesitate, then shrug. "He saw me with Logan. At the diner. And at the game on Friday, he came up to me, remembered my name, invited me to his open mic night. And then he texted me. He wants to swap song ideas."

You say it like it's a good thing. It is a good thing. This is the entire plan, the whole point of the deal—Justin Kohl, finally noticing you, asking you to hang out. This is exactly what you wanted.

"So this is it, then." Your mom's voice is softer now, thoughtful. "This is the thing you've been working toward for three years."

"Yeah." You smile, but it comes out smaller than you meant. "I guess it is."

"And you're excited?"

"I am." You say it quickly, like you're proving it to yourself. "He's talented. He's got this whole bad-boy thing, but he's actually. I don't know. Real. When he talks about music, you can tell he means it."

'That's good, mija. That's—" She pauses, choosing her words. "You know I'm happy for you. I've never seen you go after something the way you've gone after this. But I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Whatever happens Tuesday—whatever this Justin boy is or isn't—you keep your eyes open. Not just for him." She taps the screen, a finger pointed at you through the glass. 

"But for everything else that's right in front of you. Even the things you think are just part of a deal."

"Mom-"

"I'm not going to say it again. I've said my piece." She waves a hand, the seriousness dissolving back into warmth. "You go have your Tuesday. You sing your song. You see what this boy's about. And then you come back here and tell me everything, and if he doesn't treat you right, I'll fly out there myself and give him a piece of my mind."

"That's very threatening, Mom."

"I'm a mom. It's what we do." She smiles, soft. "I love you, mija. Go watch your movie. And give that Logan boy a hug for me—the good kind."

"Mom."

"I said what I said!"

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head at the screen. "I love you too, Mom. I'll call you after Tuesday."

"With a full report. Both of them." She winks, and the call ends with a soft click.

The room goes quiet. You're still sitting on Logan's bed, your mom's words still settling somewhere in your chest—even the things you think are just part of a deal. You look at your phone, at Justin's text still glowing in the thread, and then at the door, where downstairs you can hear Dean's voice rising over the movie and the low rumble of Logan's laugh. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a second. Then you stand, smooth your shirt, and head back down the stairs, the noise of the living room washing over you as you reach the bottom step.

"You survived?" Logan asks from the couch, looking up at you with that crooked smile.

"Did she ask for me?" Dean calls. "It's okay. I understand. I’m a hoot"

"She had a lot of questions about you, Dean." You drop onto the couch, and Dean's face cycles through several emotions in quick succession—surprise, pride, a flicker of genuine concern.

"Questions like what? Good questions? Flattering questions?"

"Questions like, 'How does Allie put up with him?' and 'Did he really cry at the end of Tangled?'''

"I did not cry at the end of Tangled," Dean says, a beat too fast. "I had something in my eye. It was a very emotional scene."

"You cried so hard Tucker had to pause the movie," Garrett says, not looking up from his phone.

"Tucker, tell them-"

"It was a lot of crying," Tucker says mildly. "I made grilled cheese to comfort him."

"Betrayed by my own brothers." Dean sinks into the couch cushions, hand over his heart. "This is what fame costs, I guess."

Allie's watching you from her spot on the couch, and there's a question in her eyes—how'd it go?—that she doesn't ask out loud. Hannah, tucked against Garrett, gives you a small smile.

"So," Logan says, and his voice is easy, but you can feel him watching you. "Your mom doing okay?"

"She's good. She told me to tell you-" You pause, catching yourself before you say to give you the good kind of hug. "She says hi," you finish instead. "She asked about the guys."

"She's the best," Tucker says warmly. "She sent me your Nana’s Spanish rice recipe last year. I still use it."

"That's my mom. She adopts everyone."

"She adopted me first," Dean says, sitting up. "I'm the favorite. She told me I was the favorite."

"She tells everyone they're the favorite, Dean."

Dean's face falls, then hardens with resolve. "No. No, I refuse to accept that. Mrs. Rivas and I have a bond. A spiritual bond. She senses my energy."

"Your energy is chaos and poor decisions," Garrett mutters.

"Exactly. She loves that."

The movie's still playing, Spider-Man mid-swing across the screen, and the living room settles back into its rhythm—Dean arguing with Garrett, Tucker asking if anyone wants more popcorn, Allie's head finding its way onto your shoulder. You're warm and full and somewhere in the middle of the couch, and it all feels so easy that you almost forget.

Tuesday. Two p.m. The Rusty Anchor. Eight p.m. Justin.

Almost.

You let yourself sink sideways, shoulder pressing into Logan's chest, head finding the curve of his shoulder like it's been there a hundred times. His arm comes up around you, easy, settling across your back, and there's a beat where neither of you says anything-just the movie playing, Dean's commentary running under it, the warmth of the couch and the bodies around you.

"She's gonna fall asleep," Dean whispers.

"I'm not gonna fall asleep."

"You've got the movie-sleep voice. I know the movie-sleep voice. Tucker has it."

"I do not," Tucker says from the kitchen, where he's loading the popcorn bowl.

"You absolutely do. Every movie. Out like a light by the second act."

"You guys watch a lot of movies," you mumble, and Logan's chest shakes with a quiet laugh under your cheek.

"Shh," he says, low, just for you. "Peter Parker's about to do the thing."

"He's always about to do the thing."

"That's why we watch."

You huff a laugh and settle deeper into him, and the movie rolls on. Spider-Man swings, the Vulture monologues, Dean gasps at a plot twist he's definitely seen before, and Allie's head is heavy on your other side, her breathing going slow and even. Somewhere in the middle of the third act, you stop paying attention to the screen and start paying attention to the way Logan's thumb traces idle patterns against your arm, absent and unhurried, like he's not even thinking about it.

It feels like belonging. It feels like the kind of Sunday you'd want to keep.

When the credits roll, Dean's already on his feet, stretching with an exaggerated groan. 

"Alright. Refill run. Who wants-" He stops, looking down at you and Logan, still tangled together on the couch. A slow grin spreads across his face. "You two are disgustingly cute. I hate it. I love it. I'm conflicted."

"Pick one," Logan says, not moving.

"I pick both. I contain multitudes."

Hannah's stretching too, tugging Garrett up by the hand. "We should head out soon. I've got office hours prep."

"It's Sunday, Hannah," Allie whines from the floor.

"The future doesn't rest, Allie."

"Your future is terrifying."

The group starts to shift, gathering jackets and keys, the cozy spell of the movie breaking into the logistics of going home. Logan's arm is still around you, and neither of you has moved to stand.

"I'm gonna head out with these two," you say, untangling yourself from Logan's side. Your voice comes out a little softer than you meant. "Gotta run lines. Audition's tomorrow."

"You're gonna crush it," Logan says, and he says it so easily, like it's a fact he's known for years, that you almost want to sit back down.

"Run lines now?" Allie groans from the floor. "Lia, it's Sunday. The couch is warm. Dean's about to put on a third movie."

"Allie, the audition is in-" you check your phone, "-like, sixteen hours. And I still don't have Eurydice's blocking memorized in my bones."

"You don't need blocking in your bones, you need it in your head."

"Professor Horne said inhabitation, not imitation."

"Professor Horne also said 'breath is the root of all truth' and then immediately sneezed on her own hand," Allie points out. 

"Allie." You give her a look. "Walk with me."

She sighs, dramatic and long-suffering, but she's already reaching for her bag. Hannah's on her feet too, pulling on her jacket, and Garrett's hand finds the small of her back in a way that's so automatic, so unconscious, that you look away out of habit.

"Text me when you're home," Logan says.

The words land the same way they always do, warm, easy, like a hand slipping into yours.

"I will."

Dean's already at the door, holding it open with a theatrical bow. "Ladies. May your lines be memorized and your auditions be legendary."

"Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight, future Broadway stars!" Tucker waves from the kitchen, spatula in hand. "I'm saving you guys some cookies for tomorrow. Break a leg!"

The door swings shut behind you, and the night air hits you, cool and clean. The three of you fall into step together, Allie on one side, Hannah on the other, the streetlights casting long shadows ahead.

"So," Allie says, not even trying to hide her grin. "You and Logan were very cozy on that couch."

"We were watching a movie."

"Uh-huh. And that's why his hand was doing that little thumb thing on your arm for like, forty-five minutes?"

You feel heat creep up your neck. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"I was resting my eyes. I see everything." She loops her arm through yours. "You two are gonna be the death of me, I swear. In a good way. A romantic, slightly insane way."

Hannah laughs softly on your other side. "I thought it was sweet. He looks at you like-" She stops, searching for the words. "Like you're his favorite person in the room."

Your building comes into view, warm lights in the windows, and the three of you climb the steps together, the night settling around you like a held breath. The apartment is warm and quiet when you unlock the door, Hannah flicking on the lamp in the corner while you take off your shoes. Allie beelines for the couch, flopping onto it with a groan that could wake the neighbors.

"I'm going to bed. Try not to panic about tomorrow any more than you have, both of you." Hannah asserts.

"Sixteen hours," she announces to the ceiling. "Sixteen hours until I have to be vulnerable in front of Professor Horne and a room full of theatre majors who've been practicing since July."

"Persephone's not vulnerable," you say, dropping your bag by the door. "Persephone's the one who tells Hades to shut up. That's a power role. That's your role."

"I know, but what if—" She sits up, eyes wide. "What if I get on that stage and I don't feel like Persephone at all? What if I feel like the girl who's scared her boyfriend's gonna get bored of her, and I can't tell if I'm acting or just-" She cuts herself off, waving a hand. "You know. Being."

You cross the living room and sink onto the couch beside her. "Then you use it," you say, quiet. "That's what Horne means by inhabitation. You don't have to leave yourself at the door. You bring all of it."

Allie stares at you for a second, then lets out a breath. "When did you get all wise?"

"Eurydice's been rubbing off on me. She's got a lot of feelings about walking into the unknown."

"Okay, show me." Allie scrambles to her feet, pulling her hair into a messy bun. 

"Eurydice. Act one. The part where she's deciding whether to follow Orpheus. Give me your best 'I've been burned before' energy."

You stand too, rolling your shoulders, letting the room fall away. The couch becomes the edge of a stage. Allie becomes the audience. You close your eyes for half a second, find the place in your chest where Eurydice lives—tired, hopeful, terrified of wanting something.

When you open your eyes, you're her. You sing a few quick lines.

"Okay. Yeah. That's the one." She points at you. "You're getting that part, Rivas. Eurydice's gonna be played by a girl who actually knows how it feels to be scared of the thing she wants."

The words land somewhere soft. You drop back onto the couch, suddenly tired, suddenly lighter. 

"So," she finally says, drawing the word out. "The mom call."

"The mom call."

"Spill."

"She knows." You shove your hands in your pockets. "About the deal. About Logan. About Justin. Everything."

Allie lets out a low whistle. "And she didn't ground you?"

"She gave me the 'pay attention to what you actually feel' speech and offered to make Logan tamales."

"Your mom's got taste, though. Logan's a good-looking guy. Handy. Fixes bikes. Brings you tea. Honestly, Liana—"

"Don't." You hold up a hand. "I've had enough of that from her tonight."

"Fine, fine. Justin it is. The mysterious musician with the tattoos and the poetry." She bumps your shoulder again. "Tuesday. You ready?"

You think about the text in your pocket, the open mic, the song you still haven't figured out. You think about Logan's hand on your shoulder and the way he said that's not part of the act. "Working on it," you say.

---------------------------------------------------------

Morning comes too fast and not fast enough. You wake to sunlight slicing through your blinds and a text from Logan that must've been sent before his first class: break a leg today, trouble. you're gonna kill it.

Allie's already up, pacing the kitchen in her robe, muttering her Persephone monologue into a mug of coffee. When she sees you, she stops, plants her hands on your shoulders, and looks you dead in the eye. "You're Eurydice. You've been ready for this since you heard the first chord of 'Wait for Me.' Now go shower, put on that black dress, and show them exactly who you are."

An hour later, you're standing outside the black-box theatre with Allie, your audition song in your hand, your heart somewhere in your throat. The sign-up sheet is taped to the door. Your name is on it. There's no turning back now.

"1 can’t do this.” The words come out small and strangled, and you're suddenly very aware of the sheet of paper in your hand—your song, your name at the top, your whole future in forty-four lines of sheet music you suddenly can't remember a single note of.

Allie stops mid-pace, coffee mug frozen halfway to her mouth. "Excuse me?"

"I can't." You hear your own voice cracking. "Allie, there are people in there. Actual theatre people. Professors who've directed actual Broadway shows. And I'm-" You gesture vaguely at yourself. "I'm me."

"Liana Rivas." Allie places her hands on your shoulders. "Look at me."

You look at her. "You have been singing since you could talk. You've been in every show Briar's put on for three years. You know every word of this soundtrack—I've heard you belt 'Wait for Me' in the shower at full volume, and I'm not saying it was good, I'm saying it was great." She steps closer, hands landing on your shoulders. "This is the part where you pretend you're someone who isn't scared."

"But that's just it—I am scared. What if I'm not good enough?"

"Then you're not good enough." Allie says it simply, like it's nothing. "And you'll still be my best friend, and you'll still have a mom who sends you tamales, and you'll still be the most talented person I know. But you're going to walk in there and give them everything, because you didn't spend three years loving this art to chicken out at the door."

You stare at her. Your heart is still hammering, but something in your chest has shifted, like a weight finding its balance.

"Who's in there?" you ask.

"Professor Horne, Dr. Chen, and the music director from the symphony downtown." Allie shrugs. "I looked through the window. They looked very serious. They probably eat small children for breakfast. But you know what?"

"What?"

"They've never met you."

The black-box door looms in front of you. Allie squeezes your shoulders once, then lets go and pushes the door open with a grin that's all teeth and confidence.

"After you, Eurydice."

You stop just inside the doorway, one hand on the frame, and let the breath you've been holding go. Allie's already slipped into a seat in the back row, but the theatre doesn't feel like a theatre right now. It feels like a cave-dark, hushed, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own heartbeat. The stage is a bare circle of light. A single piano sits at its edge, and behind a small table in the shadows, three figures wait. Professor Horne, her reading glasses perched on her nose. Dr. Chen, tapping a pen against a clipboard. And the music director from the symphony, an older woman with silver hair and an unreadable expression.

The door clicks shut behind you, soft as a held breath.

"Liana Rivas." Professor Horne looks up over her glasses. "We've got you down for Eurydice. What are we singing for us today?"

Your mouth opens. For one terrifying second, nothing comes out. Then the muscle memory kicks in, the way it always does, the way it's carried you through every audition before this one. '''Flowers' from Hadestown." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "I'll be singing the song itself, a cappella—I, um, I brought a track, but I'd rather just let it speak."

The music director tilts her head, curious. "Bold choice."

"Is it? I figured if you're auditioning for the part, you should sing the part. Show you understand who she is."

Something flickers across Professor Horne's face—approval, maybe, or just interest. She nods once. "Whenever you're ready."

You step into the circle of light. The piano is silent. The room is silent. The three of them are watching, and somewhere in the back row, Allie is a shadow who believes in you. You close your eyes. And then you open your mouth, and Eurydice comes out. You start soft. A girl who's been alone too long, who's learned to count the cost of everything, who's buried her heart under layers of survival. Your voice fills the black-box theatre like it was built for this, for you, for a girl who's walked hungry through a world that never gave her anything for free. And when you hit the chorus, when the words about wanting a hand to hold finally break loose, you feel it—the tremor in your chest, the catch in your throat, the way the room goes still around you. You finish on a held note, letting it fade into silence.

The silence stretches. Dr. Chen's pen hovers over the clipboard. The music director's face is still unreadable. Then Professor Horne takes off her glasses, and there's the smallest smile tugging at her mouth. “Thank you, Liana," she says. "That was lovely. Can you give us one more? 'Wait for Me,' maybe? We'd like to hear your upper register."

Your eyes find Allie in the back row. She's sitting forward now, elbows on her knees, and when your gazes meet, she does the smallest thing-presses her hand to her heart, then points at you. A gesture from a hundred shows ago, from the first time you ever auditioned together freshman year, when you were both terrified, and she told you: “That heart you're scared of losing? It's the whole point.”

You turn back to the panel. "Yes. I can do 'Wait for Me."

The music director nods once and gestures to the piano. The accompanist—a quiet kid from the music school you've seen around—flips through the score and finds the page. The first chords are low and walking, like footsteps on a long road. You close your eyes. You think about the song the way you've always thought about it: not as a love song, but as a promise. Orpheus telling Eurydice to trust him, to follow, to believe that the world can be warmer than it is. You've never had to act the longing. You've spent three years watching a boy from across rooms, learning the shape of wanting something you haven't earned yet. When you open your mouth, the note comes out clean and high, and it surprises you with how steady it is, how full. You sing about the road, about the cold, about keeping your eyes on him and not looking down. The piano walks under you like it's holding your hand. You feel it in your chest, that trembling place where nerves live, but you don't let it in your voice. You let the song carry you, and by the final note—held, soaring, cut clean through the silence—you know, in a way you haven't allowed yourself to know all week, that you were made for this.

The note fades. The piano stops.

The black-box theatre is silent. You stand in the circle of light, breathing hard, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat again. Dr. Chen writes something. The music director leans back in her chair, and for a long moment, no one speaks. Then Professor Horne removes her glasses and sets them on the table with a soft click. "Liana," she says, and there's something in her voice you've never heard from her before—not in class, not in rehearsal. "That was a callback-worthy audition. Thank you. We'll be in touch."

The words land somewhere in your chest, too big to hold all at once. Callback-worthy. You manage a nod, a thank you that comes out breathless, and you turn before your face can do anything embarrassing. Allie is already on her feet in the back row, grinning like she just won the lottery. She mouths two words at you, slow and clear: “Told you.”

The adrenaline leaves you all at once. Your knees buckle somewhere between the stage and backstage, and you drop into the nearest chair like a puppet with its strings cut. The black-box theatre spins gently around you. The piano, the empty seats, the three shadows at the table gathering their papers.

“That was incredible!" Allie's voice is hushed and fierce in your ear as she drops into the chair beside you. "Liana, did you hear yourself? You made Dr. Chen write things. Multiple things. At once."

"I sang 'Wait for Me." Your voice comes out small. "I actually sang it. In front of actual professionals."

"To a room of actual professionals who looked like they wanted to cast you on the spot." Allie grabs your hand, squeezing. "You did it. You actually did it."

The door to the theatre opens, and one of the student stage managers pokes her head out. "Allie Hayes? You're up."

Allie's grin doesn't waver, but you see her knuckles whiten around her coffee cup. "Right. Yes. That's me. Totally ready." She stands, and then she's looking down at you, and her face softens into something real. "You stay right here. I'm gonna go in there and be Persephone so hard they'll have no choice but to give her the spring."

"I'll be here."

She squeezes your shoulder once and walks toward the stage, and then the door closes behind her, and you're alone in the hallway of the theatre department. The quiet settles over you. The high of the audition starts to curdle into something familiar. The voice in your head that sounds a lot like your own, asking if you really deserved that look on Professor Horne's face. Callback-worthy. Sure. But so was everyone, probably. You don't even know who else auditioned. There could be a hundred girls who sang it better.

You pull out your phone to distract yourself, and there's a text from Logan, sent during your audition:

Logan: how'd it go? or are you too famous to text me back now?

You stare at the message. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. The theatre department hums around you, and somewhere in the black-box, Allie is singing about the color of spring. Your thumb moves before your brain catches up.

You: killed it. i think. maybe. i'm still processing. 

You pause, then add: 

You: horne said "callback-worthy." Is that real or do they say that to everyone?

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret it. Too needy. Too desperate for validation. You're about to type a follow-up, ignore that i'm fine, when three dots appear. They take forever. You stare at them like they hold the answer to every question you've ever asked. Then his reply lands.

Logan: no i can guarantee that she definitely does not say that to everyone. congratulations, broadway star.

Also, his next text comes through, 

Logan: you've been practicing that song since january. i've heard it through the walls of my own house when you came over to study. you didn't just kill it. you murdered it. tastefully.

You read it twice. The part about January is a lie, you only started seriously prepping last week. But the fact that he remembers you humming it, that he noticed at all, sits somewhere warm in your chest, next to the thing your mom said about paying attention.

You: tastefully murdered 

You type back. 

You: that's going on my resume. Logan: it should. right under "callback-worthy"

You're still smiling at your phone when the black-box door opens and Allie emerges, flushed and triumphant, fists in the air. "I'm Persephone!" she whispers loudly. "I could feel it. They're gonna call me back, I'm telling you."

She drops into the chair beside you, riding the high. "Okay. Talk. What did Logan say? I saw that face you were making."

"It's nothing, but-" You turn your phone toward Allie, the back-and-forth with Logan glowing on the screen. "He said that I tastefully murdered my song."

Allie snatches the phone out of your hand like it's a live grenade, scrolling up through the conversation, her grin spreading wider with every message. "Lia. Lia. Liana." She's practically vibrating. "He said he's been listening to you practice since January. He notices things, babe. That's not fake-boyfriend behavior, that's—"

"He's being a good friend. And a good fake boyfriend." You take the phone back, pocketing it before she can read any more into it. "Anyway. Forget me. You literally just walked out of there like you owned the place. How was it? Tell me everything."

Allie's eyes go a little starry. "I sang 'Way Down Hadestown.' The full thing. I did the Persephone sway, I did the drinking grapevines bit, I made Dr. Chen laugh." She grabs your forearm. "Lia, I think it actually went well. Like, really well."

"Of course it went well. You're the most magnetic person I've ever met. They'd be insane not to cast you." You mean it, and the way Allie's face softens says she knows you mean it.

"Look at us." She gestures between the two of you. "Two best friends, absolutely crushing their auditions, about to be Broadway's next big thing." She loops her arm through yours, pulling you toward the exit. "Come on. I need food and we need to tell Hannah everything. She's probably texting us a novel right now."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you push through the theatre doors into the sun, and you already know, without looking, that it's probably Logan again, or Hannah, or both, and that the day is suddenly full of people who want to know how you did.

"Food," Allie declares, tugging you across the quad. "Carbs. Possibly a whole pizza. My vocal cords have earned it."

You let her pull you along, the theatre department shrinking behind you with every step. The sun is warm on your shoulders, and the campus is alive with the afternoon rush-kids hauling backpacks, a Frisbee arcing over the lawn, someone's speaker thumping from a dorm window. It all feels brighter than it did this morning, like the world got a fresh coat of paint while you were inside singing.

"Hey." Allie slows, her voice going soft. "Seriously, though. You were incredible in there. I've never heard you sing like that."

"Allie-"

"I'm not just saying it."' She stops walking, turning to face you fully. "The way you held that last note? I got goosebumps. Real ones. I'm not even being dramatic for once."

You look at her, standing in the middle of the quad, sunshine in her hair, and something in your chest loosens. "Thanks. I couldn't have done it without you. The whole 'you're more than your fear' thing—it helped."

'That's what I'm here for." She grins, looping her arm through yours again. "That, and making sure you eat actual food instead of audition nerves."

The dining hall doors swing open in front of you, and the smell of greasy pizza and something vaguely like stir-fry hits you like a wall. Allie makes a beeline for the pizza station. You're about to follow when your phone buzzes again in your pocket, insistent this time. You pull it out. Three texts waiting.

Hannah: how'd it go?? i'm dying here. Dean: allie says auditions are done. tell me you didn't blow them away without me there to witness it

And Logan, the last one. 

Logan: did you eat yet? because I'm at the dining hall and I could be convinced to save you a seat.

You look up. Allie's already at the pizza counter, gesturing enthusiastically at the pepperoni. Somewhere across the room, you know, Logan's probably looking up from his lunch right now, waiting for an answer.

You text back fast. 

