Chapter 9
Nine
Logan
I couldn’t reserve one of the study rooms for tonight’s tutor session with Camden, and with the semester in full swing, the library is relatively busy when we arrive after his practice.
Most of the tables on the first few floors are full too, much to my dismay, so I’m stuck grabbing the first available spot I can find.
Unfortunately, it’s one of those weird modular couches they put in various parts of the library—the ones with massive backs to offer privacy, but also acts as blinders to help focus.
It’s not the most ideal option, that’s for sure.
I have half a mind to just go back to the house instead, but Camden’s already dropping onto one half of the sofa and pulling out his computer to finish his final make-up assignment.
All right, then.
Sinking into the empty space beside him, I pull my sketchbook and pen from my backpack. These study sessions have been convenient for me getting more done on my manga, using the time he’s focused on his assignment to draw until he’s ready for me to check his work.
At least these couch things are more comfortable than sitting at a table in those tiny study rooms. Or, that’s my thought until I realize Camden is massive, his six-foot-three frame taking up far more room than reasonable and making it impossible for me to get settled while sitting normally.
Slightly annoyed, I turn ninety degrees so I’m facing him, and pull my legs up, crossing them in front of me. Thankfully, the insanely tall privacy screens are cushioned on the surrounding three sides, giving me something to lean back against.
Oblivious, Camden sets to work immediately, but I still check that he’s actually in his work document, not surfing the web or—God forbid—watching porn. When I find that isn’t the case, I pop in one AirPod, allowing the sound of Loveless to help me get lost in my own work.
Twenty minutes of silence pass, the two of us consumed in our tasks, before he finally breaks my concentration.
“Is that for a class?”
I glance up, and he nods toward my sketchbook in my lap. My left hand tightens around my pen, and I fight the instinct to cover the page I’m working on. Mostly because I never let people see my unfinished work—or let anyone see it at all.
“Yes and no,” I answer vaguely. “I have an assignment I can turn it in for, but I was already working on it beforehand.”
I expect that to be the end of it, dropping my attention back to my drawing, but Camden clearly has other plans when he asks another question.
“Art is what you’re going to school for, right?”
“Much to my parents’ dismay,” I mutter bitterly, not even looking up.
“Why’s that?”
Gaze still locked on where my pen meets the paper, I reply, “Well, for one, I’m a Reed and I don’t play hockey. My choice to go to school for art rather than becoming a lawyer or something just adds insult to injury.”
Camden’s quiet for a moment—long enough for me to assume it’s the end of the conversation—before he starts right back up again.
“I think my mom went to art school. Or maybe her degree was in art history? I’m not one hundred percent sure, but she owns an art gallery now.”
This new fact manages to pique my interest, and I glance up from what I’m doing to ask, “Where at?”
“In Montpieler. Vermont,” he clarifies. “My dad, funnily enough, is a lawyer there. They’re divorced—have been since I was really little—but they’ve always been very civil for my and my brother’s sake.”
His mention of a sibling causes me to frown, brows knitting together at the center.
“I would’ve thought you were an only child.”
“Nah, there’s two of us. Marcus is a bit older; super smart and driven, like our parents.
Always did well in school, and after college, he went on to do some biotech engineering stuff that I won’t even pretend to understand, but it makes my parents insanely proud.
” He pauses, tapping his fingers on this thigh for a second.
“Him being so successful definitely makes my shortcomings more noticeable in my parents’ eyes, though.
Being the dyslexic son who struggled in nearly every subject in school kinda sucks when he’s off…
I don’t know. Curing cancer or some shit. ”
I hum, nodding. Little does he realize, I know far more about the shadows cast by an older brother than I wish I did. Which has to be the reason I find myself tapping my pen and uttering a sentence I rarely give life to.
One I hope like hell he doesn’t notice is a projection of my relationship with my brother.
“I’m sure that must make you resentful of him.”
His shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Not really, no. He’s my brother; I love him, and I want him to get everything he’s worked for.
