Two
Logan
My pen moves over my sketchpad with ease, the sound of Taking Back Sunday blasting through my headphones as I work on the next page of this one-shot manga.
I’ve been at my desk like this for a couple hours, and I’m pleased with the amount of progress I’ve made in such a short time.
I might even finish the page before having to leave for my seminar at noon, which would really set the tone for a fantastic Monday.
Unfortunately, my good mood is short-lived, plummeting to the pits of Hell when my phone lights up with a text notification.
Mom: Will you come home for dinner this weekend? Your dad and I want to start looking at flights to New York for Christmas.
I let out a little scoff and go back to drawing, ignoring the text completely.
Despite going to college in the same city where my parents live, I make it a point to avoid going home as much as possible. Being this close to them is a hazard to my mental health, and it’s one of the reasons I wish I’d stood my ground on going to Tufts instead.
But it’s not the dinner invite that sets my irritation on edge; it’s the flights to New York portion of her message.
Right when school started, she decided to drop the bomb of by the way, we’re doing Christmas in New York this year on me out of nowhere. And I’ve told her repeatedly over the past six weeks, I have zero interest in going.
It was bad enough that my parents dragged me there over winter break last year against my will.
I’m not looking for a repeat, knowing the entire trip would just be about Oakley and hockey—yet again.
Going to games to watch him and Quinton play, listening to them and Dad talk about the team, the season, their stats, blah blah fucking blah.
It’s insufferable.
Unfortunately for me, ignoring Mom never works out for long, because a FaceTime notification pops up ten minutes later.
“I’m not going,” I tell her the second I answer the phone.
She lets out a long sigh and shakes her head. “Logan, I don’t understand why you’re fighting us so hard on this.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, doing my best to rein in my frustration with my mother and not blow up on her over FaceTime. But she’s making it really freaking difficult when she won’t just drop it.
“Because what if I made plans, Mom? It’s not fair for you to expect me to live around Oakley’s schedule.”
Her brows lift. “Do you have plans?”
Shit.
“Well, no. But the point is you didn’t ask me first.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’re right. I shouldn’t have assumed,” she affirms, offering me a gentle smile. “I just don’t want to spend another Christmas without your brother. And since he and Quinton can’t come to us, it only makes sense for us to go to them instead.”
“Okay, well if that’s the only reason, then why can’t I just stay home?” I attempt to reason, which only earns me one of her signature “Mom” looks. The one that reads quit while you’re ahead.
“I want both of my sons for Christmas. Not just one of them.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a smart-ass comment—something along the lines of Quinton being the perfect replacement—but I resist the urge. Barely.
So instead, I pivot to a new method—or maybe the next stage of grieving: bargaining.
“If I go, can you promise it won’t be a repeat of last year?”
A sympathetic smile crosses her features. “I’ll try to rein your father in on the hockey talk, all right?”
She’ll try in vain is what the outcome will likely be, but I guess it’s better than nothing.
“And you’ll make sure we actually go do other things? It’s a huge city, and I feel like all I saw last year was Oakley’s apartment and the fucking hockey arena.”
“You may not live under my roof anymore, but you still need to watch your language, Logan,” she chides. “And I will do my best to make sure everyone involved enjoys the trip, okay?”
I gnaw on my lip, clearly out of rebuttals and frustrated at being backed into a corner. But with no arguments left, all I can do is concede…and suffer.
“Fine,” I mutter, feeling every bit a petulant child told they can’t go in the ball pit at McDonald’s. “But if we’re going to more than one game, I reserve the right to skip one and do something by myself instead.”
“I think those are agreeable terms.”
Easy for her to say when she’s not folding like a cheap goddamn lawn chair.
I wish I knew how to say no to them, but it seems they find a way to talk me into or out of nearly everything. Then again, being the Reed family disappointment sucks enough as it is—rebelling to the extent my body craves would only make it worse.
Which just means caving to a miserable existence instead.
“Is that all, then?” I ask. “I have some work to get back to before class.”
She purses her mauve-painted lips, obviously having more to say but apparently not wanting to push her luck—or my patience.