You: saving me a seat? that's suspiciously boyfriend-like, logan. don't make it weird. You: yes. i'm here. don't let allie eat my pizza.

You catch his wave across the dining hall, and for a moment the whole afternoon feels like it's humming on a frequency you could get used to. Walking toward Logan, you feel another buzz from your phone that stops you in your tracks. An email with a heading that reads,

"Congratulations. Callbacks Thursday at 7 PM"

Still in shock, you look up to find Allie as she mirrors you, staring down at her phone, and then she looks up with a stunned, overjoyed smile to find you already staring back with a knowing look.

I guess we both have more practicing to do.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

previous (part 5) | next (part 7)

The Game

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc 

wc: 12.8k

an: holyy word count. grand gestures call for grand words ig. idek know what that means.

previous (part 4) | next (part 6)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

The week blurs by in a routine you could set your watch to. Classes, shifts at Malone's, and more texts from Logan than you'd ever admit to looking forward to. He checks in after your shifts, sends you stupid memes about hockey like you understand it, and somehow knows your Wednesday exam was brutal before you even complain about it.

By Friday, the routine is a thing of habit, and the morning arrives with a different energy.

You wake to sunlight and the smell of pancakes drifting down the hall. Allie's voice carries through the apartment, singing something off-key that sounds suspiciously like a hockey anthem. And Hannah's already in the kitchen, spatula in hand, wearing a Hawks jersey over her pajamas.

"Game day," she announces, sliding a pancake onto a growing stack. "Eat up. We've got a reputation to maintain in the stands."

"What time are we heading to the game?"

Hannah flips another pancake with the precision of someone who's done this a thousand times.

"Game's at seven. I want to be in our seats by six-fifteen, so we're leaving at five-thirty." She glances over her shoulder. "That gives us the whole day to hang out, which is the part I'm actually excited about."

"You're excited to watch Garrett score three goals," Allie says, sliding onto a stool, "and you're excited to watch Logan do that weird fist-pump thing he does when he scores."

"Both are valid reasons." Hannah stacks the last pancake onto the plate and carries it to the table. "Eat. I made enough for an army, because I know one of you is going to get nervous and forget to eat later."

"I don't get nervous," you say, settling into a chair.

Allie snorts. "She doesn't get nervous, she just loses her appetite, paces the living room, and texts Logan approximately forty-seven times."

"That was one time."

"It was four times in one hour, and I counted."

Hannah slides a pancake onto your plate, then one onto Allie's, then one for herself. 

"Either way, we're eating now. And then," she sits down, tucking her legs under her "we have a full day of doing absolutely nothing before we go watch our boys win."

"Our boys," you repeat, and the phrase sits weird in your mouth. Your boy is now John Logan. He's going to kiss you, and the whole arena is going to see it, and the rumor mill will have its confirmation. You take a bite of pancake. It's good. Maple syrup, warm, the kind of breakfast that makes the day feel like it's starting right.

"So," Allie says, a little too casually, "anyone have big plans before the game? Like, say, a very important conversation with a very specific hockey player?"

"Yeah." Hannah turns her head to you. "I know I don’t. Liana?"

You keep your eyes on your plate. "I mean. I might text Logan. Before the game. You know. Good luck stuff."

"Good luck stuff," Allie repeats, drawing it out like she's savoring it. "Right. Good luck stuff. Totally normal thing for a girl who's totally dating him to do."

You shove another bite of pancake into your mouth as a defense mechanism, and Allie and Hannah exchange a look that says they're both enjoying this far too much. The morning light spills across the kitchen table, syrup bottle between you, the whole day stretched out lazy and open ahead of you.

"So what are you two wearing tonight?"

Hannah pauses mid-bite, syrup dripping off her fork. "I was thinking... my Hawks jersey. The one Garrett signed."

“That's not a fit, that's a uniform," Allie says. "You're going to a hockey game, not a team meeting. We're the girlfriends in the stands. We have a reputation."

"We're not all girlfriends," Hannah points out, "I mean-I'm-"

"Garrett's girlfriend," Allie finishes for her, sing-song. "And Liana’s Logan's girlfriend. And I'm the hot one in the middle who's gonna be Dean's girlfriend by the end of the semester if he plays his cards right."

"Allie." You laugh. "You're already Dean's girlfriend. You've been dating for weeks."

"Semantics." Allie waves a hand. "Anyway. I'm wearing my leather jacket, the dark jeans that make my legs look amazing, and my lucky boots. Dean's gonna lose his mind when he sees me in the stands."

You take another bite of pancake, considering. The green sweater is your safe choice, the one you've worn a hundred times. But tonight isn't a safe night. Tonight is the debut. 

Tonight, everyone gets confirmation that you two are dating.

"I'm thinking," you say slowly, "maybe the red top. The one with the neckline. And my hoops."

"Oh, that's a good one." Allie nods approvingly. "That's a ‘Logan's going to notice’ outfit." Hannah looks between you, amused. "I'm starting to feel underdressed. Should I be more... I don't know. Put together?"

"You're wearing a signed jersey to support your man. That's the most put-together thing a girl can do." Allie reaches over and steals a piece of bacon off Hannah's plate. "Now eat up. We've got a whole day of doing nothing before the main event, and I intend to do nothing very well. Actually maybe we run some lines."

You just nod acknowledging Allie. If you busy yourself with audition practice then you spend less time freaking out about tonight.

Hannah rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, and the kitchen settles into easy morning warmth. Syrup, coffee, the clink of forks on plates. Outside, the sun climbs higher, and somewhere on the other side of campus, a hockey team is probably doing whatever hockey teams do on game day. Skate drills. Film. Coach yelling about forechecking.

You wonder if Logan's thinking about tonight. If he's rehearsing the performance. Or if he's just... playing hockey, the way he always does, and tonight will be another game with a girl in the stands who's supposed to be his. The thought sits warm in your chest, like the feeling you got when he tucked your ear behind your ear on Monday. You take another bite of pancake and let the morning stretch out, unhurried.

You pick up your phone, the screen warm from sitting in your pocket. Allie's mid-sentence about her lucky boots, Hannah's laughing at something, and you let their voices blur into background noise as you type.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

Logan: nervous?

You type back: no.

Logan: liar. see you tonight, girlfriend.

The reply comes before you've even set the phone down. You stare at the screen, that last line making you smile. You're a natural at this. Like it's easy. Like pretending to be his girlfriend comes naturally to you. You thumbs down his text as a joke. 

"Liana." Allie's voice cuts through. "You're grinning at your phone like it just told you it loves you."

"It's Logan," you say, too fast. "Asked if I was nervous."

"Uh huh." Allie trades a look with Hannah that you can't quite read. "And what did you say?"

"I said no."

“Oh okay. Biggest lie of the century,” she snorts.

The conversation ends there. You set the phone down, and the kitchen feels brighter than it did a minute ago. Hannah's pouring more coffee. Allie's stealing another piece of bacon. The morning stretches out ahead of you, full of nothing to do but wait for the game.

"I should start getting ready soon."

Allie's fork freezes halfway to her mouth. "Liana. It's not even noon. The game's at seven."

"I know. I just-" You push a piece of pancake around your plate. "I want to have time. To, you know. Pick the right outfit. Not rush."

"You have seven hours."

"Which is exactly how long it'll take me to try on everything I own, hate all of it, and end up back in the first thing I tried on." You shrug. "You know how I am."

Hannah laughs, soft and knowing. "She has a point. Last time we had plans at eight, she started getting ready at two and still almost missed the Uber."

'That was one time."

"Lia, you were in the bathroom for four hours and came out wearing a sweater you already owned after you went through both of our clothes."

"An unworn sweater. There's a difference."

Allie sets her fork down and leans forward, chin in her hand. "Okay, but hear me out. What if we make this a team effort? Me, you, vy and Hannah, in my room, doing a full fashion consult. I'll bring the good lighting and the honest opinions."

Hannah raises her hand. "I'll be moral support"

You look between them-Allie's mischief, Hannah's steadiness-and something in your chest loosens.

This is the part you love. Not the anxiety spiral of getting ready, but the ritual of it. The three of you, loud music, opinions, laughter.

"Fine," you say, and you can feel yourself smiling. "Team effort. But I'm warning you now, I reserve the right to change my mind forty times."

"We wouldn't have it any other way," Allie says, already standing, already dragging her plate to the sink. 

Two hours go by quicker than you would like to believe. Hannah helps you and Allie run lines for the audition that is only three days away now. The three of you are worn out from rereading the same words and singing the same songs over and over again. You dramatically collapse on the couch after complaining that your vocal cords are so fried and so not ready. Hannah claps her hands and declares that you and Allie need a break and that it's time to play ‘fashion show’. 

Allie agrees with a squeal. "Okay! Let's do it. The Logan Look Book, coming right up."

"Allie-"

"What? It's a working title." She grins. "You'll thank me when he sees you in the stands and forgets how to play hockey."

You and Hannah follow Allie into her room: a controlled explosion of clothes, half-empty water bottles, and a makeup mirror ringed with warm lights like a backstage vanity. She kicks a pile of laundry out of the way and gestures grandly at her closet.

"Behold. The wardrobe of a woman who's about to make a defenseman forget his own name."

"That's a lot of pressure for a Friday-night hockey game."

"Correction." Allie pulls open the closet door with a flourish. "It's a Friday-night game, my boyfriend's on the ice, and your new-” she said with emphasis on new and knowing eyes like she wanted to say ‘fake,’ but Hannah is standing right here, “boyfriend is about to make the most dramatic gesture of his life. This is pressure. This is stakes. We dress accordingly."

She starts yanking hangers, tossing options onto her bed. A red top. A black dress. A cropped sweater.

She holds up a lacy burgundy thing and eyes you critically.

"Okay. Talk to me. What's the vibe tonight? Are we going for I didn't try? Or are we going for I tried and I want him to notice?"

You hesitate, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I don't know. I want it to look... like I didn't try. But I also want him to look at me and-" You stop yourself.

"And what?"

"Nothing."

"Liana." Allie sets the burgundy top down and puts her hands on your shoulders. "You're about to be the girl every hockey fan in the arena watches Logan win for. You're allowed to want him to look at you. Plus Justin is gonna be there and totally watching you. That's the whole point of tonight." She picks up the top and hands it to you. 

You take it, and she's already pulling out a pair of jeans, boots, grabbing your jacket and earrings, narrating as she goes. "With these. And these. And the hoops. The hoops are non-negotiable."

Twenty minutes later, you're standing in front of her full-length mirror, and even you have to admit-the outfit works. The red top, the dark jeans, the maroon boots, the black bomber jacket, the hoops catching the light. You look like a girl who has somewhere to be. You look like a girl whose boyfriend is a Briar Hawk. 

"Okay," Allie says, leaning against her dresser, arms crossed, grinning like she just won an award.

"That's the one. That's the look. Logan's gonna forget how to skate."

"It's just a shirt."

"It's not just a shirt. It's the shirt." She pauses. "You're nervous."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're doing that thing where you pick at your sleeve." She nods at your hands, which are, in fact, picking at the sleeve. "It's okay to be nervous. First big public appearance as a couple. The stands are gonna look at you when he does it."

"That's the part I'm not ready for." You meet your own eyes in the mirror. "Everyone watching. Judging. Wondering how I could possibly be with John Logan."

"They're not gonna be judging. They're gonna be jealous. Liana, you are so much more than you give yourself credit. And Logan knows that. I know he does." Allie comes up beside you, shoulder to shoulder. "And honestly? I think everyone is going to think ‘finally these two are dating.’” 

You nudged her as a way of telling her to stop lying. "Okay. This is the outfit. Locking it in."

“I’m gonna cry. My girl is all grown up." Hannah jokes.

“You guys are absolutely ridiculous.” 

Allie flops onto her bed, arms behind her head. "Okay, so. We've got hours. What's the move? Nap? Movie? More pancakes?"

The afternoon unfolds in easy domestic rhythm. Hannah vetoes the movie, insists on cards, and the three of you spend the next couple of hours sprawled across the living room floor, playing round after round of some game with increasingly complicated house rules that Allie keeps making up as she goes.

You don't think about the game. You don't think about the planned kiss, or the arena full of eyes, or the boy in the locker room getting ready for the biggest night of his season. You just let the afternoon pass, warm and slow, the way all good game days should.

It's Allie who pulls you aside. Hannah's in the bathroom, and the moment the door clicks shut, Allie's whole energy shifts. She leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

"Okay. Spill. Tonight. What's the plan?"

You blink. "The plan?"

"With Logan. The whole dramatic debut. There has to be some sort of plan. I know you better than to believe that you are just going to walk into the arena with zero plan." She lowers her voice. "Hannah's not here. You can be honest with me. What's actually happening tonight?"

You glance toward the bathroom door, then back at Allie. "He's gonna kiss me, and I kiss him back. The whole arena sees it. Rumor confirmed."

"He’s going to WHAT?" 

“Shh, Allie. Shush, it's not a big deal. I mean it is, but I’ve kissed people before.”

“No no you’ve kissed people on stage before. This. This is a kiss off stage with a boy you’ve been friends with for years who I bet is excited he gets to plant one on you.” 

“Okay okay no. Yes it’s not on a stage but this is all an act.” After a beat you add, “Justin’s going to be there and he’s going to see that I’m officially taken and then we go from there.” 

"You nervous?'

"Me? No." You pick at your sleeve. "Okay. Yes. A little."

Allie reaches out, squeezes your arm. "That's allowed. Big night." She pauses. "And... this is all for Justin?" Your stomach dips as if that plan feels miles away. Saying it out loud is now starting to sound like something you are trying to convince yourself of.

"I mean. He's usually at the games," you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. "So yes. This is for Justin."

Allie studies your face for a long moment. You contemplate if you should let Allie be your thoughts. Head glancing towards the closed door Hannah is behind. "I've been so busy I forgot about Justin. That's weird, right?" The words come out before you can stop them, and for a second the kitchen goes quiet. Allie blinks at you. Then her whole face transforms, slow and delighted, like she just found out she won something.

"Weird?" she repeats. "Liana. That's not weird. That's massive."

"It's not—"

"Do you hear yourself right now?" She takes a step closer, eyes sparkling. "You've spent three years of your life pining after Justin Kohl. He's the reason this whole fake-dating thing exists in the first place. He's the reason you shook Logan's hand in that corner. And you just told me you forgot he exists."

"I didn't forget he exists-"

"You forgot he was gonna be at the game tonight. The game that your fake boyfriend is going to ‘claim' you as his at." Allie's grinning so wide it looks almost painful. "Do you know what that means?"

You pick at your sleeve. "I didn't forget. I just have a lot going on."

"Uh huh. But I would say it means Logan's been taking up more space in your head than Justin has." She holds up her hands like she's presenting evidence to a jury. "I'm not saying that's a bad thing. I'm just saying it's interesting. Very, very interesting."

"It's not interesting. It's-" You stop, because you don't actually have a word for what it is. "I've just been busy. Hadestown. My classes. It's a lot."

"Mmhm." Allie crosses her arms, smug. "And the boy who brings you tea and walks you to class and calls you ‘trouble’ has nothing to do with it."

"That's-the deal. That's all part of the deal."

"Right. The deal." She tilts her head, studying you like a script she's trying to read. 

"Okay. Fine. The deal. But here's my question." She lowers her voice. "Tonight, when Logan kisses you and then plays a game like he’s never played before-who are you gonna be looking at? Him, or the guy three rows over?"

The question lands in your chest and sits there, heavy and warm. You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. And Allie just smiles, soft now, and reaches out to squeeze your arm.

"You don't have to answer that," she says. "But I think you already know."

From down the hall, the bathroom door opens. Hannah's voice carries through the apartment: "Alright, I think it’s time I start getting ready now."

Allie sits up. “Agreed. I will be occupying the shower, ladies.” She points at me with narrowed eyes, “You, Liana stay put and chill. No overthinking.” 

You wave her off and turn the tv on. You pick Modern Family to watch absentmindedly before you get up and do your makeup and hair. 

After about two episodes—that you spent most of the time watching TikToks—you head to your room and start your makeup. A simple everyday look with a little more dramatic, buffed-out wing. The hair is luckily not a disaster today, so a cute half-up, half-down paired with some gold star clips goes perfectly.

"Let's head out." Hannah yells.

You take a deep breath. You are ready on time. You look good. You turn off your makeup light, grab your black bomber jacket, and make your way into the living room.

Allie glances at the clock, then at you, and a slow grin spreads across her face. "Look at you. Eager."

"I'm not eager. I'm just-" You grab your bag from the couch, checking for your phone, your keys.

"Ready."

"Ready," Hannah repeats, standing and stretching. "That's the most dangerous word you've said all week."

The three of you move through the apartment like a well-practiced routine. Allie grabs her leather jacket from the hook by the door, Hannah checks her hair in the hall mirror, and you slip on your hoops and give yourself one last look. The red top. The dark jeans. The girl in the mirror looks like she has somewhere to be.

"Keys," Hannah says, holding out her hand, and you toss her yours without thinking. She catches them one-handed. "Jackets. Phones. Water bottles." She ticks them off like a checklist. You all walk downstairs. Allie swings the door open, and the late-afternoon air rolls in, cool and crisp, that first hint of evening settling over the quad. The sky's starting to streak pink at the edges.

"Alright," Allie says, stepping out into the light, jacket slung over her shoulder. "Let's go watch our boys win."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you step over the threshold, the door clicking shut behind you. You don't look at it yet. You're already walking, already moving toward the arena, toward the tap on the glass, toward everything waiting for you on the other side of the evening.

---------------------------------------------------------

The walk to the arena is a voyage. Students stream around you in waves of Hawks colors, scarves and jerseys and painted faces, the whole campus funneling toward the same glowing building. Allie's got her arm linked through yours, Hannah's on your other side, and the three of you ride the current all the way to the gates.

Inside, it's a wall of sound. Skates scraping, pucks clattering, the warm-up music thumping over the chatter of a thousand voices. You find your seats—front row, center ice-and settle in just as the team floods onto the ice. Same routine as last week, but tonight is completely different

“There’s my girl.”

You hear the scrap of the skates as he walks off the ice, watching the crowd file in, and when he spots you, something in his face shifts — a small, private smile that feels like it's just for you. A gentle push from Allie saying ‘go to him’, you stand up and nerves settle deep in your stomach. Every step toward the bench—granted it’s like three—feels like a spotlight. Allie's whoop echoes behind you. The crowd blurs into a sea of jerseys and flashing lights, but Logan's steady gaze keeps you anchored, and when you reach the glass, he doesn't wait. He pulls you into his arms, cups your jaw, and whispers “Ready, trouble?” and kisses you. It’s deep and slow, not what you had expected, in front of the whole rink, until the roar around you turns into something you can barely hear. You pull back, and for a long second, you can't find a single word. Your lips are still tingling. Your heart is slamming against your ribs like it's trying to escape. And somewhere above the roar of the rink, you're dimly aware that hundreds of people just watched John Logan kiss you like it meant something. Logan's eyes are dark, his breathing slightly uneven. His hands are still on your waist, like he forgot to let go.

“...So," he says, voice a little rough. "That was-"

"Yeah." The word comes out barely a whisper. You can't finish the sentence. You can't even start one. The crowd's energy washes over you. The hoots, whistles, you hear Hannah yell "Get a room!", and heat floods your cheeks. You're suddenly, painfully aware of how many eyes are on you. How this whole thing was your idea. How everyone in this building now believes, without a doubt, that you belong to John Logan. And the terrifying part is, for a second there, you forgot it wasn't true. The boys are already swarming the bench. Garrett's grinning like an idiot. Dean's wolf-whistling.

Tucker just shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like "finally." Logan's hand finds yours, squeezing once before he drops it, easy and casual, like he's done it a hundred times.

"Told you," he says, low enough that only you can hear. "No half-measures."

“Okay wow okay. Um-”

Logan laughs. “Lia, it’s okay. Just imagine you're on stage, not at a hockey rink.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Somewhere in the stands, you catch a flash of dark hair and a familiar leather jacket, and your stomach drops.

Justin Kohl is watching.

Your gaze drops before you can stop it, heat crawling up your neck and into your cheeks. Logan follows your gaze, his face drops for less than half a second, which you don't catch. He recovers fast and doesn't miss a second of banter.

Logan's voice, low and warm, close to your ear:  “There’s Justin, his eyes on you. You can thank me later.” A beat passes, and you don’t respond. 

"You okay?"

You nod. You don't trust your voice yet.

"Good," he says, and there's something soft in it, something that doesn't belong to the cocky grin he's been wearing all week. "Because I'm pretty sure Jules is already drafting a post about that."

That gets a laugh out of you, it’s small, breathless, but real. You risk a glance up at him, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite name, something that makes your stomach flip all over again.

"I think I'm supposed to be the one who's smooth at this," you manage.

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging. "You bring out my competitive side." The whistle blows. Garrett's voice cuts across the bench, "Logan, get your ass over here, we got a game to play" —and the moment shatters, but gently. Logan squeezes your hand once before letting go.

"Stay close to Allie and Hannah," he says, already backing toward the bench. "And try not to miss me too much."

"I make no promises."

His grin flashes, bright and crooked, and then he's gone, swallowed by the swarm of jerseys and helmets. The game is starting. You find your seat beside Allie, who grabs your arm the second you sit down, eyes wild.

"That was insane. The whole rink saw that. The whole rink, Lia." She shakes you. "Are you okay? Are you breathing? Do I need to call a doctor?"

"Allie."

"I'm just saying. The girl two rows back is already texting someone about it. You're famous."

Hannah leans over, grinning. "That was cute. That was really cute."

You sink a little lower in your seat, face warm, but you can't stop the smile tugging at your mouth. The game hasn't even started and already the night feels different. Bigger. Like something's happening that you're only half in control of.

The anthem plays. The lights dim and flash. The puck drops, and the roar of the crowd swallows you whole. The game is fast and brutal and beautiful. Garrett scores first, a slap shot from the blue line that rips through traffic, and Hannah's on her feet screaming his name. Dean takes a hit behind the net that makes you wince, and Allie gasps like she felt it herself. And Logan. Logan's everywhere. Forechecking, backchecking, winning battles in the corners, his number 22 is a constant blur of motion.

At the first whistle, Allie elbows you. "He's playing like he wants to impress someone."

"He always plays like that."

"Uh huh." She doesn't sound convinced.

The period ends 1-0. The second period is tighter. St. Mary's ties it on a weird bounce, and the crowd groans. But then Logan gets the puck on a breakout, cuts through the neutral zone, and snaps one top shelf from the circle. The goal horn blares. Red lights flash. And on the ice, Logan skates by the glass on your side, sticks his chin out at you, and grins like an idiot. Allie's screaming. Hannah's laughing. And you're on your feet, hands over your mouth, because he looked at you. He scored, and he looked at you.

The buzzer sounds. Second period over. Intermission.

"Drinks?" Allie asks, already standing. "I need a soda and a moment to process how hard Dean was checking that guy."

You hesitate, glancing around the concourse crowd. Somewhere in this arena, the reason you started all of this is watching.

"Come on." You grab Allie's arm and pull her toward the concourse before she can argue.

The intermission crowd is a river of jerseys and chatter, the air thick with popcorn and spilled soda. Allie navigates like she's done this a hundred times, weaving through pockets of people, and you follow in her wake, grateful she's the one leading.

“Two sodas and whatever's least likely to stain a black top," Allie tells the vendor, and she's handed two cups and a soft pretzel in the time it takes you to fish out your wallet.

"You got the pretzel for us?"

"I got the pretzel for me. You can have a bite." She grins, already tearing off a chunk. 

"So. First period. Thoughts?"

"He scored."

"He scored," she repeats, drawing it out. "And then he looked at you. And grinned. That was a moment, Lia."