Most days I can prevent myself from playing the comparison game, but moments like this” —he gestures toward the assignment on his laptop screen— “make it hard not to feel like the only talent I have is skating around with blades on my feet. Which, of course, is relatively useless and has a slim chance of taking me anywhere in life.”
“Not slim” I argue, shaking my head. “You heard Louis the other night; there are lots of teams interested in drafting you.”
“Now that I’m dating a Reed.”
There’s a hint of annoyance tainting the statement, and it doesn’t take a biotech engineer to realize he wants his talent and merit to be the reason he’s taken seriously. From the sound of it, he wishes his fake boyfriend wasn’t a Reed.
That’s something I’m not used to.
Usually my last name is the draw for people.
Even someone like Louis, who has been like family for years, is ready to “use this relationship” to further his client’s career; something he decided with such quickness and ease, it’s been difficult not to feel a little bitter about it—no matter the validity of said relationship.
But yet again, Camden’s showing the complete opposite intention, and has been every moment since we made this deal. I think it’s one of the only reasons I’ve found myself really rooting for this to work out for him.
“Teams were interested in you before I ever came into the picture. And you’ve got Louis on your side to help make it all happen. Just look at what he’s done for Oakley and Quinton.”
Camden’s jaw remains set despite the truth to my claims, and he shakes his head.
“Maybe, but it isn’t like it was for your brother and Quinton. I’ve got everything to prove and everything to lose if I don’t. I’ve put all my eggs in this bucket with no backup plan if I fail.”
“Then I guess we better make sure failing isn’t a possibility. Which is only gonna happen if you finish that assignment,” I remind him. Choosing not to correct his idiom, I instead point at his computer with my pen. “Now, stop distracting yourself and get back to work.”
His mouth twitches into a smirk, seeing right through my attempt at rerouting his mind back to school. But unfortunately, only ten minutes go by before I feel the heat of his gaze on me once again.
I keep my attention cast down, continuing to work on the outline of my character’s jaw despite his audience, but eventually, I can’t take it anymore.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Do you love it? Drawing, I mean?”
“I wouldn’t major in art or spend my free time doing it if I didn’t.”
There’s a beat of silence before he murmurs a soft, “Yeah, I guess.”
My jaw tenses and my gaze snaps up to find his at the seemingly apathetic response. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I’m aware of the defensiveness in my tone, but I can’t help it. It’s my gut reaction whenever someone has that nameless thing in their voice—like they’re disregarding what I enjoy, having already drawn their own conclusions on whether or not it’s worth my time.
But Camden isn’t put off by the abrasiveness. If anything, his response comes from a place of understanding.
“Nothing, really. It’s just funny because I feel the same way about hockey, but even though I love it, sometimes I question if going pro is even the right call.”
I arch a brow, ready to ask him why the hell we’re even here right now if that’s the case, but he’s quick to explain further.
“Like, I’m going to try, obviously, because I do have this deep love for it.
I think it’s more that I miss when it was fun, you know?
Even from the time I was maybe six, I was out on the pond behind my dad’s house, all by myself, with a stick in my hand trying to get better.
It very quickly became more about training and felt less like a…
passion. I mean, I can’t even remember the last time I put on a pair of skates for any other reason than for hockey. ”
It’s interesting, hearing him talk about it so differently than my dad or brother. I don’t think either of them once questioned if that was the road they were meant to take, and I know for damn certain they didn’t allow anyone else to question it either.
“I understand as much as I can considering I don’t skate at all, but—”
“Really?” he questions, brows drawn together. The crease between them only deepens when I shake my head, and he whispers, “That’s crazy, coming from the upbringing you do.”
Consider it another way the apple falls far from the Reed family tree.
Offering a non-committal shrug, I reply, “Not really. Just never wanted to learn.”
Okay, maybe it’s more of a refusal to learn on my part, but the fact remains, I’ve never set foot on ice with a pair of skates laced on my feet since Dad first tried to teach me as a little kid.
I expect a barrage of questions to come flying at me, as they often used to once people found out I’m the odd man out compared to the rest of my family. I’m so used to it. I’ve got the answers to them all poised on the tip of my tongue, sure to come out like a perfectly rehearsed speech.