Logan's POV
"Look alive, Whittaker. It's a press conference, not a funeral," Dave says, but I barely hear him.
Noah hasn't spoken to me in over a week.
Not since the Melee. Not since he slapped me across the face and told me I should've stayed gone. And now, it's been well over 7 days since we resumed training, back on the same field, under the same roof, and he's been unsubtly—almost artfully—avoiding me.
He's left all my drills to Clio, and the only way I can describe that is; if I thought Noah was bad for giving me extra sprints when he was pissed, Clio is a fucking dictator. Everything she does is by the book. And when the book runs out of rules, she writes her own.
I haven't gone home without aches and bruises and palms freshly calloused from the leather grip of my bat.
And the ever present pain of having my mate ignore me.