"It was a goal."

"It was a goal for you. There's a difference." She bumps your shoulder. "You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend it's not a big deal when it's clearly a big deal." She pops the pretzel into her mouth, talking around it. "Your face is doing the thing too. The little smile you do when you're trying not to smile."

"I don't have a-"

"Hey." A voice cuts through the crowd noise, low and easy, with an accent that makes you go still.

"Liana, right?" You turn.

Justin Kohl is standing three feet away, leather jacket, dark hair falling into his eyes, that crooked half-smile you've seen a hundred times from the other side of a room. Up close, he's somehow more real. More solid. The tattoos on his forearms catch the concourse light.

"Yeah," you manage. "Liana. You remembered."

"I did." He offers a smile

"You're into music, right? Logan mentioned you're in the theatre program."

"Music theatre. I mean-theatre with a music minor. I'm-" You're rambling. You can feel Allie watching you, gleeful and silent beside you. "Yeah. I'm into music."

Justin nods, easy, like he already knew. "Like I said on Sunday, I do open mic nights at The Rusty Anchor. Thursdays. You should come check it out sometime. Bring Logan if you want."

"I-" Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "Yeah. Maybe I will."

"Cool." He tilts his head, studying you. "I've been working on some new stuff. Could always use another musician's ear." He pauses. "Actually-you ever write?"

"Write?"

"Songs. Music." He shrugs, one shoulder, casual as anything. "I'm always looking for people to trade ideas with. If you're ever around, we could jam sometime."

The word jam hangs in the air between you. Allie's gone very, very quiet.

"Maybe," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "I've been trying to write something lately, actually. It's not going great."

"Yeah?" Justin's eyes light up, interested. "What kind of thing?"

"I'm just stuck." The words come out easier than you expected. "I don't even know what it's about. I just know I'm supposed to be writing something and everything I put down sounds like-" You gesture vaguely. "Nothing. It sounds like nothing."

Justin nods, and there's no judgment in it, just understanding. "That's the worst kind. The nothing kind." He leans against the counter, arms crossed, easy as anything. "I get that. I've been there. Whole weeks where every chord I touch sounds like a song I've already heard."

"Really?"

"Really." He tilts his head, studying you. "How do you get out of it? The stuck part?"

You almost laugh. "I don't. I just stay stuck until the deadline scares me into producing something terrible."

Justin's grin widens. "Okay, that's honest. I respect that." He pushes off the counter, and for a second you think he's leaving, but he just shifts his weight, looking at you like he's deciding something. "Tell you what. If you do, figure it out. Bring it to the open mic. It's low stakes, no pressure, just people playing whatever they're working on. Bring something half-finished, or nothing at all. Half the time I show up with nothing and just vibe off everyone else."

"I don't know if I'm ready to play in front of people."

"Then don't play. Just come listen. Get a feel for it." He shrugs, one shoulder. "And if you ever want to trade ideas. I'm serious about that. Two stuck people might unstuck each other."

Your heart is hammering. This is it. This is the opening you've been hoping for since freshman year, and now it's happening in a concourse line, surrounded by popcorn and hockey jerseys.

"Yeah," you say, and your voice sounds steadier than you feel. "Yeah, that sounds. I'd like that. I'd really like that."

"Yeah?" Justin's smile does something to his whole face. "Cool. I'm usually at the Anchor by eight. Thursdays." He pulls out his phone, easy and casual. "What's your number? I'll text you the details."

You give it to him, and he types it in, thumbs moving fast. A second later your phone buzzes in your pocket.

"There," he says, pocketing his own phone. "Now you've got a music buddy." He glances at the clock on the wall. "Second period's about to start. I should get back."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Hey." He pauses, hand raised in a half-wave. "Good luck with the song. I mean it. Stuck is temporary." Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd, and you're left standing there with a buzzing phone and a head full of static.

Allie appears at your elbow, holding two sodas, her face a masterpiece of barely-contained glee. "So," she says, drawing the word out. "You're just gonna stand there and not tell me what that was?"

"I don't know what just happened."

Allie stares at you for one beat. Two. Then she bursts out laughing, loud enough that a guy in a Hawks jersey glances over. "You don't know what just happened." She sets the sodas down on the counter so she can gesture with both hands. "Liana Rivas. Justin Kohl. The Justin Kohl. The one you've been pining over since freshman year. He came up to you, asked for your number, and offered to ‘jam’ with you. And you don't know what just happened?"

"I mean. I know what happened. I just don't know how it happened." You look down at your phone, still warm in your pocket. "He texted me. He has my number."

"Obviously he has your number. He asked for it." Allie grabs her soda, takes a long sip, and fixes you with a look. "Okay. So. What are you gonna do about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean-" She lowers her voice, glancing around. "The whole point of this, remember? Logan pretends to be your boyfriend so Justin notices you. And it's working. He noticed. He got your number. He wants to write music with you." She raises an eyebrow. "This is the plan working, babe."

"I guess," you say. "I didn't think it would actually work."

"Nobody ever does. That's what makes it work." Allie picks up the pretzel, tears off a piece, and offers it to you. "So. Thursday. The Rusty Anchor. Are you going?"

"I don't know." You take the pretzel, mostly to have something to do with your hands. "I told him I'd think about it. He said he'd text me the details."

"And you're gonna text back?"

"Allie, he literally just gave me his number. I haven't even-" You pull out your phone, glance at the screen. There it is, a message from an unsaved number, preview showing something about Thursday. "I haven't even opened it yet."

"Well?" Allie leans in, chin practically on your shoulder. "Open it."

You stare at the screen. Your thumb hovers. Somewhere behind you, the intermission buzzers sound, and the crowd starts to shift back toward the seating bowl. The second period is about to start.

"Sodas first," you say, shoving the phone back in your pocket. "Hockey first. I'll deal with Justin Kohl after the game."

Allie grins, grabbing both cups. "Deal. But I'm holding you to that. You're not escaping this conversation that easily."

"Let's get back to our seats."

You grab your soda from Allie's hand and start moving, weaving back through the intermission crowd toward the tunnel that leads to the seating bowl. Allie falls in step beside you, and you can feel her watching you, can feel the question building behind her grin. Allie excitedly tells Hannah what just happened and looks at you.

"You're not gonna look at the text?" she asks.

"After the game."

"You're killing me."

"Good." You flash her a smile that feels almost real. "You deserve it."

She laughs, and then you're through the tunnel, and the arena roars back to life around you. The ice is freshly flooded, gleaming under the lights, and the teams are filing back out.  The puck drops for the third period, and the game tightens like a fist. St. Mary's comes out hungry, pressing hard, and for a stretch the Hawks are pinned in their own zone, scrambling, blocking shots with their bodies. The crowd holds its breath, a collective animal tensing. Then Garrett rips the puck loose, sends it up ice to Logan on a stretch pass, and Logan's gone, flying down the wing, one on one with the goalie. He fakes left, cuts right, and tucks it five-hole. The horn blares. The red light spins. The arena erupts. Logan skates to the glass on your side again and holds your gaze for one long second. The crowd around you notices. Your face goes hot, but you don't look away. He grins, then pushes off, skating back to the bench.

Allie's hand lands on your arm, gripping tight. "He's so gone for you."

"It's fake." You whisper.

"Tell that to his face, because his face is not getting the memo."

The final buzzer sounds. Hawks win, 4-2. The ice fills with celebrating players, helmets off, gloves tossed, the whole team piling onto Garrett at center ice. The crowd streams toward the exits, but you stay in your seat, waiting, watching the boys ride the high of the win. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out.

An unsaved number. Justin.

Justin: hey, it's justin. open mic thursday, 8pm, the rusty anchor. also i'm free tuesday around 2 if you want to swap song ideas before then. no pressure either way

---------------------------------------------------------

You fall in step with Hannah, threading through the crowd of fans still filtering out of the stands. The tunnel to the locker rooms is a press of bodies-players' families, girlfriends, a few diehards hoping to catch a glimpse of the team. The air is colder here, concrete and sweat and the echo of skates.

Allie catches up to you, soda still in hand. "Look at us. Groupies."

"Girlfriends," Hannah corrects, deadpan. "We're girlfriends. It's more dignified."

"Speak for yourself. I'm a groupie with standards."

Voices echo ahead, and then you see them—a wall of jerseys and damp hair, the team spilling out of the locker room in twos and threes. Dean's already spotted Allie, crossing the tunnel with his arms out like he's expecting a runway. Garrett's right behind him, and he sweeps Hannah into a hug that lifts her off her feet.

"You saw the third period?" he asks, muffled against her hair. "I was flying."

"You were offside and you know it."

"I was ahead of the play."

And then, past them, quieter. Logan. He's out of his gear, carrying his pads, hair slightly damp, cheeks flushed from the game. He's talking to one of the assistant coaches, nodding along, but his eyes find you across the tunnel. Something in his face shifts. 

Softens.

He says something to the coach, claps him on the shoulder, and walks over.

"Baby," he says, and there's a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You made it."

Baby. We’ve reached ‘baby’.

"Made it? I've been here the whole time. I saw you-" You stop yourself. "I saw the goal. The second one. That was-" You gesture vaguely. "Good."

"Good?" Dean appears at Logan's shoulder, arm slung around Allie. "She's still doing the 'it's just a hockey game' thing? Logan, your girlfriend doesn't appreciate you."

"She's a woman of refined taste," Logan says easily. "She knows a good goal when she sees one. She's just not gonna admit it in front of you." He looks at you, and there's something warm in his eyes, something that makes the tunnel feel smaller.

"You heading out?"

"Uh." Your voice catches. "Yeah. I mean-we were gonna-" You glance at Hannah, at Allie. "I don't know. What are we doing?"

Allie's grin is sharp and knowing. "Well, Dean and I have plans that do not include the group." She kisses Dean on the cheek, loud and deliberate. "You kids figure it out."

Hannah's already linking her arm through Garrett's. "We're gonna grab food. You two want to come?"

The question hangs there, easy and casual, but you can feel the weight of it. Logan's eyes are on you, waiting, letting you decide.

"You two go. We'll catch up later."

Hannah raises an eyebrow, a knowing little smirk tugging at her mouth. "Oh, will you?"

"Shut up."

Garrett, oblivious, just claps Logan on the shoulder. "Don't keep her out too late. We got practice at six." He steers Hannah toward the tunnel exit, and she glances back once, mouthing something you can't quite read, before they disappear into the crowd. And just like that, the tunnel empties. The roar of the arena fades to a distant hum. A few players filter past, towels around necks, gear bags slung over shoulders. Dean's already long gone with Allie.

It's just you and Logan.

He's looking at you with that half-smile that's become dangerously familiar. "Catch up later, huh?"

"Yeah." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Seemed like the polite thing to say."

"Polite." He nods slowly, amused. "So it wasn't because you wanted me all to yourself?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Logan."

Logan ignores the comment. “I can walk you back to yours."

"You don't have to-"

"I know I don't have to." He says it simply, like it's not even a question. "Just give me two minutes. I need to grab my bag. I'll be quick."

He disappears into the locker room, and you're left standing in the tunnel, the concrete echoing with the distant sound of the crowd still filing out. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Justin's text, still unread.

You don't look at it. Instead you lean against the wall, letting the cold seep through your jacket.

The locker room door swings open. He's out in one. Hair still damp, jacket slung over one shoulder, a crooked grin on his face.

"Ready, trouble?"

You push off the wall, and somehow it's the easiest thing in the world to fall into step beside him. The tunnel stretches ahead, empty now, the distant echo of the last fans fading into the night air. His shoulder brushes yours once, deliberate or accidental, you can't tell.

"So," he says as the doors swing open and the cold hits you both, "what did you think? Of the game. The whole-" He gestures vaguely at the arena behind them. "Spectacle."

"The spectacle was fine." You pull your jacket tighter. "Your goal was good. The second one."

"Good?" He stops walking, mock-offended. "That was a game-winner, Lia. That was top shelf, bar down, highlight reel material. That was—"

"It was good," you repeat, smiling despite yourself. "I said good."

"Unbelievable. I pour my heart out on the ice and all I get is 'good.'"' He shakes his head, but he's grinning, and his grin is doing something complicated to your chest.

The campus quad stretches out before you, lamplit and quiet, the arena glowing behind you. His jacket's slung over his shoulder and he's looking at you like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

"So," he says, softer now. "That's the debut. We survived. How are you feeling?"

"Honestly?" You look at him, really look at him-the damp hair, the crooked grin, the way he's watching you like you're the most interesting thing on the quad. "Kind of good. The whole thing. The-" You tail off not knowing how explicitly bring up the kiss. "Being seen. It wasn't terrible. Nice even."

"Nice," he repeats, savoring the word. "That's better than good. That's progress."

"Don't get used to it."

"Too late. I'm already framing this moment. Putting it in the scrapbook." He tucks his jacket under his arm, walking backward in front of you now, grin wide. "Liana Rivas said the fake dating was 'kind of good.' Next thing you know, she'll admit I'm funny."

"You're not funny."

"I'm hilarious. You just have standards."

You laugh, and it escapes before you can stop it, bright and real in the quiet of the quad. Logan's grin softens into something smaller, warmer.

"There it is," he says, quiet enough that you almost miss it.

"There what is?"

"Nothing." He turns, falls back into step beside you, shoulder brushing yours. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

You don't argue. You just walk, the two of you side by side under the streetlights, the arena shrinking behind you and the night stretching out ahead, and it's strange-how natural this feels. How easy. How much you're not thinking about Justin Kohl at all.

--------------------------------------------------------- 

The walk to your apartment takes you past Malone's, all warm light and the smell of fries drifting through the door. Logan pauses, tilting his head toward the diner.

"Food?" he asks. "My treat. Consider it a post-debut celebration."

You're about to say no since you're tired, it's late, you have class tomorrow, but your stomach chooses that moment to growl, loud and traitorous. Logan's grin spreads slowly.

"I'll take that as a yes."

The booth is familiar, the same one you always get, and Reba's already heading over with menus before you've even shrugged off your jacket. Logan slides in across from you, easy as anything, like this is a thing you do. Like it's real.

"Alright," he says, unfolding his menu. "You want the full debrief, or do we ease into it?"

"Depends."

Logan doesn't even blink, a lazy grin spreading as he leans back in the booth. "You planning on actually eating, or just ordering something to watch me sweat?"

"I'm a growing girl, Logan. I need sustenance. I’d never joke about food."

"You're a menace is what you are." But he's already flagging Reba down. "Two waters, and whatever she would like.”

"A burger and fries please" you say sweetly.

Reba turns to Logan, pencil poised. "Looks like you're hungry. I'll bring you one, too, hon." She's gone before he can protest, and Logan's laughing across the table, quiet and warm.

The diner hums around you, familiar and safe-the clatter of plates, the low murmur of other tables, the smell of fries and coffee. Logan's water arrives, and yours, and he's still looking at you with that easy grin, like this is exactly where he wants to be.

"So." He picks up his menu, then sets it down without looking at it. "You wanted to know if I'm buying. I'm buying. You also wanted the debrief?"

"I responded to you asking if I was getting the most expensive thing on the menu. I didn't agree to a debrief."

"You're deflecting."

"I'm negotiating."

He laughs, shaking his head, and pulls out his phone. "Alright, well, while you negotiate, check this out." He turns the screen toward you, and there it is—a post on Fifth Line, the gossip account everyone on campus follows. A picture of the two of you at the game: Logan mid-hug, you caught mid-smile, right after the kiss.

The caption reads: who knew that the right-wing hockey player would settle down with the one and only Liana Rivas? well i did. or at least hoped ;) -jules

"Jules," you say, and it comes out half-strangled.

"Jules," Logan confirms, grinning. "They posted it twenty minutes ago. It already has three hundred likes."

"Three hundred likes? That's insane." You stare at the screen, at the picture of the two of you caught, at the caption with its winky face. "How do they even have that many followers?"

"Jules has been building the Fifth Line empire since freshman year. They know everyone's coffee order, everyone's class schedule, everyone's—" He gestures at the post. 

"Everything."

"Creepy."

"Efficient. There's a difference." Logan pockets his phone, but he's still grinning. "You gotta admit, though. The picture's not bad."

You look at it again—at yourself, caught off guard, eyes bright, mouth open mid-laugh. At Logan, head tilted toward you like a sunflower toward the sun. It's a good picture. It's a picture of two people who look like they actually like each other.

“The caption's the worst part," you say, deflecting. "'Settled down.' I'm twenty."

"You're a domestic girl now. You should lean into it." He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Maybe start baking. Get a cat."

"A cat and a hockey player. The dream."

"See, you're getting it."

Reba arrives with the burgers and fries. He digs in without ceremony, and for a minute there's just the comfortable sound of two people eating, the diner hum filling the space between you.

"So," he says around a bite of fries, "you want to tell me where you went during intermission?"

You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth. "What?"

"I saw you." He says it simply, not accusing. "Talking to Justin Kohl." He takes a sip of water, watching you. "You looked good. Relaxed. He looked-" A pause. "Interested."

"He gave me his number." The words come out fast, like ripping off a band-aid. "He wants to jam. Trade song ideas. He said he's free Tuesday if I want to swap stuff, and he invited me to his open mic Thursday."

Logan's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down slowly, and there's a beat of quiet that stretches just a little too long before he grins.

"Look at you. The plan's working."

"I know. I still can't believe it." You lazily take a bite of your burger, suddenly not hungry. "Three years, Logan. Three years I've been watching him from across rooms, and he just—walked up to me. And talked to me like I was a person."

"You are a person."

"You know what I mean." You look up at him. "He called me by my name. He remembered me from the diner. He wants to write music with me."

Logan nods, picking up a fry again. "That's good. That's what you wanted." He takes a bite, chews, swallows. "Are you gonna go? Tuesday? The open mic?"

"I don't know." The question sits heavy. "I told him I'd think about it."

"Think fast. Tuesday's in four days."

"I know." You sigh. "I just—I didn't think this part through. The part where it actually works. What am I supposed to do, sing in front of him? Tell him I have a boyfriend and then expect him to, I don't know, flirt?"

The words hang in the air between you, and Logan's burger hovers mid-air for just a second before he sets it down. 

"Okay," he says. "Stop freaking out. Lia, he’s just a guy. You go and act like this is just a classmate helping you with a project."

It’s silent for a moment. "Ugh why did I agreed to this." It comes out smaller than you meant it to. "I want him to see me. The real me. Not the girl with the hot hockey boyfriend." You pause. "No offense."

"None taken." He smiles, but it's a different smile than before—quieter. "You know, you could've just said 'hot."'

"Don't push it."

He laughs, and the tension at the table loosens. Reba swings by to refill waters, and for a minute it's just the diner hum and the two of you, comfortable again.

"So," he says, picking up his fork. "Tuesday. You gonna text him back?"

"I don't know yet."

"Want me to look it over? Make sure your opening line's not terrible?"

"You think you're qualified?"

"I once slid into a DMs so smooth the girl married me. I'm very qualified."

"She did not marry you."

"She would have. I ghosted her for hockey." He grins. "It's a tragic love story."

You laugh, and it feels good, light. "Fine. If I text him, you can look it over. But I'm not taking notes from a man who ghosts women for a sport."

You set your water down, a grin spreading slowly across your face. "So. Jules." You pull out your phone, pulling up the post again. "Who knew that the right wing hockey player would settle down with the one and only Liana Rivas?'''

Logan groans, dropping his head back. "We're doing this?"

"We're doing this." You read on, savoring it. "Well I did. Or at least hoped." You look up at him, eyes bright. "Your own sibling ships us, Logan. That's got to sting."

"It doesn't sting. Jules is a menace with a phone and too much free time."

"Jules has been rooting for us since before we even-" You gesture between the two of you. "—agreed to this. What does that say about you?"

"It says Jules is an unreliable narrator with a gossip addiction."

"It says you're not as subtle as you think you are." You tilt your head, enjoying the way the tips of his ears are going slightly pink under the diner lights. "The right-wing hockey player. Settling down. With me. That's a pretty specific hope to have."

"Liana." He levels a look at you. "Jules posts this stuff about everyone. They posted about Garrett and Hannah three weeks before they even got together. They posted about Dean and Allie before Dean knew Allie's last name. It's a track record, not a confession."

"Uh-huh." You take a sip of your water, smug. "And what did Jules post about you before this? Let me guess, 'Logan is definitely not staring at his best friend's girlfriend, stop asking."'

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points a finger at you. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I'm enjoying this the right amount." You set your phone down, still smiling. "You have to admit, it's kind of nice, though. Having someone on your side who saw it coming. Even if it's your 'annoying' little sibling."

Logan's quiet for a second

"I," something softening behind his eyes. "Yeah," he says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. "It's not the worst thing."

Reba appears at the edge of the booth, coffee pot in hand. "You two done flirting, or do I need to come back?"

"Just water, Reba. And maybe some pie."

Reba grins, already tucking her coffee pot away. "That's what I like to hear. Chocolate silk or apple?"

"Chocolate silk. Obviously."

"Obviously." Reba's eyes slide to Logan. "What about you, handsome? Pie's good for the soul. And the ego."

"If she's having pie, I'm having pie." Logan's voice is easy, but his ears are still pink.

"Two chocolate silks, coming up." Reba's gone before either of you can say another word, and the silence she leaves behind is suddenly very loud.

You're the one who breaks it, a laugh escaping before you can stop it. "Two chocolate silks. You know that's a commitment, right? She's going to remember this."

"Let her remember. It's good for my reputation." He sets his fork down, leaning back in the booth, studying you with that unreadable look he gets sometimes. "You know, you're different when you're not thinking about-" He gestures vaguely, somewhere past your shoulder. "The whole thing. The plan. Him."

"Different how?"

"Like you're actually here." He says it simply, like it's not a big deal. "It's nice. I like this version."

The words land somewhere in your chest, warm and unexpected. You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing, reaching for your water and taking a long sip. Reba returns with two plates of chocolate silk pie, the slices obscene, the crust gleaming with butter. She sets them down with a wink. "On the house. Reba's special for her favorite regulars."

"Reba, you're a saint," you say, already picking up your fork.

"I know, hon. Enjoy."

She leaves, and Logan picks up his fork, tapping the plate with it. "She called us her favorite regulars. That's basically a marriage proposal in diner language."

"It's a pie, Logan. Don't make it weird."

"We're diner soulmates now." He takes a bite, and his eyes close for a second. "Okay, that's really good pie."

You laugh, and the two of you eat in comfortable silence, the diner hum wrapping around you like a blanket, and for a moment it's easy to forget that any of this is pretend at all.

"So... about Tuesday." You push your empty pie plate away, chasing the last crumb with your fork. "What should I say?"

Logan sets his fork down, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "To Justin?"

"No, to Reba. Yes, to Justin." You roll your eyes. "He texted me. Earlier. After the game. I haven't replied yet."

Logan leans back in the booth, crossing his arms, considering the question like it's a play he's breaking down. "Well, you're not gonna say 'my boyfriend and I would love to come.' That's the wrong move."

"Why not?"

"Because you're going alone." He says it simply. "You told me you want to find out if it's real. So you text him back like it's just you. No mention of the boyfriend. Let him wonder."

"Let him wonder," you repeat slowly.

"Exactly." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Something like, 'Hey, it's Lia.' Keep it light. Don't say 'the girl with the hockey boyfriend.' Don't even hint at me existing."

"So you're saying I should pretend I'm single."

"I'm saying you should let him think you're available." He tilts his head. "Which, technically, you are. The boyfriend's fake, remember?"

"Right." The word comes out a little flatter than you meant it to. "The boyfriend's fake."

Something flickers across Logan's face, there and gone. "Yeah." He clears his throat. "So. Tell him Tuesday works. Don't overthink it. The guy's into you. All you have to do is show up."