“Okay, sweetheart. Have a good day. I love you.”
“You too,” I mutter before hitting the end button and letting my phone clatter against the wooden desk top.
My headphones are filled with the sounds of L? Spirit now, and I do my best to lose myself in the lines where pen meets paper. And it works for all of five seconds—until the conversation with my mother creeps back in, and every stroke of ink looks and feels wrong.
I’m so tired of living in the shadow of a legacy I want nothing to do with. Surviving the scrutiny for being different, not just from my family, but from everyone else it seems.
After all, how can I possibly be a Reed if I despise the very thing that defines our family name?
Mom has always been the one to “get me” more than Dad—at least as much as she’s able to—but there’s an obvious limitation to it, and it becomes even more apparent in moments like the one we just had.
Ones where they’re so clearly placing Oakley on some sort of pedestal, bending and breaking themselves to accommodate his schedule without any regard for me.
It’s those times when I really think I was dropped on their doorstep by a stork rather than sharing any sort of DNA with them, despite having the same light brown hair and eyes to match theirs.
I’ve never once questioned if they love me or anything like that. The issue comes from them clearly loving Oakley more.
In a frustrated huff, I drop my pen on my sketchbook. There’s no way I can keep doing this now—not in this kind of headspace. I’ll fuck up the entire thing if I do.
Fitting, for the Reed family pariah.
Out of nowhere, my headphones are pulled off my ears, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. Whipping around, I’m almost expecting to find my mother has driven over here to continue the conversation.
Instead, I’m greeted with…Camden Steele.
“Hey, Little Reed.”
Glaring, I grind out a harsh, “Don’t you know how to knock?”
“I did. Like three times, but you didn’t hear me.” He points to the headphones now resting around my neck. “Obviously, now I know why.”
“And you still chose to come in anyway, so what exactly was the point of knocking?” I grumble with a scoff.
“To be polite,” he supplies, clearly not understanding my rhetorical question. Then again, he’s too busy looking over my shoulder at the sketchbook on my desk, which I promptly flip closed to halt his nosiness.
Not that it stops him.
“What are you doing anyway?”
“Getting really annoyed with you,” I bite out instantly. “Now, will you get out of my room so I can work in peace?”
For a few seconds, we just stare at each other in silence. Him, without a single thought behind his sapphire eyes, and me, with the fury that could disintegrate the sun.
Because he doesn’t. Fucking. Leave.
“Did you take one-too-many pucks to the head and need me to spell it out for you? Leave.”
“I need a favor first,” he insists.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
My molars grind together, knowing there’s a ninety-eight percent chance that the next words to leave his mouth will instantly rile me up and send me flying off the handle. Yet, despite my better judgment, I arch a brow and nod for him to continue anyway.
Anything to get him out of here as soon as possible.
There’s a brief moment of hesitancy in his gaze before it promptly drops to the floor. Almost like he’s embarrassed. Which is…strange.
Clearing his throat, he murmurs, “Coach called me into his office after practice yesterday and—”
Annoyed, I roll my eyes. “If this is about hockey, then—”
“—told me I might lose my eligibility.”
My brows collide, and I blink a few times, not having expected this turn of events.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve seen the video of Camden’s nude dancing escapades going around online—much to my dismay, having lived it once already—and knew Uncle Trevor wouldn’t take it lightly. Not when it reflects poorly on him as a coach, the program, the school in general…
The annoyance that was simmering in my stomach turns into more of a boil, and I’m hit with a realization of what this favor is likely to be. It’s a pretty typical one since the beginning of time when people find out I’m from that Reed family.
Me wanting nothing to do with the sport they’re famous for doesn’t even matter; the proximity and connection is more than enough of a draw.
Crossing my arms, I lean back in my chair and scoff.
“And what? You want me to talk him out of it because he’s my uncle? You think I have that kind of sway with him?” I ask incredulously. “Besides, you should know the stupid shit you do would come back to bite you. I mean, who the fuck dances naked on a FaceTime call?”
