At the phones.
At the faces.
Then I looked back at Logan.
“I’m saying you’re too young to understand what you’re asking for.”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I noticed.
People often believed confidence was loud.
It wasn’t.
Real confidence could be almost invisible.
It lived in the pause before an answer.
In the ability to remain still while everyone else became restless.
In knowing exactly how far you could go—and choosing not to.
Logan didn’t know any of that.
He only knew how to perform.
He pointed at the gloves.
“Put them on.”
“No.”
The crowd murmured.
His face reddened.
“What?”
“I said no.”
Grant finally spoke.
“Claire.”
I turned toward him.
It was the first time he’d addressed me directly.
He lowered his phone.
“You’re making this unnecessarily dramatic.”
I stared at him.
“Your son threw gloves at my feet.”