You look down at your phone, still sitting face-up on the table. Justin's name is still there, the unread text glowing faintly.

"How do you know he's into me?"

"Because he texted you before the game even ended." Logan's voice is easy, but his eyes are on his water glass. "And because you're you." He looks up, and there's that soft thing in his expression again, the one you can't quite name. "It's not that complicated."

The diner hums around you, and for a second neither of you says anything.

"So I just, reply?" you ask.

"Just reply." He grins, and the moment breaks. "But if you want, I'll proofread it. Make sure you don't accidentally call him 'the tattooed guy I’ve been drooling over' or something."

You scoff. "Okay, help me draft it."

Logan's grin spreads slow, like he's been waiting for you to cave. "Finally. I've been holding my expertise in reserve." He slides his phone into his pocket and leans forward, elbows on the table, all business. "Alright. Rule one of texting the guy you're into: keep it short." He counts on his fingers. "Guys like him, they don't read paragraphs. They read three sentences max, and if you make them laugh, they’re hooked."

"Three sentences and a joke." You pull out your phone, opening Justin's text. His message glows up at you: hey, it's justin. open mic thursday, 8pm, the rusty anchor. also i'm free tuesday around 2 if you want to swap song ideas before then. no pressure either way

"He said ‘no pressure,'"' you say, reading it aloud. "That's good, right? That's casual?"

"That's him leaving the door open." Logan nods approvingly. "He's playing it cool. Good for him."

"So what do I say back?"

"Say-" Logan thinks for a second, then mimics typing with his fingers. "'Hey. Tuesday works. What time?'''

"That's it?"

"That's it." He shrugs. "It's not a novel. It's a door. You open it, you let him walk through, and you see what he does with it. If he's interested, he'll take it from there. If he's not-" Logan spreads his hands. "Then you know. No wasted energy."

You look at the blank message, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The diner hums around you, Reba clattering plates somewhere in the back, and Logan's watching you with that steady, patient look.

"Tuesday works," you type slowly, then “What time?” Your thumb hovers over send.

"Wait." Logan holds up a hand. "Add something. Something that sounds like you."

"Like what?"

"Like-" He tilts his head. "You're a music nerd, right? Say something about the song. Ask him what he's working on. It's an opener, Lia. It gives him something to talk to you about."

You look at the message, then add: Also, I want to hear that song you mentioned. The one you're stuck on. You read it back, and something in your chest flutters.

"Yeah," Logan says, reading over your shoulder. "That's good. That's-" He clears his throat. "That's you. Send it."

Your thumb presses down. The message sends with a soft whoosh, and you set the phone face-down on the table, heart doing something complicated in your chest.

"There," Logan says, leaning back. "Done. Now we wait."

"How long?"

"However long it takes." He grins. "In the meantime, you've got pie to finish, and I've got a reputation to maintain." He picks up his fork, pointing it at your plate. "You gonna eat that or stare at it?"

"Thanks. For the help. And the pie." You set your fork down, the last bite of chocolate silk melting on your tongue. "Seriously. I don't know how I'd be navigating any of this without you."

"Probably badly." Logan grins, leaning back. "You'd have texted him something like 'greetings, fellow musician. I too enjoy the sounds.'"

"I would not have-"

"You absolutely would have. You overthink everything."

"And you don't?"

"I don't have the brain capacity. I just send the text and let the universe handle it."

"That's the most terrifying thing you've ever said."

The diner door swings open, and a wave of cold air and voices spills in. You don't think anything of it-it's Malone's, people come and go all night. But then you hear a laugh you know, bright and unmistakable, and Dean's voice cutting through the noise.

"Logan! There he is! The man of the hour!"

You turn, and the whole crew is there-Dean, Garrett, Tucker, Hannah, and Allie, streaming through the door in a knot of jerseys and jackets, all of them zeroing in on your booth like they've got radar.

Allie catches your eye and grins, and you know, you just know, this is not a coincidence.

"Found them!" Dean announces to the entire diner, pointing. "The power couple! The Fifth Line's finest!"

"Dean," Garrett mutters, "you're embarrassing yourself."

"I'm elevating the occasion, Graham. There's a difference."

Tucker's already pulling a chair over from a nearby table, scooting it up to the end of your booth. "Room for five more? We saw the post. We had to come celebrate. Or interrogate. Both." 

Hannah slides in beside you before you can protest, shoulder pressed against yours, her eyes bright and curious. "We were gonna go home, but then Allie showed us the post and said we had to come congratulate the happy couple." She says "happy couple" with just enough emphasis that you know she's fishing. Allie, standing behind Hannah, mouths sorry at you—but her smile says she's not sorry at all.

Logan, across the booth, catches your eye. His expression is amused, resigned, a little bit fond. "Well," he says, spreading his hands. "I guess the party's here."

You don't think. You just move, sliding across the vinyl booth until your shoulder presses against Logan's, close enough that your knees bump under the table. He goes still for half a second, then something warm settles into his grin, and his arm comes up to rest along the back of the booth behind you. Easy. Like he's been doing it for years.

"Power couple, huh?" you say, tilting your head up at Dean. "I like it. Has a ring to it."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "She's leaning in! She's leaning in! Did you see that, Tucker? She leaned in!"

"I saw," Tucker says, already pulling up another chair. "Relax, Dean. You're gonna scare them off."

"Nothing scares off true love, Tuck."

Hannah settles in beside you, her shoulder warm against yours, and gives you a look that's half-amused, half-suspicious. "You're being suspiciously chill about this."

"I'm a chill person."

"You cried at a car commercial last week."

"That was a dog in the car commercial. Different thing."

Allie slides in on the other side of the booth, squeezing between Hannah and the wall, and her eyes find yours over the table. She's grinning, and there's a question in it — are you okay? is this okay? - and you give her the tiniest nod. Her grin widens.

"So," Garrett says, dropping into a chair at the end of the table, arms crossed, voice dry as toast. "You two gonna tell us what's actually going on, or are we just gonna pretend we all believe you've been secretly dating for two weeks?"

The table goes quiet. Logan's hand, resting on the booth behind you, twitches against your shoulder.

"Garrett," Hannah warns.

"What? I'm asking a legitimate question. Since when does Logan date anyone? He's been married to hockey since freshman year."

"People change," Logan says, and his voice is easy, but you can feel the tension in the arm behind you.

"People meet someone. Things happen."

"Things." Garrett repeats the word like he's testing it. "You've known her for two years, man. Why now?"

The question lands heavy. You can feel the whole table waiting, Dean and Tucker leaning in, Hannah's eyes sharp, Allie's fingers drumming on the table.

"She's Liana," Logan says finally. "And she's pretty. And I like the way she laughs." He turns to look at you, and there's something real in his face, something that makes your chest squeeze. "Is that enough of a reason?"

The booth is very quiet.

Dean breaks it, slapping the table. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard, and I've said 'I love you' to a mirror multiple times."

"You have not," Tucker says.

"I have! It's important to practice self-love, Tuck."

The table erupts in laughter, the tension cracking wide open, and Allie's kicking you under the table with a look that says we are talking about this later. Logan's hand settles on your shoulder, casual, warm, and he squeezes once - quick, private, just for you.

"Ordering pie," Dean announces, waving at Reba. "The good pie. We're celebrating."

"He's not paying," Garrett mutters.

"I'm absolutely paying."

The diner fills with the sound of them - arguing over the menu, Dean telling a story about the game, Tucker politely asking Reba about her day — and you sit there, pressed against Logan's side, his hand on your shoulder, and think about how easy this is. How natural. How the whole table believes it, and for a second, you almost do too. Logan leans down, mouth close to your ear. "You okay?"

"Yeah." You look up at him. "I'm okay."

He smiles, small and real, and doesn't move away. You let out a breath, then lean in, letting your weight settle against Logan's side. Your head tips toward his shoulder, just enough to be deliberate, and you feel him go still for half a beat before his arm tightens around you, pulling you in close. Natural. Easy. Like you belong there.

"We're right here, you know," you say, looking up at Dean. "You can just ask us."

"Oh, I have questions." Dean's already scooting his chair in, elbows on the table. 

"Question one: who made the first move? Question two: was there a moment, like a moment moment? Question three: on a scale of one to ten, how good is Logan at kissing?"

"Dean," Logan warns.

"I'm asking for the people, Logan. The people need to know."

"Speak for yourself," Tucker mutters, but he's grinning into his water.

Allie's watching you over the rim of her glass, eyes bright, clearly cataloguing every second of this for later. "I think it's sweet," she says, in a voice that's almost innocent. "The two of them, sneaking around. Very Romeo and Juliet."

"Romeo and Juliet both died, Allie."

"Details."

Hannah's quiet, but you can feel her eyes on you, sharp and thoughtful. She's not buying it the way Dean is — she knows you too well, knows your tells. But she doesn't call it out. She just watches, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"So," Dean presses, undeterred. "First move. Who?"

Logan's hand squeezes your shoulder, quick and private. "I asked her out. She said yes. End of story."

"That's not an end of story, that's a trailer."

"That's all you're getting, Di Laurentis."

Dean groans, slumping back in his chair. "Unbelievable. The most interesting couple on campus and they won't even give us a highlight reel."

"We're not that interesting," you say.

"You're on Fifth Line! Jules posted a winky face! That's the most interesting thing that's happened to this team since Garrett punched that guy from St. Mary's in the face."

"I didn't punch him," Garrett says flatly. "I checked him into the boards legally."

"Legally enough."

The table dissolves into laughter and arguing, Dean recounting the game in increasingly embellished detail while Tucker fact-checks him and Garrett threatens to leave. Through it all, Logan's arm stays around you, warm and steady, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your shoulder like he's not even thinking about it. Reba drops off a round of waters and two more slices of pie, shaking her head at the chaos. "You kids are gonna give me a heart condition."

"We're celebrating, Reba," Dean calls. "True love!"

"Uh-huh." She looks at you and Logan, and there's a knowing glint in her eye. "You two look good together, I'll give you that."

"Reba, you're my favorite person in this diner." Dean proclaims.

"I know, hon. Enjoy the pie."

She shuffles off, and the night settles into something warm and loud and full, the booth pressed close with bodies and laughter, Logan solid against your side. Somewhere in your pocket, your phone buzzes—once, twice—and you feel it more than hear it over Dean's story about the goalie.

Justin.

The name flickers through your mind, and for a second the warmth of the booth dims. But then Logan's thumb traces that slow circle again, and Dean's voice rises in outrage over Tucker stealing his pie, and Allie catches your eye across the table with a knowing little smirk. You let the phone buzz. You don't reach for it.

You shift, pulling back just enough to catch Logan's eye. "I think it's time to call it a night." Your voice is soft, meant for him, but the table goes quiet anyway, Dean's story dying mid-sentence.

"Leaving already?" Dean's face falls. "The night's young! There's pie! There's-"

"Dean." Garrett's voice is flat. "Let them go. They've been at this since the game."

"It's been a long day," you add, and it's true-the game, the kiss, Justin, the walk, the booth. "A good day. But a long one."

Allie catches your eye across the table, and something passes between you-we'll talk later, her look says, and you give her the tiniest nod. Hannah squeezes your arm as you slide out of the booth.

"Text me when you're home," Hannah says.

"I will."

Logan's already standing, pulling his jacket on, and he tosses a few bills on the table before Dean can argue. "I'II walk her. You guys stay. Finish the pie."

"Logan, you don't have to-"

"I know." He says it simply, and holds out his hand. Not grabbing, not demanding. Just an offer, palm up, waiting. The table watches. Dean's eyebrows are somewhere in his hairline. Tucker's grinning into his water. Garrett's studying Logan with that unreadable look he gets, like he's trying to solve a puzzle he didn't know existed.

You take Logan's hand. It's warm. Calloused from hockey and years of fixing things, but gentle around yours. He doesn't let go as you both head for the door, and the diner erupts behind you-

"Good night, lovebirds!" Dean calls.

"Get home safe!" Reba adds, and you could swear she's smiling.

The door swings shut on the noise, and the night air hits you, crisp and cold and clean. The street is quiet, the diner's warm glow spilling out behind you, and Logan's hand is still in yours, thumb brushing once across your knuckles before he lets go, easy, like it cost him nothing.

"C'mon," he says, tilting his head toward the street. "Let's get you home."

You fall into step beside him, shoulders close, the streetlights casting long shadows ahead of you both. The night is quiet, the campus sleeping, and the walk feels like something out of a movie you didn't know you were in.

"So," he says after a while. "Tuesday."

"Tuesday."

"Big day." He glances at you. "You ready?"

"I don't know." You look at him, at the way the streetlight catches his profile, at the crooked grin he's wearing like armor. "But I guess I'll find out."

He nods, and the two of you keep walking, the diner shrinking behind you, your apartment growing closer ahead, and somewhere between the two, the night feels like it belongs to just the two of you. The street lamps string light across the sidewalk as you near your building, and the night has gone quiet in the best way—no diner noise, no Dean's voice carrying. Just the sound of your footsteps and Logan's, syncing without trying.

He stops at the bottom of the steps, hands sliding into his pockets. "Well. That's you."

“That's me." You hover on the first step, looking down at him. "Thanks. For tonight. For all of it."

"Don't thank me." His grin's crooked in the low light. "I got pie out of it, and I got to watch Dean make a fool of himself. That's a win-win."

"Also, you convinced the entire friend group we're a real couple. And Jules posted about us."

He laughs, quiet. "We did that together, trouble. You leaned in at exactly the right moment."

It sits there, the two of you, the whole elaborate performance. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, a third time, and you feel it against your hip. Justin. His reply, waiting there like a loose thread.

Logan follows your glance to your pocket, then back up to your face. "That him?"

"Yeah." You pull it out, the screen lighting up. Tuesday works. 8pm at The Rusty Anchor. Bring a song if you got one. 

"You got your song?" Logan asks.

"No." You look up at him. "But I'll figure it out."

He nods, something soft passing over his face. "You will." He starts to turn, then stops. 

"Hey, Lia?"

"Yeah?"

“Text me when you're inside." A small beat. "That's not part of the act. That's just me."

He doesn't wait for an answer, just gives you a crooked smile and walks off down the street, hands in his pockets, night swallowing him up. You watch him go until he turns the corner, then climb the steps to your door, a smile tugging at your mouth you can't quite shake.

You: made it in safe 

Inside, your phone lights up again. Logan's text reads. 

Logan: get some sleep. big week ahead

And all you can think, as you kick off your shoes and sink onto your bed, is that for the first time in a while, the week ahead doesn't feel like something to dread.

It feels like something to look forward to.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

an: should i make a taglist or is that too ambitious?

The Show

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc 

wc: 4k

an: just uploading back to back is crazy. also i realized that this is going to be a very very long story with many many parts. i love details so if you do not like long stories with “unimportant” plot points, then this may not be the fic for you. thank you again to everyone that has liked this and even reblogged! crazy never thought i’d be the author, i’ve been an avid reader for too many years so this is insane to me. also i’m combining two of my current obsessions, John Logan and Hadestown. heads up, the next part is longgggggggggg.

previous (part 3) | next (part 5)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

You wake up before your alarm for the first time in weeks, which should feel like a betrayal but doesn't. For once, your body's on your side. Monday morning light filters through the blinds, and you lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, replaying the weekend on a loop. The party. The handshake. The diner. The way Logan effortlessly plays the boyfriend role.

First class of the week. The thing is, you've never really put much thought into what you wear to Performance Studies. It's a Monday. It's 10:20 AM. It's Professor Horne, who once asked the class to "embody the concept of hunger" and graded on commitment. 

Nobody's trying to impress anyone in that room.

But today, you're not just Liana Rivas, theatre kid with surprisingly sharp wit for such a shy individual. Today you're Liana Rivas, with a boyfriend. A fake boyfriend, sure, but the whole campus doesn't know that. And the whole campus includes the hockey team's rumor mill, which means whatever you wear will be reported back to Logan within the hour. Or not, but your brain won't let you off that easily. Then you remember Jules, who will make everyone aware of the new couple as soon as the wind has caught a whiff of it. 

You're still in bed, deciding if you should roll over and overthink some more or touch the floor with your feet and take a quick but relaxing shower to start the day that has inevitably started.

Before the decision is made. A knock comes from the side of your door from a put together Allie, leaning against the frame, coffee in hand, with a sing-songy voice, "I'm gonna go grab some breakfast before Horne makes us reenact The Great Emu War again. Wanna come?"

"Thanks, but I'll pass," you call through the door. "Gotta look presentable today."

Allie's eyebrows climb. "Presentable? For Horne? Did you hit your head?"

"I'm being a responsible girlfriend." The word still feels borrowed, like a coat that doesn't quite fit. "Logan's reputation is at stake or whatever."

Allie grins, slow and delighted, and doesn't say a word. Which is somehow worse than if she'd teased you. She just raises her coffee in a little toast and disappears down the hall, her voice floating back:

"Wear the green top. It brings out your eyes!"

Her footsteps retreat down the hall, and the apartment settles into quiet. You sit up, rub your eyes, and look at yourself in the mirror across the room. You're Logan's girlfriend now. Well, fake girlfriend. Which means the jeans-and-a-tee approach is probably not going to cut it. Because if the rumor mill is already running-and you know it is, because Tucker texted at warp speed—then people will be looking. Evaluating. Judging whether Liana Rivas looks like the kind of girl who could land John Logan.

You roll out of bed and open your closet, surveying the options. The green sweater that does in fact bring out the hints of gold in your eyes. The black skirt that makes your legs look longer than they are. The vintage band tee you've worn so much it's practically molded to your body.

Somewhere between the shower and the mirror, you make a decision. Jeans-but the good ones, the dark wash that fit just right. The green sweater. The chunky gold earrings. A swipe of mascara, your normal mauvy-brown lip combo. Nothing crazy. Just enough to make it look like you didn't try too hard.

Because that's the story, right? You're a girl who just happens to look good. Who just happens to be dating John Logan. Who just happens to be the center of everyone's attention today.

---------------------------------------------------------

You're pulling your hair into a loose, wavy half-updo when your phone buzzes on the dresser.

Logan: morning. you headed to the theatre building?

You stare at the message. He's asking where you're going. Like it matters to him. Like he's tracking your path through campus.

You: yeah. leaving in a few. why? Logan: good. i'll walk with you. see you outside.

You blink at the screen. He didn't ask. He just told you. And there's something about the casual certainty of it that makes your stomach do a small, stupid flip. It's part of the act, you remind yourself. Couples walk to class together. That's what we're selling.

But as you grab your bag and head for the door, your heart is already thumping against your ribs as you briskly walk down the stairs to Logan, who is patiently waiting for you.

"You really showed up to walk me to class?"

Logan glances at you sideways, and for a second, something genuine flickers through his expression before the grin snaps back into place. "I mean. Technically I showed up to prove a point."

"Which is?"

"That I'm an excellent fake boyfriend. Top-tier. Dedicated." He gestures at the cup in your hand. "The drink was a power move, I'll admit. I've been saving it."

"Saving it?"

"I stopped at the cart and told myself, if I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it right. No half-measures." He shrugs, like it's nothing. "Also, I had twenty minutes before practice and nothing better to do."

"Wow. Romantic."

"I'm a strategic guy." He says it with a grin.

You take the cup, and the familiar scent hits you before you even read the label. London fog. Oat milk. Extra foam.

"Logan." You stop walking. "You got me tea."

"Is that weird?" He's already scanning ahead, a little too casual. "I remembered you don't do coffee. Thought it might be a nice touch. Girlfriend gets a drink from her boyfriend, it's good optics."

"Optics."

"Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "That's the word."

You look at the cup, then at him. He remembered. Not just that you don't like coffee, but the exact thing you do like. The oat milk. The extra foam. That's not optics. That's attention.

"Thanks," you say, and the word comes out softer than you meant it to.

"No problem." He starts walking again, and you fall in beside him. "So. First class is Performance Studies, right? What's on the agenda today?"

"Embodiment exercises, probably. We’ve been doing it for the past two weeks. Horne says ‘being able to completely become someone or something else is the crucial beginnings to acting.’"

"Sounds like a real party."

"It's theatre. We suffer for our art." You take a sip of your tea, perfect, exactly how you like it.

"What about you? Hockey stuff?"

"Practice. Then film study at two." He glances at you. "You should come watch sometime. It's good for the brand."

"The brand?"

"Our brand. The couple." He gestures vaguely between you. "Girlfriends show up to practice. Sit in the stands, look supportive. It's what the people expect."

"The people," you repeat, smiling into your cup. "Tucker told the whole team already, didn't he?"

"Dean told the whole school." Logan groans. "By now, Jules probably has a Fifth Line post drafted about how the Hawks' right wing is officially off the market. I'm getting congratulated by guys I haven't spoken to since freshman year."

"Oh, poor you, you're just sooo famous."

"Shut up." But he's grinning, and the campus is waking up around you, students streaming toward buildings, the quad still damp from the weekend rain. Somebody waves at Logan; he raises a hand back, easy, automatic. Then his hand drops, and for a second it hovers near your elbow, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without quite touching.

He doesn't put it there. But you notice that he almost did.

The theatre building is coming up on the right, old brick wrapped in ivy, the door propped open with a copy of Waiting for Godot. Logan slows as you approach, and there's a beat of something, an awkwardness neither of you quite knows how to fill.

"So," he says. "This is you."

"This is me." taking a step back. "Thanks for the walk. And the drink."

"See you Friday?"

"Friday." You nod. "Big debut. Try not to screw it up."

"Me?" He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "I'm flawless. It's you I'm worried about."

And then, before you can fire back, he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that stops your breath cold.

“Text me when you're done with class," he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "Make sure Horne doesn't break you."

Then he's walking away, hands back in his pockets, and you're standing on the theatre steps with a patch of skin behind your ear that's still tingling.

You watch him go, hands in his pockets, shoulders easy, that crooked grin probably still in place even though he can't see you anymore. He doesn't look back. You're not sure if that's a relief or a disappointment.

You take another sip. London fog, oat milk, extra foam. He got it right.

He got it exactly right, and you didn't tell him how you take it, because you've never talked about it, because why would you? It's not like you've ask him to order your tea. He just... knew. Or guessed. Or paid attention.

Stop it, you tell yourself. It's optics. Good boyfriend behavior. That's the whole deal.

You turn and climb the theatre building steps as the smell hits you, a mixture of old wood, dust, and the faint ghost of stage makeup. The hallway is quiet, doors closed, and you can hear Professor Horne's voice already echoing from the studio at the end of the hall. ”...embodiment is not imitation. It is inhabitation. When you walk onto this stage, you are not performing hunger. You are hunger."

You slip in through the back of the studio, trying to be invisible. A few heads turn-it's a small class, so your entrance is about as subtle as a cymbal crash. 

Professor Horne stops mid-sentence and looks at you. "Ms. Rivas. How kind of you to join us."

"Sorry," you say, sliding into a seat near the windows. "Traffic." Horne's eyebrow arches. "Traffic. On foot."

"People," you say, which isn't an answer, but Horne lets it go with a skeptical hum and turns back to the whiteboard.

You set the tea on the floor by your bag, and for the rest of the lecture, your attention drifts somewhere between Horne's voice. Your phone buzzes once, face-down on the table. You don't look.

Not yet.

The lecture blurs past. You're halfway through a doodle in your notebook—a small coffee cup, you realize, when a folded note slides across the table.

OKAY. SPILL. NOW.

Allie is staring at you from two seats over, eyes wide, mouthing words you can't quite read but can absolutely translate: Logan. Walk. Spill.

You bite back a smile and scribble back: He showed up at Malone's Sunday. Brought me tea this morning. Walked me here.