“I told you it was because I lost a bet, but that’s not—”
“Okay, well since we live in the age of screenshots and screen recordings, the smart thing to do would’ve been to wear a ski mask. Or film from the neck down, or I don’t know, do something to hide your identity.”
“Shit, that would’ve been a good idea,” he murmurs, though more to himself than me, before returning to the conversation at hand. “But no, talking to Coach on my behalf wasn’t what I was gonna ask. It’s not even about the video.”
His admission is as much of a surprise as his appearance in my bedroom, but it’s not enough to keep me from eyeing him warily.
The heat of suspicion still lingers low in my gut as I try to work out this turn of events.
After all, what else could the hockey team’s hotshot goalie need from me, if not the benefits that come with my last name?
And unfortunately, my curiosity gets the best of me yet again.
“Then, what is it?” I ask with a sigh.
A sheepish, embarrassed look returns as he nudges the edge of my rug with his foot. “I need help studying for one of my classes. And I also have these make-up assignments to do before the end of the month because I failed the midterm.”
My brow hikes up, a little baffled by this revelation. Not that he’s failing a class—I don’t think I’ve seen the guy carry a textbook in the year I’ve lived with him. It’s just weird he’s coming to me for help with this.
“Okay…” I say slowly, still processing his request. “But doesn’t the team have some kind of tutor you have access to for this kinda thing?”
He runs his fingers through his hair and shrugs. “Yeah, I tried that freshman year, and it didn’t really work for me.”
“So what makes you think I can help you if they can’t?”
There’s a beat where Camden chews on the corner of his lip, appearing more nervous wreck than cocky D1 athlete, before he finally ignites my fuse.
“Well, Oakley mentioned you were good at the SATs and said maybe you could help.”
A sardonic laugh slips out, and I shake my head. Leave it to my brother to be a pain in my ass all the way from New York City. Because, somehow, it always comes back around to Oakley.
And it’s enough to set me off.
“The SATs are different from college course exams.”
“I know, but—”
“Not to mention, we don’t take any of the same classes,” I cut in harshly. “Then there’s the fact that I’m two years behind you in school, so if it’s a higher level class, how the hell would I even know the material?”
“It’s Intro to Philosophy, so—”
“And let’s not forget,” I continue, on a roll with my heightened frustration morphing into anger, “I’ve lived in the same house as you for over a year now.
I know exactly how you operate: sleeping around and partying rather than putting any effort into studying.
So, no. Despite what my brother might think, even if I could help, I’m not going to.
But I am gonna offer you a piece of advice, assuming your room-temperature IQ can process it: Stop acting like a fuckboy Neanderthal who only thinks about food, hockey, and getting laid, and maybe try rubbing your two brain cells together for classwork instead. ”
Silence falls over us, quiet enough I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my chest from the verbal dressing down I just gave him.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I became aware it may have been a little too ruthless; I just didn’t have it in me to stop.
Because fuck him, fuck my brother, and fuck all of these people who treat them like gods on Earth—bending over backward to indulge them just because…
what? They can skate around on ice with a stick and rubber disk?
It’s bullshit, and I refuse to play a part in it.
Unfortunately, my anger only lasts so long, and the second the haze of red leaves my vision, I catch Camden’s crestfallen expression from where he’s still standing across my room.
I wish it made me feel the slightest bit better to see Leighton’s star goalie turn into nothing more than a kicked puppy before my eyes—knowing he’s finally gotten a taste of what it’s like to be treated as mere mortal—but my stomach drops instead.
The silence ticks on for a few more moments, our gazes locked on each other, before he finally speaks, calmly, in barely more than a whisper.
“I might not be the smartest person. I know that. Been called stupid, dumb, every other name in the book. But even a Neanderthal with two brain cells still has feelings.”
Shit.
Guilt swarms my gut like angry wasps around a nest, and though it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, my instinct is to retract my previous sentiments.
“Look, I didn’t—”
“You did, actually.” The words are clipped, though his voice remains soft. His attention shifts away from me, and he shakes his head. “Just forget I asked, all right?”
With that, he drags my door open, steps into the hall, and gently closes the door behind him.
And I’m left staring at the spot he disappeared from, feeling like a complete dick.