You slide it back. Allie reads it, looks up, and her eyebrows nearly launch off her face. She mouths something that looks a lot like oh my god, then starts writing again, faster this time. The note comes back with such force it nearly knocks over your cup.

I'm going to need every detail at lunch. Every. Single. One.

You're still grinning when Horne claps her hands and the class settles. But the note sits there between you, folded and warm, promising a conversation you're almost looking forward to.

You scribble it fast, then slide the note across the table with a tiny, telling smile you can't quite suppress. Allie snatches it up, reads it, and her eyes go impossibly wide. She looks at you, then at your cup, then back at you. The note faster than she could write.

HE GOT YOUR TEA ORDER RIGHT?? Liana. That's full on boyfriend behavior. That's PAYING ATTENTION behavior. Please tell me you're noticing this.

You read it twice. The word "paying attention" sits heavy in your chest. For a second you think about the way he tucked that strand of hair behind your ear, the way his hand hovered near your elbow without quite landing.

You write back, smaller this time: I'm noticing. That's the problem.

Allie reads it, and her grin could power the whole theatre building. She mouths something you can't quite catch, then points at you, then at her own eyes, then back at you-some elaborate gesture you interpret as I see everything and I am loving this.

Horne's voice cuts through. "Ms. Hayes. Ms. Rivas. I trust the two of you are taking notes on embodiment and not exchanging love letters?"

"Notes, Professor," Allie says, smooth as anything, sliding the note under her binder like a magician. "Very detailed notes."

Horne's eyebrow arches, but she lets it go and returns to the whiteboard. Allie catches your eye once more, quick and bright, and mouths two words you read perfectly: Lunch. Details.

Your phone is face-down on the table, and you tell yourself it's not because you're waiting for something. But when Horne turns to the whiteboard to diagram something about "the actor's instrument," your hand slides the phone toward you anyway.

You type fast, one-handed, under the table.

You: surviving class. barely. Horne’s making us "inhabit" the concept of patience.

The reply comes quick.

Logan: you're telling me. i've been stuck running the same drills over and over again i'm going to become the concept of violence You: sounds like you're already inhabiting it. very method acting of you Logan: i'm a man of many talents. want me to send you my notes on embodying despair? taking requests You: no notes. just vibes. Logan: vibes received. glad you’re alive. horne's not that bad You: says the guy who doesn't have to emotionally manifest a doorknob on command Logan: i've been a doorknob my whole life. people open me when they need something

You snort, then immediately cover it with a cough. Allie shoots you a look from two seats over, eyebrow raised, and mouths who's that? You shake your head, still smiling at the screen.

You: that's the deepest thing you've ever said. i'm telling garrett Logan: don't you dare. i have a reputation to maintain. a reputation as a man with no thoughts, only vibes You: too late. vibes have been noted. doorknob philosopher Logan: i'll have you know i'm a very deep doorknob

You're grinning at your phone like an idiot when Horne's voice cuts through the room.

"Ms. Rivas. Since you seem so engaged with your phone, perhaps you'd like to share what's so interesting."

You look up. Twenty faces turn toward you. Allie's eyes are wide with barely contained glee.

"Um." You slide the phone face-down. "Just- a friend. Checking in."

"A friend." Horne's eyebrow arches. "Well, I hope your friend is prepared to wait, because we have an announcement to make before the end of class."

The class shifts. A few people perk up, notebooks closing, interest piqued. Horne sets down her marker and turns to face the room.

"Before I forget. The theatre department has selected the spring musical. I'll have the full details on the board shortly, but I wanted to give you all time to think about auditions."

Murmurs ripple through the room. Beside you, Allie sits up straighter, suddenly very present.

"Auditions," she mouths.

You keep your face neutral, the way you've practiced a hundred times in mirrors for roles you never got. Notebook open. Pen poised. The picture of an attentive student who is absolutely not vibrating with anticipation.

Horne turns to the whiteboard, uncaps a marker, and writes in clean, decisive letters:

HADESTOWN

The word hits you like a stage light switching on.

Hadestown. The tragic, gorgeous, jazz-and-folk retelling of Orpheus and Eurydice. The one you've listened to on repeat since high school, the one you cried to in your dorm freshman year, the one you know every single harmony to. The one you've always dreamed of being part of.

The room murmurs. A few people sit forward. But you- you've gone very still, because if you move, you might start screaming.

"Oh my god," Allie whispers, her voice cracking. "Lia. Lia."

"Don't." You keep your eyes fixed on the board. "Don't start, I'm not-"

"HADESTOWN!"

She slams her hand over her mouth, but it's too late. Half the class turns. Horne looks over her shoulder, marker mid-air.

"Ms. Hayes. I'm so glad the announcement meets your approval."

Allie's eyes are huge above her fingers. "Sorry, Professor. Just excited. Big fan of Greek mythology."

Horne's mouth twitches, the closest thing to amusement she's ever shown, and she turns back to the board. "Auditions are Monday next week. Sign-up sheet will be posted outside this studio by the end of the day. As always, come prepared with a monologue and a song. Details are on the sheet."

The class dissolves into murmurs. Allie turns to you fully, face alight, grabbing your arm with both hands.

"Eurydice," she hisses. "You have to audition for Eurydice. That's you. That's literally you, the girl who waits, the girl who sings—"

"I- I don’t know, Al."

"You sing the soundtrack in the shower and I've heard you through the wall. You're lying to me right now."

Your face goes hot. "That's—that's different. That's not auditioning. That's—"

"Liana Rivas." Allie's grip tightens. "Hadestown. Your favorite. On our stage. If you don't audition for Eurydice, I'll personally tell Logan you're scared, and we both know he'll be insufferable about it."

"Don't bring him into this."

'Too late. He's in it." She grins, feral and delighted. "So. Monday. Auditions. You and me. I'm going for Persephone, and you're going to be my Eurydice, and we're going to be the best damn Persephone and Eurydice this theatre will ever see."

"Allie-"

"Say yes."

You stare at her. At the board. At the black letters spelling out the musical that's lived in your headphones for years. And something dangerous and hopeful cracks open in your chest.

"Say yes," she repeats.

"What if I don't get it?"

The words slip out before you can stop them, quiet enough that only Allie hears. She stops mid-grin, reads your face, and something in her expression softens.

"Okay, first of all," she says, lowering her voice, "that's the fear talking. I know that voice. I've heard it come out of your mouth in every audition line since freshman year."

"That's not-"

"It is." She holds up a finger. "Second of all, so what? You don't get it. The worst-case scenario is you audition for Hadestown, you show Horne and the whole department what you can do, and you don't get the part. And then you're still Liana Rivas, who's got the best taste in musicals and the cutest fake boyfriend on campus. That's not a tragedy. That's a Tuesday."

"That's easy for you to say. You don't freeze up."

"Please." Allie snorts. "I once forgot my own name in an audition. For a play where my character was named Allie. I told them my name was Sarah and just... committed to it."

Despite yourself, you laugh. 

"I absolutely did. Got the part, too. Because I committed." She reaches over and squeezes your hand, quick and warm. "That's the secret, Lia. Nobody knows they're gonna get the part. They just show up and act like they belong there. And you? You belong on that stage more than anyone in this room."

You look at her. At the board. At the name of the musical that's been yours for years, written in Horne's clean white letters.

"And anyway," Allie adds, grin returning, "if you don't audition, you'll spend the whole run watching someone else play Eurydice, and you'll hate her on principle, and that's not a fun way to spend a semester."

"Fine." The word comes out small, then stronger. "Fine. I'll audition."

"Yes!" Allie claps a hand over her mouth again, muffling the shout. "Okay. Okay. We're doing this. Monday. Eurydice and Persephone."

"You're going to be a very drunk Persephone."

"I'm going to be a phenomenal drunk Persephone. And you're going to be the most heartbreaking Eurydice this school has ever seen." She pauses. "We need to pick songs. And monologues. We should start tonight. My room. 8 PM. I'll bring snacks."

You shake your head, but you're smiling, and the knot in your chest has loosened just enough to feel like a possibility. The class is winding down around you, notebooks closing, chairs scraping. Horne writes the sign-up sheet details on the board and turns, catching your eye.

"Ms. Rivas. Ms. Hayes. I trust you'll both be signing up."

Allie beams. "Wouldn't miss it, Professor."

Horne's mouth twitches again-twice in one class, a record-and she nods. "Good. I look forward to seeing what you bring."

The scraping of chairs is your cue. You slide your notebook into your bag, careful with the tea cup still sitting on the floor-half empty now, but still warm enough that you don't want to leave it behind.

Allie's already on her feet, stuffing her binder into her tote, still buzzing.

"Home?" she asks, slinging the bag over her shoulder.

"Home." You stand, and the two of you move toward the door, past Horne who's erasing the board with slow, methodical strokes.

"Ms. Hayes. Ms. Rivas." She doesn't turn around. "Sign-up sheet's up by four. Don't make me come find you."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Professor," Allie calls back, and you're out the door before Horne can respond.

The hallway swallows you both. The echo of footsteps on worn floorboards. Allie falls in step beside you, her energy a live wire.

"Okay, so, songs. I'm thinking 'Our Lady of the Underground' for my audition, obviously. I've been practicing the growl." She demonstrates a low theatrical rasp that turns a few heads in the hallway.

"What about you? What are you gonna sing?"

The question lands in your chest like a stone. You've been singing "Wait for Me" in your head since you were sixteen, but singing it in your room and singing it in front of Horne and a panel of strangers are two very different things.

"I don't know yet,' you admit. "I need to think about it."

'Think fast. We've got a week." Allie bumps your shoulder with hers. "But not right now. Right now, I need food and you need to tell me everything about this morning's tea delivery, because I am not letting that go."

You push open the theatre building door, and Monday light spills in, bright and clean. The quad stretches out ahead of you, students crossing between buildings, the day still young. Home is a ten-minute walk away. Allie is already talking, already planning, already dragging you into the future. And somewhere in your bag, your phone has a new text from a boy who remembered how you take your tea. 

The afternoon stretches out ahead of you, unremarkable and ordinary. But for the first time in a while, you don't feel like you're waiting for something.

You feel like you're moving toward it.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

The Regret

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc 

wc: 5.4k

an: wow i can’t believe anyone has actually found this! thank you and i hope you guys are liking this story as much as i am. i may have pulled an all-nighter and am now re-watching off campus, so i maybe too impatient to put out like one part a day.

previous (part 2) | next (part 4)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Morning comes too fast, pale November light sliding through the blinds and prying your eyes open.

For one blissful second, your brain is blank. Then it all comes rushing back: the deal. The handshake.

Goodnight, partner. You groan and roll over, burying your face in the pillow. What were you thinking?

A fake boyfriend. For Justin Kohl. It's insane.

The bathroom door clicks down the hall, and Hannah's voice drifts in after a faint and soft knock on your door, bright and oblivious. "Heading to Malone's! Allie's still here if you want breakfast!"

The front door shuts. You're alone with your panic and one other person who knows part of the story causing said panic.

You pad down the hallway in your pajama pants and a hoodie you stole from Hannah freshman year, hair a disaster, brain a disaster, everything a disaster. Allie is in the kitchen, perched on the counter with a mug of coffee and her phone, still in her going-out clothes from last night like she just rolled in from Dean's.

She takes one look at your face and puts the mug down.

"Okay," she says. "What’s wrong?"

You open your mouth. Close it. The words are right there—the deal, the handshake, the whole insane plan—but they're stuck somewhere behind your ribs, tangled up with the panic that's been building since you opened your eyes.

"I made that stupid utterly insane deal with Logan," you blurt out.

Allie's eyebrows shoot up. "The fake dating deal?"

"The fake dating deal." The words come out in a rush now, tumbling over each other. "I agreed to him pretending to be my boyfriend so Justin notices me, and I'm gonna pretend to be his girlfriend so people stop asking why he's always staring at Hannah, because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he's like in love with her or something. His best friend’s girlfriend. Can you believe that?! And—" You run out of air. "And I don't know what I was thinking, Allie. It was the middle of a party, and he made it sound so logical, and now it's real, and I have to see him Monday, and the whole campus is gonna think we're together-"

You stop. Breathe. Allie is staring at you, mug frozen halfway to her lips.

"Holy shit," she says.

"Yeah."

"Liana." She sets the mug down slowly, and then a grin splits her face so wide you can see her back teeth. "Lia. This is the best thing you've ever done."

"I need to call it off."

Allie's grin falters. "What? No. No, you don't."

"I do." You're pacing now, bare feet on the cold kitchen floor, hands flapping at your sides. "This is insane. I'm gonna see him Monday, and it's gonna be weird, and everyone's gonna be looking at us, and Justin's gonna think I'm taken and-"

"Liana." Allie hops off the counter and plants herself in front of you, hands on your shoulders.

"Breathe."

You breathe. It comes out shaky.

"Okay," she says. "Let's walk through this. You've been drooling over Justin Kohl for three years. Three. Years. The man has no idea you exist."

"Thanks for the reminder."

"I'm not done." She squeezes your shoulders. "Logan offers you a deal. He pretends to be your boyfriend, Justin gets curious, you finally get noticed. And now you want to call it off because...?"

"Because it's crazy." Your voice cracks. "Because I don't do things like this. I overthink, I freeze, I- I'm the girl who bought a cute see-through top last summer and never wore it until last night."

"And you wore it last night," Allie says softly. "And you made a deal with a cute hockey player who looked at you all night like you were the only person in the room."

Your face goes hot. "He did not."

"He did." She lets go of your shoulders, steps back, crosses her arms. "Look. You can call it off. You can go back to being the girl who watches Justin from across the room and never says a word. That's a choice." She tilts her head. "Or you can see what happens."

You stare at her. The kitchen is quiet. Somewhere down the hall, the fridge hums.

"This is the part where you're supposed to calm me down," you say weakly.

"I am calming you down. I'm just doing it my way." She grins. "You're not scared of the deal, Lia. You're scared of wanting something and actually going after it."

The words land somewhere soft in your chest. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

"You're allowed to want this," Allie says, quieter now. "And you're allowed to be scared.”

"Okay." You let out a long breath, the words settling somewhere in your chest. "Okay. I won't call it off."

Allie's face lights up like she just won the lottery. "Yes! That's my girl."

"Don't make it a thing."

"It's already a thing. It's been a thing since you said the words 'fake dating' out loud." She grabs your shoulders and gives you a little shake. "You're gonna have a fake boyfriend, Lia. A hot one. With a crooked smile, and you two will look so cute together, like seriously this is a dream come true and-"

"And has a very real crush on my best friend's girlfriend," you interrupt, deadpan.

Allie waves a hand. "Details." She hops back onto the counter, grabbing her mug. "But seriously. This is good. This is you actually going after what you want instead of watching it from across the room. I'm proud of you."

"Don't get sappy, it's creepy."

"I'm always sappy. You just usually ignore it." She takes a sip of her coffee. "So. What's the plan? You're gonna see him Monday, right? What are you gonna say?"

"I don't know." You sink into a kitchen chair, pulling your knees up. "I guess we just... start acting like it? He's got practice. I've got class. People will see us together and the rumor mill does the rest."

"And Justin Kohl just... notices you?"'

"Apparently." You still can't quite believe it. "Logan's whole theory is that guys want what they can't have. If I'm 'taken,' Justin's gonna be curious. It's insane, right?"

"It's insane," Allie agrees cheerfully. "It's also the most interesting thing that's happened to you since you bought that top."' She points her mug at you. "Speaking of which. We're telling no one, right?"

"Only you. And Logan. That's it."

"Good." She nods, satisfied. "Hannah can't know. For obvious reasons but also she'd tell Garrett, Garrett would so blow things out of proportion, and then the whole thing's dead in the water."

"Right." The thought makes your stomach twist, guilt and nerves tangling together. "She absolutely can't know."

Your phone buzzes on the counter. You both look at it. Logan's name lights up the screen.

Logan: morning. confirming our deal is still on. no take backs, trouble.

You stare at it. Allie leans over, reads it, and grins.

"Oh, he's invested." She nudges you. "Text him back. Tell him I know."

You pick up the phone, thumbs hovering. It feels like a line in the sand. Once you send this, it's real. You're telling him your Allie knows all the details. You're in this together, for real.

You: morning. deal's still on. heads up: allie knows everything now. she's wayyy too excited. Logan: of course she is. she's got a front row seat to the greatest show on campus. You: don't let it go to your head. Logan: too late. it's already there. Logan: for real though. you good? no second thoughts?

You read it twice. The question is simple, but it lands soft, like he actually wants to know. You think about last night. The handshake. The way he said your name. Allie's voice in the kitchen: You're scared of wanting something and actually going after it.

You: no second thoughts. i'm good. Logan: good. see you monday, girlfriend.

You set the phone down. Allie is watching you with a knowing smile, and for once, you don't feel the urge to deflect.

"See?" she says. "You've got this."

"Yeah." You breathe out. "I've got this."

The rest of Saturday passes in a blur of laundry and a Brecht outline you keep abandoning to stare at your phone. 

---------------------------------------------------------

Sunday arrives too fast, all gray sky and cold drizzle, and you're already behind the counter at Malone's before you've fully woken up, apron tied, coffee pot in hand.

The diner is quiet for a Sunday. A few booths, a couple of regulars. You're wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimes, and you look up.

John Logan walks in, hair damp from the rain, and he grins the second he sees you.

"Hey, girlfriend."

You slightly tense up at the word ‘girlfriend’. "Wha- What are you doing here on a Sunday?"

Logan's grin widens, rain still beading on the shoulders of his jacket. "Can't a guy get breakfast?" 

He slides onto a stool at the counter, propping his elbows on the worn Formica. "Also, I figured I should check in on my girlfriend. Word on the street is she works here."

"Word on the street," you repeat, drying a coffee mug with more force than necessary. "We've been fake dating for like, twenty-four hours."

“thirty-seven, actually." He checks an imaginary watch. "It's been thirty-seven hours. You should be more attentive, trouble."

"I should be more attentive," you echo, deadpan. "You're the one who showed up unannounced to my place of work."

"I'm a spontaneous boyfriend. Like I said, women love that." He reaches for the menu, stares theatrically, then pauses. "So what's good here?"

"Everything. It's a diner. A diner you’ve been to at least a thousand times."

"Well then. I'll take the pancakes and a coffee." He sets the menu down and looks at you, and there's something softer underneath the teasing, a question hiding in his brown eyes. "You good, though? I figured we should, you know. Talk logistics. Figure out the plan."

"Plan?"

"Yeah." He leans forward, lowering his voice like the old man in the corner booth might be a spy. 

"We can't just show up to the next game and be dating. We need a story. A debut. Something people will talk about."

“A debut? You make it sound like a movie premiere.”

"A movie premiere." Logan considers it, nodding slowly. "Yeah, actually, that's exactly what this is. You're the star, I'm the leading man, and the whole campus is the audience."

"God, you love the spotlight."

"I'm just committed to the craft." He props his chin on his hand, eyes bright. "Which is why I've been thinking. We can't just waltz into the next game and pretend we've been together. People will know.

Tucker's already suspicious, Dean's planning a couples night, and Jules—" He winces. "Jules will sniff it out in seconds."

"Oh no. Jules." 

Everything around you fades. You know Jules. You’ve been friends with them since you met during rehearsals a couple years ago when they came in to help with set designs. You also know how committed Jules is to capturing all things hockey including the hockey boys’ love lives. They are very dedicated even having the unofficial official hockey gossip account, Fifth Line, the account that somehow knows every Briar Hawk's business before the players do. Nothing goes unnoticed by Jules, but they do not do fake gossip. If we want to get away with this, we have to sell it for real. And to make matters worse, Jules is Logan’s sibling. 

"Yeah... If they figure out this is fake, the whole campus will know by Friday."

"So what's your plan?"

"Simple." He leans in, dropping his voice. "Friday. Home game against St. Mary's. Big crowd, big energy. You show up looking incredible, sit with the girls, and right before the anthem-" He spreads his hands. "I skate over, tap the glass, and wave at you."

"That's your grand gesture? A tap on a glass? A wave?"

"From the ice, Liana. During warmups. Everyone will see it. The cameras, the crowd, Justin Kohl if he's there-" 

You stare at him. It's ridiculous. And it’s boring. 

“That’s child’s play," you admit.

“What?” Logan says while actually being taken aback.

“If we are going to sell it. I need something a little dramatic.”

“Oh, miss ‘I hate the spotlight’ wants dramatic? Fine," he hesitantly says, "during warm-ups you come to the bench, and I give you the most ‘I’m in love’ kiss ever.”

You feel your ears getting warm and before you have time to chicken out you say, “Okay.” 

“Okay?” letting it hang for a moment, “Okay, and after the game, I come find you. It'll look like we've been dying to see each other all night."

“That will work,” you admit.

"I know." He grins, crooked and cocky. "I'm a genius."

"Ugh, you're exhausting."

"Wow, trouble, you really know how to make a guy feel special."

A waitress sweeps by, coffee pot in hand-Reba, from the night shift, though she's apparently pulling a double. She refills the old man's mug, then pauses at Logan's elbow, eyeing him with open amusement.

"Well, well. If it isn't the game-winning hero himself." She tops off his coffee. "And he's sitting with our Liana. Should I be expecting a tip big enough to buy a wedding present, or are you just here for the pie?"

"He's here for the pie, actually." You say it breezily, like it's the most normal thing in the world, and Reba's eyebrows climb toward her hairline.

"Oh, the pie." She nods sagely, turning to Logan. "You want the good pie, sweetheart, you're gonna have to earn it. That's reserved for special customers."

Logan grins, easy and unbothered. "I'll take whatever my girlfriend recommends."

Reba's eyes snap to you, sharp and delighted. "Girlfriend, huh?" She plants a hand on her hip.

 "And here I thought you were just being friendly with the hockey boys. Now you're dating them?"

"We're-" You start, but Logan cuts in smoothly.

"Very new," he says, reaching across the counter to give your hand a quick, warm squeeze. "Just went public, actually. You're one of the first to know."

Your face goes hot. Reba looks between the two of you, a slow grin spreading across her face.

"Well, I'll be." She refills his coffee, then points the pot at you. "Our sweet Liana? You've got good taste. He's cute, and he scored the winning goal. That's a solid combo." She winks at Logan. 

"You take care of her, you hear? She's one of the good ones."

"Noted," Logan says solemnly. "I'll treat her like the championship trophy."

"Gross," you mutter, but you're smiling, and Reba cackles as she heads off to check on the old man in the corner booth.

Logan turns back to you, chin propped on his hand, eyes bright with amusement. "See? Already believable. Reba's buying it. We're basically a lock."

"We're basically insane," you counter, but there's no bite in it. You pick up the coffee pot, topping off his mug. "So, Friday. The game. You really think we can sell this?"

"Well you are in theatre so I hope you know how to act." He leans forward, voice dropping. "And after the game, when I come find you. In front of everyone. The whole team's watching, the girls, whoever's around. I-" He pauses, searching for the word. "I make it obvious. I'm the guy who can't keep his hands off his girlfriend. That's the story."

Your stomach flips. "And I'm supposed to just... go along with it?"

"You're supposed to look at me like you're happy to see me." His voice is softer now, almost teasing, but there's something careful underneath it. "That part shouldn't be hard. We're friends. You're already good at pretending."

"Pretending," you repeat, and the word hangs between you for a beat too long.

"And what if people ask how long we've been seeing each other?"

Logan's lips twitch, like he's been waiting for that exact question. "Two weeks. Officially."

"Two weeks?"

"Long enough that it's not suspicious, short enough that we're still in the honeymoon phase." He ticks it off on his fingers.

"We've been 'hanging out' since Garrett and Hannah got together. Class together freshman year, kept in touch, things happened. Classic friends-to-lovers thing girls go crazy for."

"Things happened," you repeat flatly. "That's the story? Things happened?"

"Low detail, high believability." He shrugs. "The less specific we are, the fewer holes people can poke. If someone asks how we got together, you say 'it just kind of clicked.' Vague, romantic, impossible to argue with."

"And if they ask why we kept it secret for two weeks?"

"Because it was new and we wanted to be sure before telling everyone." He says it with such casual confidence you almost believe it yourself. "People love that. It's sweet. It makes us look serious."

You pick up his coffee mug, more to have something to do with your hands than anything. "And when Garrett finds out? He's your best friend. He's gonna want details."

"Garrett's gonna be relieved." Logan's voice softens, just a little, and something flickers behind his eyes.

"He's been on my case about why I’ve been weird and dodging him and Hannah for weeks. Now I've got a girlfriend and a reason for the avoidance." He pauses. "It's a win for everyone."

The words land somewhere complicated. You think about Hannah, about how she doesn't know, about the guilt that's been sitting in your stomach since the deal was made.

"So," you say, setting the mug down. "Two weeks. We've been dating for two weeks. It just kind of clicked."

"It just kind of clicked" sounds so lame. You cross your arms, coffee pot dangling from one hand. 

"If anyone asks, I want a better story than that. Something with a little drama."

"Drama." Logan snorts. "You're dating a hockey player, not writing a screenplay."

"Excuse me, you said it yourself, I'm a theatre major. Everything is a screenplay." You set the pot down and plant your hands on the counter. "Give me something. We're in the honeymoon phase, remember? It should sound like we actually like each other."

Logan considers this, tapping his chin with mock seriousness. "Okay. How about: I asked you to watch my stuff while I hit the ice during warmups, and you never looked away. I took that as a sign."

"That's not how we met."

“It's how you got noticed," he says, and something in his voice dips just a little, just for a second. "The girl in the stands who actually watches. That's a good story."

Your cheeks warm. You turn to grab the syrup from the counter behind you, mostly to hide your face.

“That's sweet, but it's not exactly a meet-cute."

"You're picky, you know that?"

"I have standards." You set the syrup down in front of him. "And my fake boyfriend should meet them."

Logan laughs, shaking his head. "Okay, bossy. How about: we were avoiding this tension between us, you spilled your drink on me, and tried to help me clean up, and I finally confessed?"

"That makes me sound clumsy."

"You are a little clumsy."

"I am not—" You stop, because you genuinely can't remember spilling anything on him. "You're making that up."

"I'm embellishing." He grins. “Fine. I'll workshop it. But in the meantime—" He slides a menu toward you, tapping it. "A man's gotta eat. You gonna take my order or just interrogate me about our fictional love story?"

"Workshop it by Friday. I expect a better story."

Logan tips an imaginary cap. "You got it, trouble. I'll have a full narrative ready by game day." He picks up the menu again, flipping it open. "Now. About those pancakes-"

The bell above the door chimes.

You look up, a polite "welcome in" warming on your tongue. And then you see him, and the words die in your throat.

Justin Kohl.

He's shrugging out of a wet denim jacket, dark hair curling at the ends from the rain, a leather guitar case slung over one shoulder. He shakes the water off his sleeve and scans the diner, and when his gaze lands on the counter, you feel it like a spark to the chest. Three years of watching him from across rooms, and he's standing in your diner. Your diner. Your shift.

"Hey," he calls out, easy and warm, accent curling around the word. "I'm picking up a takeout order for Kohl?"

He doesn't recognize you. Of course he doesn't. You're just the waitress behind the counter, frozen mid-reach for the coffee pot, mouth slightly open, brain entirely offline.

Logan glances between you and Justin, and something flickers in his expression-amusement, maybe.

Or something sharper. He clears his throat.

"Earth to my girlfriend," he says, just loud enough for you to hear. "You gonna get the man's order, or should I?"

"Right. Order. One second."

Your voice comes out almost normal, which feels like a small miracle. You grab the ticket from the rack by the register and scan it: takeout for Kohl, one club sandwich, side of fries, extra pickles. Simple enough. You can do this. You've waited on a hundred customers. He's just a customer.

He's the customer you've been pining over for three years, but still. A customer.

"Justin, right?" You say it like you don't already know. Like his name hasn't lived in your head since freshman year. "Club sandwich, extra pickles. Should be up in a few."

"Thanks." Justin flashes a grin, easy and crooked. "Appreciate it."

He doesn't move. He just stands there at the counter, leaning against it like he owns the place, wet hair curling at his temples. You become acutely aware of your apron, the coffee pot, the very real possibility that you're staring.

Behind you, Logan clears his throat.

"Babe." The word is casual, almost lazy, and it takes you a second to realize he's talking to you. 

"You gonna grab my pancakes, or do I have to start cooking them myself?"

Babe. He's never called you babe. But here, with Justin standing three feet away, I'm babe, and the word lands weird in your chest-warm and strange and alarmingly effective.

"Pancakes," you repeat, brain catching up. "Right. Coming right up."

You turn to fire the ticket, and when you glance back, Justin's eyes have drifted to Logan—to the hockey jacket, the way he's sprawled at the counter like he belongs here. Something flickers across his face. Curiosity, maybe. Recognition, definitely. 

He's noticed.

"Order'll be up soon. Anything while you wait?"

Justin tilts his head, considering you like you've just gotten more interesting. "You know what? Yeah. A coffee, if it's not too much trouble." He leans a little more weight onto the counter. "Black. The rain's doing a number on me."

"Coming right up." You grab a mug, pour it, slide it across the counter. Your hand is steady. 

You're doing great. This is fine.

"Cheers." He takes a sip, then nods toward the ticket in your hand. "You work here a lot?"

"Mostly weekends. I'm a student."

"Yeah? What're you studying?"

Logan mutters something from his stool, just loud enough to be heard by Justin, but you're so deep in your head you don't hear it, and Justin's eyes flick over to him. There's a beat of silence, the kind where two guys size each other up without saying anything.

Justin's gaze drops to Logan's hockey jacket, then back to you. "This your girl?" he asks Logan, easy and curious, like he's just making conversation.

Logan's grin is easy, but his hand finds the back of your apron, fingers brushing the knot at your hip. "Something like that."

The touch sends a jolt up your spine. It's for show. It's all for show. But Justin's watching, and Logan's hand is warm through the fabric, and for a weird, dizzying second you forget which part of this is real.

"Good for you, mate." Justin raises his mug in a little toast, then turns back to you, all easy charm.

"You've got taste. This one's got a face you could watch all day."

"You're in After Hours." The words tumble out before you can stop them. "I've seen you play. I mean-" You gesture vaguely at the diner, the coffee pot, the pie case. "I work here, so I've seen you play. Here. Not like- I'm not a stalker or anything."

Silence.

Justin blinks, then laughs—a real laugh, warm and surprised, crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

"Good to know. I've got a standing stalker-free fan base at Malone's. That's better than most venues."

"Right." You want to sink into the floor. "Great. I mean, you're good. The band's good. Anyway-" You pick up the coffee pot, realize you don't need it, set it down again. "Your sandwich."

"Can't wait." He's still smiling, but it's softer now, like you've stopped being a waitress and become a person. "What's your name? Since you're not a stalker and all, it feels weird calling you 'coffee girl.'"

"Liana."

"Liana," he repeats, testing it. "That's pretty."

Your face goes hot. Somewhere to your left, Logan clears his throat, pointed and dry.

"Order's up," Reba calls from the pass, holding up a white takeout bag.

You grab it before she can, grateful for the excuse to look away. "Here you go. Club sandwich, extra pickles."

"Perfect." Justin takes the bag, slings it over his shoulder, and pauses. "I play at The Rusty Anchor on Thursdays. Open mic night. If you're ever around." He shrugs. "Bring your boyfriend. It's a good time."

Then he's gone, the bell chiming behind him, taking the last of the rain-scented air with him.

You stare at the door for a long second. He knows your name. He invited you to his show. He said bring your boyfriend.

You turn back to Logan, who is watching you with an expression you can't quite read-somewhere between amused and something quieter.

"He knows my name," you say, voice a little breathless.

"He knows your name," Logan agrees. "And he thinks I'm your boyfriend. Which was the whole point, right?"

"Right." You nod. "Right. The point."

Reba appears, sliding Logan's plate of pancakes in front of him with a knowing look. "That was the singer boy from the band you always stare at," she says, like you might not have noticed. "He's cute. Not as cute as your fella here, though." She winks at Logan.

“Thank you, Reba." Logan's grin is back, crooked and easy. "Good to know I've got a fan."

"You've got a pancake," you counter, sliding the syrup toward him. "Eat before it gets cold." He does, and the diner settles back into its Sunday rhythm-the sizzle of the grill, the murmur of the old man's radio, the rain ticking against the windows. But something hums under your skin now, electric and new.

He knows your name.

"We actually pulled that off."

Logan looks up from his pancakes, fork halfway to his mouth, and the corner of his mouth quirks. "We did, didn't we?"

"He knows my name." You're still a little breathless. "He asked for it. And he invited us to his show. Your theory is working."

"My theory is brilliant." He takes a bite, chews, points his fork at you. "Though you nearly blew it with the whole 'I'm not a stalker' thing."

"I panicked."

"You panicked," he agrees, grinning. "It was cute. Real believable girlfriend behavior, if my girlfriend was a robot short-circuiting."

"I hate you."

"You love me." He says it lightly, so lightly, but the words land somewhere warm in your chest before you can stop them. 

"This is your fake boyfriend reminding you to stay cool. Justin Kohl thinks you're a girl with a boyfriend and a life. Don't ruin it by turning into a puddle every time he walks in."

"Noted." You grab his empty plate, the excuse to do something with your hands. "Anything else?"

"Maybe a refill." He slides his mug toward you, eyes bright. "And a little respect. I just got you the first real interaction with your crush in three years. I think I've earned a complimentary coffee."

"You've earned a complimentary check." But you're already pouring.

"Okay. I should get back to work. See you around?"

Logan blinks, then pushes his plate away with a small, crooked smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I should probably let you get back to it. Wouldn't want Reba thinking I'm a bad influence."

"You are a bad influence."

"On you? Never." He pulls a few crumpled bills from his jacket pocket, tossing them on the counter.

"That's for the pancakes. And the company."

"Your girlfriend gets a discount." Reba interrupts.

“Then the rest is a tip for the service." He stands, shrugging his jacket on, and for a second he just looks at you-rain-damp hair, brown eyes, that crooked smile that always manages to disarm you. 

"Friday. Home game. Big debut."

"Friday." You nod, heart skipping. "I'll be in the stands."

"Good." He takes a step toward the door, then pauses, turning back.

"Hey, Liana."

"Yeah?"

"Justin Kohl knows your name now." His grin softens into something genuine. "Told you the plan would work. See you at the game."

He taps the counter twice, a small salute, and then he's gone, the bell chiming behind him as he steps out into the rain.

You watch him walk past the window, hands in his pockets, head ducked against the drizzle. And for a moment, standing there with the coffee pot in your hand and the ghost of his grin still in the air, you realize something strange.

You're not thinking about Justin anymore.

You're thinking about Friday.

The rain has picked up again, streaking the window where Logan's silhouette disappeared. You're still holding the coffee pot when Reba slides up beside you, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her face.

'That one's a keeper," she says, nodding toward the door. "Shows up on a rainy Sunday just to see you? Leaves a tip bigger than his bill? You hold onto that boy, Liana."

"He's not-" The word mine almost slips out. "It's new. We're still figuring it out."

"New," Reba repeats, like she doesn't believe you. "Honey, the way he looked at you, that ain't new. That's been building for a while."

You open your mouth to argue, but she's already walking off, coffee pot swinging.

The shift settles into the lazy Sunday rhythm after that. You refill the old man's coffee, wipe down the counter, and ring up a couple of checks. But your phone keeps buzzing in your apron pocket, and when you finally pull it out during a lull, there's a string of messages waiting.

Tucker: so. ran into logan leaving the diner. ran into him leaving the diner after seeing YOU. liana rivas as his gf????? explain. Tucker: i need answers. the team needs answers. garrett owes me twenty bucks. logan didn't do a good job at explaining when i asked him earlier so prepare a better answer please and thank you.

You see a separate message come in from the group chat with Hannah and Allie.

Hannah: okay so weird question but tucker just texted the group chat asking if you and logan are officially dating?? beau’s saying “told you so” also, why didn't you tell me?!?!

Allie: don't act like you didn't see this coming from the moment she wore that top. (also, hi. loving this for you.)

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The story is already spreading, faster than either of you planned. Justin Kohl knows your name. Tucker's interrogating the group chat. A pang in your chest from not telling Hannah.

And Friday is three days out.

You type back to Hannah, heart hammering against your ribs.

You: it’s new. i'll explain everything when i'm home.

The reply comes almost instantly. 

Hannah: i'm holding you to that. but also, for the record? i'm happy for you. you deserve a good one.

You pocket the phone. Through the window, the rain drips off the Malone's sign, and somewhere across campus, Logan is probably already getting roasted by Dean. The machine is moving. The story is taking on a life of its own.

And in four days, you're going to look across the rink at a boy who'll announce to the whole arena that you're his.

You smile, just a little, and pour yourself a cup of tea.

˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

The Diner

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc 

wc: 3.8k

an: ahh. i’m uploading this soon after the first so not sure if anyone has even seen this! 

previous (part 1) | next (part 3)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

The street is quiet, the bass reduced to the soft wind in the trees. The three of you walk shoulder to shoulder, sneakers and boots scuffing against the pavement, breath curling white in the cold.

"So," Hannah says, dragging the word out. "You and Logan looked cozy."

"Cozy?" Allie snorts. "Cozy is an understatement. Girl was practically welded to his side all night."

You keep your eyes straight ahead. "We were talking. People talk at parties. Logan and I talk."

"For forty-five minutes? Looking very buddy buddy" Hannah's eyebrows climb. "Liana."

"Malone's is still open," Allie cuts in, before you can defend yourself. "I could literally kill for their mozzarella sticks right now. And I want details. Lots of them."

"Fine." You shove your hands deeper into your jacket pockets, the cold biting at your knuckles. "But drop the Logan questions. There's nothing to tell."

"Nothing to tell," Allie repeats, deadpan. "Your head was leaning into his side for like an hour and there's nothing to tell."

"We were standing near each other. I was getting tired."

"Standing near each other. With his arm draped over your shoulder like a blanket." Allie fans herself.

"I'm getting warm just thinking about it."

"It's not that deep."

Hannah hums, a knowing little sound. "You know, for someone who claims it's not that deep, you've got a lot of color in your cheeks right now."

You press your cold hands to your face. "That's called frostbite, Hannah. It's November."

"Uh-huh." Allie links her arm through yours, warm and insistent. "Sure it is. So if it's not Logan, what's got you all quiet tonight? You've been weirdly smiley since we left the party."

You are not smiley. You're definitely not smiley. The deal flashes through your mind, a secret burning a hole in your pocket, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from confessing like you’ve been injected with truth serum..

"Just a good game," you say. "And good company."

"Good company," Allie echoes, and exchanges a loaded look with Hannah that you pretend not to see.

“Justin was there.” remembering the purpose of the deal.

---------------------------------------------------------

The street stretches ahead, empty and quiet, the campus lights glowing gold in the distance. Malone's neon sign flickers a few blocks over, promising grease and warmth and mozzarella sticks.

"So," Allie says, her voice bright. "What's your deal with Justin Kohl these days, anyway? You ever gonna grow some balls and talk to him."

"Mozzarella sticks," you say, maybe a little too fast. "You mentioned mozzarella sticks. And I think that's the best idea you've had all night, Allie. Breaded. Fried. Cheese."

Allie narrows her eyes at you, clearly not fooled by the subject change. Hannah just laughs, shaking her head.

"Wow," Hannah says. "That was smoother than I expected. You're getting good at dodging."

"Dodging what? I'm hungry. It's late. Malone's is warm and it has booths and it doesn't ask questions about my social life." You shoot Allie a pointed look. "Unlike some people."

"I'm just saying," Allie holds up her hands, mock-innocent, "it's a valid question. You spent half the party within arm's reach of the man you've been pining over for three years, and you're telling me you didn’t think over a hundred scenarios of how you’d talk to him?"

"Zero," you lie. "All my thoughts are occupied by marinara sauce."

"Marinara sauce. The great intellectual pursuit of our generation." Allie sighs dramatically, but there's a grin tugging at her mouth. "Fine. Fine. We'll go to Malone's. I'll buy you cheese sticks and you can pretend your entire night wasn't a soap opera."

"It wasn't-"

"Your words, not mine." She loops her arm through yours again, tugging you forward down the sidewalk. "Come on, Wells. Let's get this girl some fried cheese before she starts making sense."

Hannah falls into step on your other side, close enough that her shoulder bumps yours. "For the record," she says quietly, "I think you handled that well. Whatever that was."

You glance at her. "What do you mean, whatever that was?"

"I mean you looked happy tonight." Hannah shrugs. "Happier than I've seen you in a while. I don't know what that was about, but I'm glad."

The cold air fills your lungs. Malone's neon sign flickers ahead, promising warmth and grease and a booth to hide in.

'Thanks," you say, and mean it.

The diner's neon glow spills across the sidewalk, and the warmth hits you the second Allie yanks the door open. The bell above the door chimes, tinny and familiar, and Betty, the night-shift waitress, waves them toward their usual booth in the corner without looking up from her crossword.

You slide into the cracked red vinyl, the seat sighing beneath you. Allie's already grabbing a menu, scanning it like it holds the secrets to the universe.

"Okay," she says, eyes gleaming over the laminated edge. "Mozzarella sticks, loaded fries, and two orders of the story. Spill."

Hannah snorts into her water glass. "I think 'story' comes with marinara on the side."

Allie points her menu at you. "Start talking, Rivas."

"Can I order first? I'm starving." You grab the menu from Allie's hands, scanning it like it's a lifeline.

"Interrogations go better on a full stomach. That's basic science."

"Basic stalling, you mean." Allie leans back, a grin spreading across her face. "Fine. Order. But the clock's ticking."

You order with practiced ease, the words automatic after years of working here. 

Mozzarella sticks for the table, an iced London fog for you, because you refuse to touch the coffee even at one in the morning. Allie gets a chocolate shake and Hannah, predictably, orders a hot tea with honey.

"Living on the edge, Wells," Allie observes.

"Some of us have to perform in a recital next week. I need my vocal cords." Hannah shrugs. "Besides, someone has to be the responsible one at this table."

“Hey! That's me, actually," you say, pointing at yourself with your straw. "I'm the responsible one."

"You agreed to come to Malone's at" -Allie checks her phone- "one in the morning for fried cheese. “That's not responsibility, that's enabling."

"That's friendship."

Betty brings your drinks, and you wrap your cold hands around the mug. Hannah excuses herself to the restroom as Allie watches you over the rim of her shake, eyes bright and patient. She's not going to let this go. She never does.

"Okay," you say, because you know her. "You're not gonna stop, are you?"

"Nope." She pops the 'p'. "Spill, or I'm telling Betty you still owe her that shift from last month."

"You wouldn't."

"She's right there, Liana."

You sigh, and the warmth of the tea seeps into your palms. "Fine. Logan and I agreed to fake date. Emphasis on fake. Cause I want Justin to notice me and Logan needs to keep a low profile. But you can't tell anyone. Not even Hannah.

Allie's eyes sharpen, the way they do when she's got a thread and she's about to pull. Then they widen. “You did what?!”

"Shh. We can’t talk about this here." You say as you whip your head around making sure no one is paying attention to you guys. 

She repeats the word like she's testing it for weight. "You just said, and I quote, 'Logan and I agreed to fake date,' and I’m just supposed to act like that’s normal?"

"I-" 

Hannah comes back and looks between the two of you, settling in her seat and sipping her tea. "What’d I miss cause Allie has the eyes of someone who just got told One Direction’s coming back."

"It's really nothing," you try again, but your voice comes out thin, and you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. "Just- Allie being dramatic. You know how it is." 

Your eyes are sharpening on Allie making it obvious to shut this conversation down. 

"She was just telling me that Justin looked at her twice tonight at the party." Allie leans forward, elbows on the table. 

“This is major, Liana. How dare you keep this info lowkey for this long,” Hannah gasped.

You open your mouth. Close it. The secret sits on your tongue, heavy and warm, and you take a long sip of your London fog to buy yourself a second.

Betty appears at the edge of the booth, balancing a basket of mozzarella sticks in one hand and a plate of loaded fries in the other. "Order's up, girls. Don't burn your tongues."

The cheese pulls apart as Allie grabs one, strings of it stretching golden in the diner light. 

Trying to come up with literally anything else to talk about, "It was nothing really but” You point a mozzarella stick at Hannah. "—what was up with you and Garrett? You two were glued to that couch like you were in a rom-com montage."

Hannah's cheeks flush a shade of pink that's very visible even in the diner's dim light. 

"We were not."

"Your boyfriend had his arm around you for literally the entire night," Allie confirms, taking a long sip of her shake. "The only time I saw him not next to you was to grab you a water bottle. You two shared one chair the whole night."

"It was a big chair."

"It was a loveseat, Hannah. And you two were in it like it was a life raft."

Hannah sputters, reaching for her tea as a shield. "He'd just won a hat trick. He was— you know. Excited."

"Excited." Allie grins. "That's what we're calling it now?"

"Can we not-" Hannah waves her hand vaguely, ears burning. "There's nothing to tell. He played well. I'm proud of him. That's it."

"Mmm-hmm." Allie exchanges a look with you, the kind that speaks volumes. "Sure. That's it."

Before Hannah can defend herself, a familiar voice cuts through the diner's quiet hum.

"Well, well. The three musketeers."

Reba ambles over, coffee pot in one hand, the other hand on her hip. She's been working the night shift at Malone's since before any of you were born, it feels like, and she's seen it all. She's also the reason you all got hired in the first place, vouching for you three to the manager.

"Reba," Allie says, brightening. "Hey, hon."

"Don't 'hey, hon' me. I saw you girls walk in twenty minutes ago, and you didn't even say hello." She clicks her tongue. "I hear you were all at that hockey game tonight. Briar won, yeah?"

"Five to three," you say. "Garrett got a hat trick."

"Ooh, fancy." Reba pours herself a cup of coffee from her own pot, unbothered, and leans against the edge of the booth. "And I heard from my nephew who's on the team that young Mr. Logan scored the winner. Almost broke his nose for it, too?"

"He got hit in the face," Allie supplies cheerfully. "Right into the boards."

“Tough kid." Reba nods approvingly. "He's the quiet one, yeah? The one who's always fixing things around the arena?" She looks at you. "You're friends with him, aren't you, sweetheart? You guys always come in together with the rest of your big group making a ruckus." 

Your stomach does a small, traitorous flip. "We're- yeah. We're friends."

"Uh-huh." Reba's eyes crinkle, and there's a knowing glint in them that you don't fully trust. "Well, you tell him I said he played a good game. And that he should come by sometime, I’ll get him the good pie on the house." She winks. "I've got a soft spot for that boy."

"I’ll tell him," you manage.

Reba saunters off, refilling a table of sleepy frat boys' coffees on her way, and you exhale a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Allie's watching you with a grin that's far too sharp.

"Don't start, Allie."

Allie's mouth snaps shut mid-grin, and she holds up both hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. I'm not starting anything." She pauses, then adds, quieter, "I'm just saying. You went pink when Reba mentioned him."

"The diner's warm."

"It's November, Liana."

You shove a mozzarella stick into your mouth instead of answering. The cheese is molten, burning your tongue, and you chew slowly, buying time. Allie watches you, and for a second her expression softens into something less teasing and more like the Allie who's held your hair back and walked you through every crisis since freshman year.

"Look," she says, picking at a fry. She shrugs. "You've had that look all night. The one you get when something good is happening but you're scared to believe it."

Hannah nods slowly, wrapping her hands around her tea. "She's not wrong. You've been doing that thing where you almost smile and then stop yourself."

You open your mouth to deny it, but the words die in your throat. Because they're right. You have been doing that. Ever since you shook Logan's hand, something's been humming under your skin, a secret too bright to look at directly.

"It's not a bad thing," Hannah adds gently. "We're just wondering what's got you all lit up, and there is no way this is all because of Justin's glances."

The bell above the door chimes, and three heads turn automatically. A group of guys files in, loud and laughing, still riding the high of the game. One of them is wearing a Briar hockey jersey, and he catches sight of you, does a double take.

"Hey, you're Logan's girl, right?"

Your heart drops into your stomach. Your eyebrows crinkle as Allie's eyebrows rocket up. Hannah's tea hovers halfway to her lips.

"That was fast," Allie murmurs, delighted.

"Logan's girl?" You laugh, bright and easy, a little too loud. "I think you've got the wrong table. Unless you're talking about the hockey game-then yes, I'm the one who screamed until my voice gave out when he scored."

The guy blinks, thrown. "Wait, you're not- I saw you guys at the par-"

"Nope!" You grab a mozzarella stick and wave it at him like a magic wand. "Just a loyal Briar fan. Great game tonight, right? That hit at the end-I thought the guy in the stands behind me was gonna have a heart attack."

The guy's confusion lingers for a second, but the pull of reliving the game is too strong. "Oh man, that hit was brutal. Did you see the replay? His helmet went flying—"

"Flew like three rows deep!" you agree enthusiastically.

"Anyway, tell Logan I said good game."

You turn back to your friends with a smile that's just shy of manic.

"Liana," Allie says slowly, as the guy wanders off, "you just told a man you're not Logan's girl."

"Because I'm not."

"Uh-huh. And then he told you to tell Logan he said good game." Hannah tilts her head. "That's a very girlfriend thing to say to a person who is definitely not his girlfriend."

"It's a friend thing. Friends say good game."

"Friends," Hannah echoes, stirring her tea. "Right."

You take a long, pointed bite of your mozzarella stick and stare at the ketchup bottle like it holds the answer to everything. The diner hums around you, quiet and warm, and for a moment you let yourself just sit in it. The secret, the deal, the weird electric hum under your skin—it all feels a little less loud here, under the fluorescent lights, between your two best friends. Should you say you two are dating or wait till you and Logan have a more detailed plan? This is very confusing when you aren’t with Logan to help fabricate the lie.

"So," Allie says, breaking the silence, "what's the plan for tomorrow? The boys have practice, right? Maybe we should go to the rink."

"I wish," Hannah sighs, "I have a shift at 9 tomorrow plus Garrett probably won't be even awake before noon."

"Then, I think it’s time to head home."

You say it quietly, and the words settle over the table like a blanket. Allie's the first to move, sliding out of the booth and reaching for her wallet.

"Okay. I'll get the check." She pauses, studying you. "You good?"

"Yeah." And surprisingly, you mean it. "Just tired. It's been a long night."

"It has." Hannah finishes her tea, and the three of you shuffle toward the register, leaving a tip that Betty will grumble about but secretly appreciate. Reba catches your eye from across the diner and raises her coffee pot in a silent salute. You wave back.

Outside, the cold hits like a wall. The neon sign buzzes overhead, and your breath fogs white as the three of you stand on the curb, the street quiet and still.

"You two heading to ours?" Allie asks.

"Yeah. You’re not?"

"I'm gonna crash with Dean. He texted me." She grins, unrepentant. "What? The party's still going."

Hannah rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "We will walk you there. But I need sleep, so I’ll go home with Liana." 

The walk back to the boys’ house feels quicker than before, maybe because you don't feel like the spotlight is over you anymore. You guys reach the front porch while the party has shrunk it is still very much alive. You can hear the faint yells from the boys inside. The goodbyes are quick, a hug each, Allie's scarf tickling your nose. She pulls back, eyes bright.

"Text me," she says. "Tomorrow. Full debrief."

"Go." You push her gently. "Before Dean starts singing to a crowd again."

She laughs, already walking backward. "Night, ladies!"

You and Hannah turn toward the dorms, arms linked against the cold, and the street stretches quiet ahead of you. The party, the deal, the secret, it all follows you like a shadow, but a warm one.

"You sure you're okay?" Hannah asks after a block.

"Mm-hmm." You squeeze her arm. "Just tired. Happy, but tired."

She accepts that. It's enough.

The dorm lights glow ahead, warm and familiar, and you let yourself think about tomorrow. About the deal. About what comes next.

The dorm comes into view, windows glowing gold against the black sky. Hannah squeezes your arm once before peeling off toward her room, a tired smile on her face.

"Night, Lia."

"Night, Han."

The door clicks shut behind you, and then it's just you and the quiet hum of the hallway. Your room is dark and cold when you slip inside, and you don't bother with the light. You just kick off your shoes, fall backward onto your bed, and stare at the ceiling.

The party. The deal. Logan's arm around your shoulder. The way his voice went soft when he said text me when you're home.

You grab your phone. Type. Delete. Type again.

You: hey. so. that crazy deal we agreed to. did that actually happen or did i imagine it?

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself, then drop the phone on your chest like it's radioactive.

The screen stays lit. Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You count the cracks in the ceiling. You count your heartbeats. You're being ridiculous. It's one text.

He's probably still at the party, phone in his pocket, cup in hand—

Your phone buzzes.

Logan: you're not imagining it. deal's real. Logan: unless you're having second thoughts already. then i'll pretend i'm hallucinating too

You exhale a breath you didn't know you were holding, and a grin cracks across your face so wide it almost hurts. You roll onto your stomach, elbows on the pillow, and type back before your brain can catch up.

You: no second thoughts. though i probably should have some. just making sure i didn't make the whole thing up. Logan: nope. very real. i'm currently being interrogated by tucker about "how long this has been going on" so consider the cover officially blown You: i blame you for that.  Logan: hey we had just shook on the deal. gotta start somewhere. it's called commitment to the bit. You: you told tucker before telling me you were gonna tell tucker. that's a surprise. rule two, remember. Logan: noted. next time i'll send you a memo. "subject: announcing fake girlfriend to the team. risk level: high. please advise."

You laugh out loud, alone in your dark room, and clap a hand over your mouth like someone might hear you.

You: please advise: don't tell dean. he'll throw a party about it. Logan: too late. dean's already planning a "triple date" with garrett and hannah. you've been warned. Logan: also. you're home safe, yeah?

The question lands softer than the jokes before it. You read it twice.

You: yeah. home safe. Logan: good.

The three dots hover again, and then stop. The screen dims. You wait, thumb hovering over the keyboard, but nothing else comes.

The room is quiet. Cold. Your phone glows warm in your hand, and you realize you're still smiling.

You: goodnight, partner. see you Monday.

You send it before you can overthink it, then press the phone to your chest, heart doing something stupid in your ribs.

It buzzes almost immediately.

Logan: see you monday, partner. try to get some sleep. i hear fake girlfriends need their beauty rest. You: i hear fake boyfriends should worry about their own beauty rest. Logan: i'm a work of art. i don't need rest.

You snort, loud and alone in the dark, and press your face into the pillow to muffle it. The phone glows warm in your hand, and you can picture him perfectly: sprawled on some couch at the hockey house, the party thumping around him, thumb hovering over the screen. Texting you while the whole world celebrates around him.

Logan: for real though. goodnight, liana.

Your name in his texts. That's new. That's— you're not gonna think about that.

You: goodnight, logan.

The dots hover again, then stop. You wait a beat. Two. The screen dims. Phone’s at 5%.

You let the phone drop onto your pillow and stare up at the ceiling, the dark room settling around you like a held breath. The see-through top is still in a heap on the floor. Your jacket hangs off the desk chair. And somewhere between the party and this quiet, dark room, you made a deal with John Logan that's going to change everything.

Monday. Two days away. And then the whole campus is going to think you're dating the quietest, most ‘unattainable’ boy on the hockey team.

Your stomach flips. You're not sure if it's nerves or something else. You roll onto your side, punch the pillow into shape, and close your eyes. The last thing you see before sleep takes you is the glow of your phone screen, his name still lit up on it.

You let the warmth of the phone against your palm fade, and with it, the last of the night's noise.

Sleep doesn't come gently. It comes like a tide, slow and inevitable, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. The party bleeds into static. Logan's crooked grin flickers behind your eyelids. Somewhere in the haze, you think about Monday, about the deal, about how his name looked on your screen-and then you don't think at all.

The phone slips from your fingers, face-down on the pillow. The room goes quiet.

Tomorrow, everything changes. But tonight, you can sleep.

The Deal

summary: Briar University hums with a restless, high-pressure energy. While you, Liana Rivas, pour your energy into your studies and your bond with your roommates, you find yourselves entangled in a strange orbit with John Logan. What happens when you start fake dating hockey player #22 to get the musician you've been pining after and help him stay undercover?

masterlist

pairing: john logan x female oc (Liana Rivas) 

wc: 8.1k

an: hi! this is my first ever time writing so be warned. i did start this on glimmerfics and have rewritten and edited the majority of it to my liking. but very very excited to share with people! not sure how long i will be making this. i have several chapters completed and will be putting them out when i can. please give me feedback if you would like and all ideas on where this story should go are welcomed :) also! this is an oc fic but everything is in second pov.

next (part 2)

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Friday night, the atmosphere in the Briar University arena was very much alive with thunderous cheers and the rhythmic drumming of feet against concrete, a buzzing energy that made the hairs on everyone's arms stand at attention. Squeezed into the stands between Allie and Hannah, you felt the vibration of the crowd deep under your skin.

It’s your third year at Briar. Your third year majoring in Theatre Arts and minoring in Music Performance. Which to most people would come as a huge shock and a complete brain twister considering how shy and anxious you are and how much you love to over think every minor detail in your life. But it’s easy to get lost in a character and forget about Liana Rivas. 

It is also easy to be your true self around your favorite people, Hannah and Allie. You met them freshman year at orientation and have been inseparable since even started living together sophomore year. Hockey games are now a given part of your life since Hannah started dating the hot-shot captain of the Briar Hawks, Garrett Graham, after her tutoring sessions turned into something more over a year ago. Now and finally, Allie and Dean are together—though they haven't officially confirmed—so third-wheeling comes second nature. You’ve never let it get to you, mostly because when it’s the three of you, it's three peas in a pod, but more importantly, the boys have taken you in, and you all have become a small little family.

You actually met Logan before the rest of the boys back during the second semester of freshman year, when you got stuck taking a random business class that you accidentally got put into thanks to your advisor. You and Logan kind of became friends, often helping each other in class, but rarely kept in touch till you started coming around the hockey house. Now the two of you act like you’ve known each other since elementary and are almost always bantering/bickering back and forth 

Down on the ice, you spotted Garrett and Logan conspiring their next move as Logan gets slammed by a rival player into the boards with a sickening thud that echoed even over the roar of the fans.

With all the thrill of the score and high energy, you could feel the presence of Justin Kohl. The rock star's aura was usually enough to drown out a room, but tonight, he was merely a spectator to the unadulterated drama playing out on the ice. You first were introduced to Justin when he performed with his band, After Hours, at Malone’s during a shift—somehow you, Hannah, and Allie all landed a job as waitresses there—and instantly you were hooked. You fell for the ‘bad boy’, leather jacket-wearing, mysterious energy that Kohl displays. You’ve never done anything about it because you know the second you'd walk up to him, you’d short-circuit and say something dumb.

The game blurred into a symphony of crashing pads and screeching blades, yet your gaze remained tethered to him. Then, it happened. A crack and screams from the crowd. You whip your head back to the rink as you watch Logan and the rest of the boys celebrate the win.

You watch as Garrett and Dean look up to find Hannah and Allie, and your eyes shift to Logan, looking between Garrett and Hannah.

Logan froze. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was there. His expression shifted from competitive fire to a genuine, startled recognition. A flicker of something raw crossed his face before he snapped back to reality from the yells of his teammates.

As the players retreated to the locker room, the sudden silence of the rink was jarring as the crowd dissipated.

---------------------------------------------------------

Your eyes sweep the stands as the crowd begins to thin, bodies shuffling toward the exits in a wave of Briar U merch and post-win chatter. You stand on your tiptoes, craning your neck, scanning for a familiar flash of dark hair and leather.

And there he is.

Justin Kohl stands near the top of the section, a few rows from the railing, arms crossed over his chest in that signature black jacket, tattoos crawling up his forearms. He's laughing. Laughing at something his bandmate said, with his head tipping back; the sound carries.

The lights catch the silver rings on his fingers as he lifts a hand to push his hair back, and your heart does that stupid little stutter it always does around him. Three years. Three years of watching him from across the room, and you still haven't figured out how to be a normal person around him.

Someone bumps your shoulder, snapping you out of it.

"You coming?" Allie's already a few steps ahead, tugging her jacket on, eyes bright with that post-game energy. 

"The boys are gonna be out of the locker room any minute. Garrett said they need to head to the house early to set up." Hannah is beside her, still buzzing from the win, her cheeks flushed pink. 

"We should grab the good spot on the couch before the whole campus shows up."

The crowd around you has mostly cleared now. Justin's still there, though, closer than before, chatting with some guy you vaguely recognize from the music department. 

Allie follows your gaze. Her eyebrows shoot up. "Or we could stand here staring at Justin Kohl like a couple of weirdos."

She's teasing. She's always teasing. But the question hangs in the air anyway, and so does Justin, a few feet away and completely unaware of the tiny crisis happening in your brain.

"I’m not staring. Let's just go find the guys."

You tear your gaze away from Justin, ignoring the tiny protest in your chest, and fall into step beside Allie and Hannah. The three of you weave through the thinning crowd, past the merch stands and the families with kids in oversized foam fingers, until you reach the tunnel where the players filter out.

The boys emerge in a wave of sweat and hockey gear, still glowing from the win. Garrett spots Hannah first, his face splitting into that grin you've seen a thousand times, the one reserved exclusively for her.

Dean's got his arm slung around Tucker's shoulders, both of them loud and laughing. And then there's Logan, a step behind, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, curly hair still damp and sticking to his forehead.

"Ladies!" Dean booms, spreading his arms wide like he's about to hug the entire group at once. He walks towards Allie, wraps around her waist and leans in. "Did you see that? Did you SEE that? I'm pretty sure my assist was the greatest moment in Briar hockey history."

"Your assist," Tucker scoffs, "was a bounce off a defender's skate. My goal, however-"

"Your goal was lucky," Garrett cuts in, arm already finding its place around Hannah's shoulder. "My hat trick, on the other hand, was pure artistry."

Logan snorts, finally speaking up. "You guys are all delusional. I was the one carrying the entire line tonight." His eyes find yours, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Tell 'em, Liana. You saw it."

Allie raises an eyebrow at you, clearly enjoying this. "Oh, she definitely saw it. We all did. Liana was on her feet the whole third period."

"Is that right?" Logan asks, amusement flickering in his eyes.

The group is buzzing, everyone talking over each other, but Logan's watching you like he's waiting for a verdict.

You tilt your head, a slow grin spreading across your face. "Carrying the whole team, huh? That's funny. From where I was sitting, it looked like you were the one being carried off the ice after that hit into the boards."

Tucker howls with laughter, slapping Logan on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward.

"She got you, man. She absolutely got you."

Logan's eyes narrow, but the corners of his mouth twitch. "That was a strategic play, Rivas. I let him think he got me, then I scored the winning goal. It's called psychology."

"It's called getting flattened," you counter, crossing your arms. "But sure. Psychology."

Dean is practically crying now, doubled over with his hand braced on Tucker's shoulder. "Oh my god, I love her. She's brutal."

Even Garrett cracks a smile, pressing a kiss to the top of Hannah's head as she giggles. "I mean, he's not wrong about the goal. But he's also not wrong about getting flattened."

Logan shakes his head. He steps closer, falling into step beside you as the group starts moving toward the exit. "You know, for someone who claims to be shy, you've got a real mean streak, Trouble."

"Trouble? That’s a new one. I prefer to call it 'honest."' You shrug. "Also, I'm not shy. I'm selectively social."

"Selectively social," he repeats, a hint of amusement coloring his voice, not acknowledging the new nickname. "That's a fancy way of saying you only talk to people you like."

"Exactly." You flash him a grin. "So consider yourself lucky you made the list."

Something flickers across his face, there and gone, before he looks ahead at the group. "Yeah," he says, quieter now. "Lucky me."

The night air hits you as you push through the arena doors, cool and crisp. The group's already plotting, voices overlapping about the party.

"So what's the plan for tonight?" you ask, pulling your jacket tighter against the evening chill.

Dean's face lights up like you've just asked him the meaning of life. "Plan? The plan is we take this historic victory back to the house and celebrate it properly. I'm talking music, drinks, the works. This is a banner night, people."

"Banner night," Tucker echoes, shaking his head. "You say that every time we win."

"Because every win is a banner night!" Dean gestures emphatically. "You don't get to be mediocre about victory, Tucker. That's loser talk."

Garrett rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Translation: Dean wants to throw a party, and he's using our win as an excuse."

"I don't need an excuse to throw a party," Dean says, offended. "I need an excuse to throw a GOOD party. There's a difference."

Hannah laughs, tucking herself closer to Garrett's side. "Well, I'm in. But I need to change first. I'm not showing up in arena gear smelling like popcorn."

"Same," Allie adds, already typing something on her phone. "We'll meet you guys at the house in like an hour. That gives us time to shower and look like we didn't spend the night screaming at a hockey rink."

"Screaming?" Logan raises an eyebrow at her. "You screamed? I don't believe it. You strike me as the polite-clap type."

"Excuse me?" Allie's head snaps up from her phone, mock-outrage plastered across her face. "I'll have you know I was the loudest person in that entire section. Ask Liana."

You hold up your hands in surrender. "I'm not getting in the middle of this. My ears are still ringing."

Logan snorts, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "Convenient."

"Alright, alright." Garrett claps his hands together, steering the group toward the parking lot. "Here's the plan. We head home, get things set up. You three take your time, show up looking hot, and we'll pretend we didn't see you first."

"You won't see us first," Allie retorts. "Because you'll be too busy setting up Dean's questionable playlist."

Dean gasps, clutching his chest. "My playlist is a curated masterpiece. Slander. Absolute slander."

The group splits at the edge of the parking lot, the guys heading toward their car with Dean still loudly defending his musical taste to a grinning Tucker. Hannah and Allie are already walking toward yours, but you linger half a second, watching them go.

"Hey, Lia." Logan's voice makes you turn. He's stopped, a few paces away, hands still in his pockets.

"Good game tonight, right? Worth missing your study session for?"

"Worth every second," you say, and it comes out easier than you expected. "I mean, I was supposed to be outlining a paper on Brecht, but instead I got to watch you get slammed into the boards. That's a fair trade."

Logan laughs, a real one, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Happy to provide the entertainment. I aim to please."

"That's a weird way to say 'concussed,' but sure."

He shakes his head, still grinning, and falls into step beside you toward the car where Hannah and Allie are waiting. The night air carries the distant sound of car engines and someone's radio playing through an open window. A few stragglers from the game call out to Logan, and he gives them a lazy wave, the picture of casual charm.

"You know," he says, voice dropping a little, "you're the only one who actually saw the hit. Everyone else was too busy screaming about the goal. You'd think they'd have noticed their star player getting crushed."

"Star player," you repeat, amused. "Big words from someone who got a sympathy assist."

Logan's grin widens. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

Hannah pokes her head out of the car window, breaking the moment. "You two done flirting? Some of us have to shower before the party."

"We're not-" you start, heat rushing to your face.

"She's just giving me a hard time," Logan cuts in smoothly, opening the back door for you with a flourish. "Trouble's earned the right. She watched me almost die tonight."

"Go get in the car, Logan," Allie calls from the backseat, deadpan.

He holds up his hands in surrender, walking backwards to Garrett's car, and you slide into the driver's seat. The door shuts, and the car fills with the easy noise of your friends arguing over the aux cord.

You catch Logan's eye in the side window's reflection, and he gives you a small, crooked smile before turning away.

The hockey house isn't far. But the night's just getting started.

You let the conversation wash over you, a warm current of familiar voices, and turn your head toward the window. The streetlights blur past in smears of gold, catching on the frost that's starting to creep along the edges of the glass. Campus slides by in fragments, the library all lit up like a beacon for the students who chose textbooks over hockey tonight. You almost feel bad for them. Almost. You can hear Allie and Hannah arguing about whether the party playlist needs more early 2000s pop.

Your reflection stares back at you, faint and ghostly against the dark. Hair a little frizzy from the arena humidity, eyes still bright with leftover adrenaline. You catch yourself wondering if Justin's still at the rink, or if he left right after you did. Probably went to some party. Or a bar. Or wherever rock stars go on a Friday night in a college town.

You think about the way he laughed, head tipped back, easy and unbothered. How he can fill a room without even trying.

And then you think about how he doesn't even know your name.

You pull up to the stoplight near the edge of campus, and through the window you can see the hockey house in the distance, lights already on, silhouettes moving behind the curtains. Dean must have missed a few stop signs.

"So," Allie says, catching your eye in the rearview mirror. "Ready to party, or are you gonna mope in the corner all night?"

"Depends on the playlist," you say, meeting Allie's eyes. 

"If Dean's curated masterpiece has more than three songs by the same artist, I'm finding a corner to mope in. Metaphorically."

"Dean doesn't have a playlist," Hannah points out from the passenger seat. "He has a single playlist called 'BANGERS ONLY' that he hasn't updated since sophomore year."

"It's called commitment," Allies deadpans.

"Very artistic. But doesn’t meet the requirements for a good playlist, especially one for a party," you say.

Allie snorts, you flicker the turn signal as you pull onto the street that leads to your apartment. "I'm gonna let him know you said that. He'll take it as a challenge and make it worse."

"Please don't."

"Too late. It's already happening in my head."

The car rolls to a stop outside your building, the porch light flickering on like it knows you're home.

You kill the engine, and for a second, everyone just sits there, the engine ticking as it cools.

"Alright," Hannah says, unbuckling. "Shower. Hair. Something that isn't arena merch. We reconvene in forty-five minutes and show up to the hockey house looking like we didn't just scream at a rink all night."

"Forty-five?" Allie groans, already heading for the stairs. "That's like a full skincare routine and a half."

"Then skip the half."

You follow them up, the familiar creak of the third step greeting you like an old friend. Your room is exactly how you left it, laundry chair and all. The window's cracked open, letting in the cold night air, and you catch your reflection in the mirror above your dresser. Frizzy, wavy brown almost black hair with hints of red from old hair dye you tried to cover up cause you needed a ‘change’. Bright brown eyes that shine green in the light. Still wearing that same arena grin.

You've got forty-five minutes to figure out what the hell you're wearing to a party where you'll spend the whole night pretending you're not looking for someone who doesn't know you exist.

You shove the closet door open with both hands, like it owes you money.

The contents stare back at you. A wall of neutrals, some pops of bright colors from the times you go shopping and feel bold, a few floral prints from that phase in sophomore year, the same black dress paired with one of your many cardigans you've worn to every party since November. You push past them, fingers skimming hangers until they land on something buried in the back, wedged between a cardigan you never wear and a hoodie you stole from Logan and never returned.

A see-through polka-dot black top. Sleeveless. And backless. The one you bought on a whim last summer and never had the guts to wear, because every time you put it on, you told yourself it was too much.

You pull it out anyway, holding it up to the light. It's simple. That's what you tell yourself. It's just a shirt.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, the fabric pressed against your chest, and you can already picture it with your good maroon denim skirt, red bralette, your hair down, the gold hoops your mom got you for graduation, and a pair of boots you’ve owned since senior year of high school. You can picture walking into the hockey house. You can picture Allie wolf-whistling.

And you can picture Justin looking up—if he was there.

Your stomach does a nervous flip, half excitement, half terror. You glance at the clock. Thirty minutes left.

"Yeah," you say to your reflection, quiet, like you're trying to convince it. "Okay."

You drop the shirt on your bed and grab your skirt, your heart already racing ahead of you.

You move on autopilot, the way you do before every show, before every shift, before anything that makes your stomach knot up. Shower first, water hot enough to steam the mirror. Then the careful ritual of it all, the part you'd never admit to anyone: the curl cream worked through damp hair, the gold hoops, the skirt that surprisingly fits like they were made for you.

The top goes on last.

You hesitate in front of the mirror, hands smoothing down the fabric. It's just a shirt. It’s fun. It’s college. It's not a declaration. Except it kind of is, and you know it, and your reflection knows it, and the tiny voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like Allie is already chanting wear it, wear it, wear it.

You grab your jacket and step into the hallway just as Hannah's door swings open. She's in a fitted sweater, her hair sleek and freshly blown out, and she takes one look at you and stops dead.

"Liana."

"Don't."

"That top-"

"Don't."

She grins, slow and delighted. "You look amazing. That's all I was gonna say."

Allie appears behind her, lipstick in hand, and lets out a low whistle. "Okay, who are you trying to kill tonight? Because I need a head count."

"No one," you say, too fast, and they exchange a look that says sure, no one.

The three of you pile into the car, the engine coughing to life in the cold. The hockey house glows in the distance, music already thumping through the walls, silhouettes moving behind the windows. Dean's done something with a string of cheap fairy lights on the porch, and someone's left the front door wide open, letting the bass spill out onto the lawn.

Allie kills the engine. Looks at you. "Ready?"

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, but you grab your jacket, step out into the cold night air, and head toward the door.

---------------------------------------------------------

The bass hits you the second you step through the door, a physical pulse that vibrates through the floorboards and up through your shoes. The living room is packed, a sea of jerseys and laughing faces, someone's already spilling beer on the couch, and Dean is nowhere to be seen but his playlist is definitely doing its thing.

Allie materializes beside you, pressing a cold, sweating solo cup into your hand. "Drink," she says, already halfway through her own. "You look like you're about to bolt."

"I'm not going to bolt."

"You have your 'get me out of here' face on." She gestures at you with her cup. "Loosen up. You look hot, the music's good, and there's at least three guys in here who've already checked you out."

Your eyes roll, but you take a sip anyway. Something fruity. Allie launches into a story about her psych professor, the one who assigns a hundred pages a night and still talks about "work-life balance" like it's a joke, and you nod along, letting her voice blur into the noise.

But your gaze drifts.

And there, across the room, you spot him. 

John Logan. 

His back is against the wall near the kitchen, solo cup dangling loose in his fingers, but he's not drinking. He's not even looking at the person talking to him. His gaze is fixed on the corner of the room, on Garrett and Hannah tangled up together on the couch, her head on his shoulder, him laughing at something she said.

The way Logan looks at them, at her, is tragic. A silent, aching longing that doesn't belong on a face as objectively handsome as his.

It's pitiful to watch. It's also, unfortunately, familiar.

You excuse yourself from Allie, who's mid-sentence and doesn't even pause, and you navigate the crowd. Bodies bump into you, someone's elbow catches your arm, but you keep moving until you're beside him.

You nudge him with your cup, a playful, knowing smirk dancing on your lips. If anyone looked close, they'd see the sympathy deep in your eyes.

"You've got it bad, Logan," you say, cutting through the noise. "Staring at your best friend's girl? That's tragic, even for you."

Logan jumps, his head snapping toward you. Those deep brown eyes narrow, instantly reclaiming their defensive spark. But there's a flush creeping up his neck, visible even in the dim party light.

"And you've been drooling over Justin Kohl's posters since freshman year." His voice is sharp, but not cruel. "Pot, meet kettle."

The heat hits your face before you can stop it, and the retort dies in your throat. Because he's right.

You've known Logan for almost two years now, this banter is practically a love language between you two, but right now, you're teetering too close to something you're both trying to keep a secret.

You lift the cup to your lips and take a long sip. Slow. Steady. Eyes quickly leaving his. Then a gulp, knowing you’re a light weight, you’re starting to feel the liquid making your arms a little heavy.

It's a good move. It says I'm unbothered while your brain scrambles behind a wall of cheap plastic and fruit punch. Logan watches you drink, his gaze dropping to the cup, then back up to your face, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Uh-huh," he says. "Real convincing."

"Wasn't trying to be convincing." You lower the cup, letting the silence hang. 

"Was just enjoying my drink. You should try it. Might loosen up that jaw of yours."

Logan barks a laugh, short and surprised, then shakes his head, looking down at his own untouched cup. "It's water. I'm not in the mood to drink tonight."

"Water?" You blink. "At a Dean Di Laurentis victory party? That's a bold strategy."

"Bold," he repeats, dry. "Sure. That's what I'll call it."

He takes a sip of his water, and there's a beat of quiet between you, the kind that exists in the eye of a storm. Around you, the party rages on, someone shrieks in the hallway, glass shatters, laughter follows. A quiet sign leaving Logan’s lips knowing he will have to deal with whatever it is that broke later.

But here, tucked against the wall, it's almost calm. Logan's gaze drifts again. You catch him doing it, a flicker toward the couch, toward Hannah's laugh, before he pulls it back. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"So," he says, turning back to you with that practiced grin, the one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Big night for you, huh? Justin's been here for like an hour. I saw him by the keg earlier."

Your heart stumbles. "He's here?"

"Didn't know?" Logan's grin sharpens, finding a little of its old bite. "Guess you're not as good at this as I thought, Rivas."

"Good for him." Of course he’s here you think. Beau, Dean’s best friend, and him are in the same frat. Somehow that always slips your mind. In what world does an Australian rockstar end up in a fraternity?

The words come out flat, dismissive, the kind of tone you've perfected over three years of pretending Justin Kohl's existence doesn't turn your brain to static. You take another sip of your drink, casual as anything.

Logan stares at you for a long beat. Then his eyebrows climb toward his hairline.

"Good for him," he repeats slowly, like he's testing the words for poison. "That's what you're going with? Your lifelong crush is in this house, right now, and you're giving me 'good for him'?"

You scoff, “Lifelong?” about to defend yourself but quickly guard up again. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." You keep your voice light. "I'm just being nice."

"Being nice." Logan's grin sharpens. "You've been pining after that guy since freshman year. I've seen the way you look at him. Hell, I've seen you lose your entire train of thought when he walks into a room. And now he's here, in a house with a keg and bad lighting, and your big move is 'good for him!?"

"Some of us play it cool, Logan."

"Cool?" He lets out a short laugh. "That wasn't cool, Rivas. That was a eulogy. You sounded like you were reading at his funeral."

Your jaw tightens. He's not wrong, and the worst part is he knows he's not wrong. The smug little tilt of his head says it all.

"Fine," you say, gesturing at him with your cup. "What would you do, then? Since you're the expert on playing it cool with unavailable people?"

Logan's smirk falters, just a fraction, just long enough for you to see it. His eyes flick somewhere over your shoulder, toward the couch, and he takes a sip of his water. "Low blow, Trouble."

"You started it."

"Okay, fine." You lean against the wall, arms crossed, cup dangling from your fingers. "What's your advice, oh wise one? Since you clearly know everything about winning people over."

Logan considers you for a moment, the kind of look he usually reserves for reading a defense on the ice.

Then he shrugs.

"Go talk to him."

You stare at him. "That's it?"

"That's it." He takes a sip of his water. "You've spent three years watching him from across rooms. He doesn't know your name because you've never given him a reason to. So go give him one."

"Just... walk up to him?"

"Walk up to him, say hi, tell him you liked his set at the thing last month. The open mic night at Malone's, when he played that acoustic set." Logan pauses. "I saw you watching. You knew every word."

Your stomach flips. You didn't know he'd noticed that. You'd been in the back corner, hood up, convinced you were invisible.

"It's easy, Lia." His voice is softer now, almost gentle. "Worst case, he's not interested. And then you know. You stop wondering. That's better than this." He gestures vaguely between you and the rest of the room. "This whole thing where you orbit him like a moon and hope he looks up."

Before you can answer, a hand claps Logan on the shoulder, hard enough to slosh his water. A guy you vaguely recognize from the team, already two sheets to the wind, grins wide.

"Logan, my man! That goal tonight was unreal! Game winner, right off the board, I was losing my mind!" He pumps Logan's arm like a slot machine handle. "You're a legend, dude. Absolute legend."

"Thanks, man." Logan's grin slides back into place, easy and practiced. "Appreciate it."

"You gotta teach me that move sometime. I'm telling you, that was—" The guy keeps talking, but Logan's eyes find yours over his shoulder, and there's something in them, a question, maybe, or an invitation to keep the conversation going after this interruption dies down.

Your gaze drifts past Logan's shoulder, past the drunk guy still pumping his arm, and finds him across the room.

Justin Kohl. He's by the keg, one elbow propped on the table like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he kind of does. He's laughing at something a girl with long blonde hair is saying, head tipped back, easy and unbothered. The tattoo creeping up his neck catches the fairy lights, and his leather jacket hangs open over a faded band tee.

He looks exactly like he does on stage. Just... here. In the living room that you spent countless days and nights in, drinking cheap beer, existing in the same air as you.

And he doesn't know you exist.

"See?" Logan's voice pulls you back. The drunk guy has wandered off, and Logan's watching you with an unreadable expression, arms crossed. "That's the problem, right there. You're looking at him like he's a painting in a museum. He can't see you from over there."

You tear your eyes away, face warming. "I'm not-"

"You are." He tilts his head. "What's the worst that happens if you go say hi?"

"He doesn't know who I am."

"So you tell him." Logan shrugs. "Hi, I'm Liana. I'm a theatre major, I sing, I've been to every one of your open mic nights. That's it. That's the whole interaction."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple." He pauses, a flicker of something softer crossing his face. "You're the one making it complicated, Rivas."

The party swirls around you, loud and warm, and across the room Justin laughs again, the sound carrying over the music. Your heart hammers. Your cup is empty.

"I can't just walk up to him. I'd freeze." The admission slips out before you can stop it, quieter than you meant it to be. "I've built this whole thing up in my head for three years, Logan. Three years of watching him, of knowing every song he's written, of being too scared to even stand near him. You think I can just—" You gesture vaguely toward the keg. "—walk over there and become a person?"

Logan's quiet for a second. The party's noise fills the space between you, but his eyes stay on you, steady and considering.

"Rivas," he says slowly. "You're not giving yourself enough credit."

"Credit for what? Being a professional bystander?"

"For being the person who walked up to me tonight and called me out to my face." He tilts his head. "You didn't freeze with me."

"That's different. You're-" You stop yourself. You're you. "You're not him."

A guy in a backwards hat shoulders past Logan, clapping him on the arm. "Yo, Logan! That game, man. Unreal. You're the man!" He's gone before Logan can respond, swallowed by the crowd.

Logan doesn't even look at him. His eyes are still on you, and there's something shifting behind them, a thought forming, the gears turning in a way you've seen before, right before he pulls off something stupid on the ice.

"Okay," he says. "Different question. What if you didn't have to be the one to walk up to him?"

You blink. "What?"

"What if he came to you?" Logan's grin turns crooked, almost sly. "What if there was a reason for him to notice you, without you having to freeze up or say a single word?"

"What are you talking about?" You cross your arms, half wary, half curious.

Logan glances around the room, a quick sweep, like he's checking for eavesdroppers. Then he leans in, close enough that you catch the faint smell of his cologne under the party sweat. His voice drops.

"Okay. Hear me out before you say no."

"That's never a good opening."

"Hear me out," he repeats. "You need Justin to notice you, right? And I need... people to stop asking why I'm always looking at Hannah."

Your stomach drops. "Logan-"

"I'm not saying it out loud, I'm saying it to you." His jaw tightens. "You're the only one who's figured it out. That's exactly why this works."

"What works?"

He takes a breath. "We pretend to be together. You and me. Fake dating." He holds up a hand before you can interrupt. "You get a boyfriend, which makes Justin curious, because suddenly the girl who's been invisible is taken. Guys like him, they notice what they can't have. And I get cover, because if people think I'm with you, nobody looks twice at where my eyes wander."

You stare at him. The party's noise fades to a dull roar behind the ringing in your ears.

"You want us to fake date."

"For each other." His brown eyes hold yours, steady. "I help you get Justin. You help me keep my secret. Everybody wins."

"That's absolutely insane. You are insane," you say, but your voice comes out thinner than you meant it to.

"Maybe." Logan's crooked smile returns, soft around the edges. "But it's not nothing, Rivas. And right now, it's the only thing either of us has."

"You're serious about this?" You search his face for the punchline, the tell, the moment he cracks and admits it's a joke. He doesn't crack.

"Dead serious." Logan sets his water cup down on the windowsill behind him, like he needs both hands for this. "Look, I know it sounds insane. It is insane. But think about it for two seconds. When's the last time Justin Kohl looked twice at any girl who wasn't already with someone else?"

You open your mouth. Close it.

"Exactly." He nods, like you've already conceded. "He's a musician, Rivas. He's wired to chase what he can't have. You show up on his radar with a boyfriend, and suddenly you're not just another girl in the crowd. You're the girl he didn't get."

"And you get to stop looking at Hannah like a kicked puppy every time she laughs?"

Logan flinches, just barely, but he doesn't deny it. "I get to stop being asked about it, yeah. By Dean. By Tucker. By every guy on the team who's noticed I've been weird lately." He rubs the back of his neck.

"You're the only one who's called me on it. That means you're the only one who can cover for me."

The party swirls around you, oblivious. Someone's turned the music up. Somewhere across the room, Justin laughs at something, the sound cutting through the bass like a knife.

"And we'd have to, what, hold hands? Act like a couple?" After a beat “Kiss?!” 

"Only when people are watching." His voice softens. "I'm not gonna make it weird, Rivas. I know this is a lot to ask. But you're my friend. I wouldn't ask if I had any other way."

Your mind swirling, the liquid courage taking over and before your brain processes what you're about to say out loud, you turn to face him straight on. "Okay. I'm in." You hold up a finger before he can celebrate. "But I have ground rules."

Logan's eyebrows shoot up, but he nods, folding his arms. "Lay 'em on me, Trouble."’

"One." You tick it off. "Nobody finds out. This is between us… and maybe Allie. Because I'm not explaining to Hannah why I'm suddenly dating her boyfriend's best friend because he is in love with her."

"Wait, you wanna tell Allie?"

"Well, she would never stop interrogating me about this,” you pointing between you and Logan “and she's better at keeping secrets than you are at keeping your eyes off Hannah." 

You pause. "I also need someone to calm me down when I enviably freak out about this crazy idea."

"Okay fair. Who else will get to know?"

"Nobody. That's the point." You tick off a second finger. "Two. PDA is kept to a minimum. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist when we're in public. No kissing, no making out, no 'oops, we fell into each other' bullshit. I'm not your stunt double for a rom-com."

Logan's mouth twitches. "Noted."

"Three." A third finger. "No surprises. If you're planning something, you run it by me first. I don't do spontaneous. I do warned."

"You know, most people find spontaneity romantic."

"Then go fake date most people." You level him with a look. 

"Four. And this is the big one." You hold up a fourth finger, and your voice drops. "No feelings. Zero feelings. This is a business arrangement. We're coworkers with benefits-" He snorts, and you glare at him. "—not those benefits. This ends when Justin notices me, and we go back to being exactly what we were before. Friends. Believe it or not and i’ll only say this once, but this friendship means a lot to me and I swear if this makes that messy we will have a problem."

Logan studies you for a long moment. The party roars around you, but it feels like you're in a bubble, the two of you, a deal hanging in the air between you.

"Deal," he says, and sticks out his hand. "No feelings. No surprises. No PDA. Friendship stays intact. Allie knows. That's the whole contract?"

"That's the whole contract."

He takes your hand, and his grip is warm and firm, his calluses rough against your palm. His crooked smile returns, softer this time. "Then we have a deal, partner. Let's get you noticed."

You take his hand. 

His grip is warm, firm, calloused from years of gripping a stick, and there's a solidity and quickness to it that catches you off guard. You shake once, twice, and it's done. The deal is sealed.

"Partner," you echo, testing the word. It sounds strange on your tongue. "We're really doing this."

"We're really doing this." Logan releases your hand, and something in his posture shifts, a tension you hadn't even registered bleeding out of his shoulders. 

"Congratulations, Rivas. You're officially taken."

'Taken." You snort. "That's a generous way to put it."

"It's a start." His crooked smile softens. "C'mon. We should probably look like we're enjoying each other's company, or people are gonna think the fake couple already broke up."

He's right. You're both standing here like you're negotiating a hostage exchange. But before you can figure out what a fake girlfriend is supposed to do, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"Liana! There you are!"

Allie. Of course. She materializes out of the crowd, eyes bright, drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her cup. Her gaze flicks between you and Logan, and her grin turns sharp, knowing.

"Okay," she says, drawing the word out. "What's happening here? Because I've been watching you two talk for like, ten minutes, and you're both doing that thing where you pretend you're not having a whole conversation with your eyebrows."

"We're not-" you start.

"We made a deal," Logan says, completely unbothered. "She's my girlfriend now. Fake girlfriend. It's a business arrangement."

Allie's eyebrows rocket toward her hairline. She stands straight like a statue, quickly sobering up from Logan’s very straightforward answer. She looks at you. "Sorry what. Girl. We need to talk. Now."

"Um what Logan means-” You pause not knowing how to quickly explain in this loud, crowded kitchen. “Well. I'll fill you in later. Promise, but pretend you didn't just hear that until we can talk privately."

Allie's eyes narrow, reading you like a script she's seen a dozen times. For a second you think she's going to push. But she's your best friend, and more importantly, she's the one who knows every corner of your brain, including the ones you keep locked. She takes a long sip of her drink instead.

"Later," she repeats. "Fine. But you owe me a full debrief. I want details, timelines, and thought processes." She points at you with her cup, then at Logan. "Both of you."

She melts back into the crowd before you can argue, and you watch her go, her voice already rising in laughter somewhere near the kitchen.

"She's terrifying," Logan observes.

"She's efficient." You turn back to him. "And she's gonna want the full story. We need to game plan the details."

"Already thinking about logistics. That's very business-partner of you." He's smiling at you, a real one this time, and it does something strange to your stomach. "So. Fake girlfriend. First move?"

Around you, the party keeps spinning, oblivious to the deal that just got sealed in a corner near the windowsill. Somewhere across the room, you catch a flash of a leather jacket and a laugh that cuts through the bass, and your heart stumbles.

Justin is still here.

---------------------------------------------------------

You stay with Logan.

It's a small decision, but it feels bigger than it is. You don't drift back to Allie, don't melt into the crowd, don't find a corner to watch Justin from. You stay right where you are, shoulder to shoulder with Logan, and you let the night happen around you.

Logan notices. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. He just shifts slightly, angling his body toward yours, close enough that anyone looking would read it as a couple thing. A minute later, his arm finds your shoulder, casual as breathing, a warm, grounding weight. Getting a little bit woozy from sipping on your drink a little too casually, you lean fully into him.

"So," he says, low enough for only you to hear. "You're doing great, by the way."

"Shut up."

"I'm being serious." His thumb brushes your shoulder once, a small gesture. "You look like you belong here. With me."

Your heart does a stupid little stutter. It's an act. It's all an act. You know that.

But then Tucker ambles over, nursing a beer and grinning, and his eyes land on Logan's arm around you. His eyebrows climb.

"Well, well, well." Tucker's Southern drawl stretches the words out. "Y'all gonna tell me what's goin' on here, or am I gonna have to start makin' my own assumptions?"

"Nothin's going on," You say, with hesitation. "Just standing with Logan. Is that a crime now?"

"Looks a little more than that" Tucker's eyes narrowing suspiciously

“Maybe it is more than that,” Logan says smooth as ice having way too much fun playing into the deal. 

 Tucker’s jaw actually drops. "Since uh when?"

"Since-" Logan glances at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "—a while. We kept it quiet."

Tucker looks between the two of you, processing, and then a slow grin spreads across his face. "Well, I'll be damned. Garrett's gonna lose his mind when he hears about this. He owes me twenty bucks."

Logan laughs, and it sounds almost real. "He bet on us?"

"He bet you'd never settle down with anyone." Tucker claps him on the arm, then tips his beer at you.

"Congratulations, Liana. You caught the most emotionally constipated man on the team."

"Hey-"

"I'm just sayin'." Tucker's already backing away, grin wide. "Y'all are cute. I'll spread the word."

“Maybe let’s keep this under wraps till we say something about it please.” You say making puppy eyes at Tucker.

Not being able to resist that look, Tucker sighs, “Fine, but I'll be the first to celebrate when this becomes official.” He air quotes. 

He disappears into the crowd, and the space between you and Logan feels suddenly smaller. His arm is still around your shoulder. Neither of you moves.

"Official," you repeat quietly. "That was fast."

"Guy's a human megaphone." Logan's voice is soft. "The second we say anything, the whole campus'll know."

Across the room, you catch a flash of movement. Justin Kohl, tilting his head, looking at you. At you and Logan. His gaze lingers for a beat longer than it ever has before, a flicker of something curious in his dark eyes.

Then he looks away, back to his conversation, and the moment's gone.

Your heart is pounding. It snaps you back to reality. A sense of impending doom from the crazy, absurd deal you just made makes you want to retreat to your bed and melt away.

"I think I wanna head out soon."

The words leave your mouth before you've fully decided, but once they're out, they feel right. The night's been a lot. A win, a party, a deal that's going to change everything. Your tank is empty.

Logan's arm is still around your shoulder, and you feel him glance down at you. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You finally let yourself look up at him. "I think I got everything I came for."

Something flickers in his eyes, there and gone. "You sure? We could—" He stops, clears his throat. "I mean, the night's still young. For the party. Not for-" He gestures vaguely. 

"Us. The thing."

"The business arrangement," you supply.

"The business arrangement." He nods, a small smile tugging at his mouth. 

You both stand there for a beat, the deal settling between you like a stone dropped into still water. Then you reach up and squeeze his hand once, the one resting on your shoulder, before stepping out from under his arm.

"Same time tomorrow?" you try, half joking.

"Text me when you're home." His voice is softer than you expected. "So I know you got back safe."

Something warm and confusing blooms in your chest. You shove it down. It's an act. It's all an act.

You find Allie by the kitchen, mid-story, with a girl from your guys' theatre class, and Hannah tucked into Garrett's side on the couch. Allie clocks your face immediately, the way she always does, and excuses herself.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Yeah. Hannah?"

Hannah extracts herself from Garrett with a kiss and a promise, and the three of you gather by the door, coats and keys and the cold night air rushing in when someone swings it open.

You glance back once. Logan is still standing by the windowsill, watching you. When he catches your eye, he raises his water cup in a small salute.

You step out into the night, the door swinging shut behind you, muffling the bass into a dull thump.

The fairy lights on the porch flicker overhead as you pull your jacket tight.

"Well," Allie says, her breath fogging in the cold. "That was a night."

"That was a night," you echo.

Hannah looks between the two of you, eyebrows raised. "Okay, what am I missing?"

You and Allie exchange a look. Later. You'll tell her later.

For now, you just walk, the three of you shoulder to shoulder down the quiet street, the party fading behind you like a dream you're not sure you actually had.