Chapter 12 #2
The servers smoothly interrupt, delivering the main course before disappearing off into the shadows once again—and damn, if I’m not tempted to join them when the hockey discussion continues.
My appetite is non-existent between my nerves and frustration, and honestly, it’s not as if my presence would be missed.
Yet I remain grounded to the spot by Camden’s thumb running gentle circles over the back of my hand, all while he continues conversing with the other men around the table.
“Well, I wouldn’t even be on the ice this season if it wasn’t for Logan,” he says suddenly.
A bolt of panic slices through my chest, and Camden’s fingers give mine a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
My father lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me this is more superstitious nonsense.”
“Oh, Travis, don’t act like you weren’t the same way when we were about to get drafted,” my uncle chides, while spearing his fork into a bite of steak.
My father and uncle toss a few playful jabs at each other, clearly reliving the glory days of their college careers, before focusing back on Camden.
“Uh, no, it’s not a superstition or anything.
It’s more that Logan’s the only reason I’m eligible to play,” Camden admits rather easily.
“I was failing one of my classes, but thankfully the professor let me make it up. But without Logan’s help studying and getting me to go see the disability office on campus, I don’t think I’d even be eligible right now. ”
Everyone at the table, including my uncle, looks taken aback by this information. Though, I suppose there’d be no reason to think Camden’s boost in grades was also because of me—Uncle Trevor probably assumed he was seeing a tutor.
Surprise!
It’s my mother who chimes into the conversation next, her fingers skating around her wine glass when she asks, “I’m sorry, Camden. I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but…you mentioned a disability?”
“I’m dyslexic. And the class I was failing had a lot of reading in it, so, um…” Cam looks over at me and offers the kind of sincere smile that has my stomach twisting into knots. “Well, I pretty much owe it all to Logan.”
He continues singing my praises to my family and Louis, recounting all the things I’ve done to help him make it this far, and I feel my face growing hotter and hotter with every word that leaves his mouth.
But it’s not the embarrassment causing my cheeks to heat—it’s the clear pride in his voice and tender warmth in his gaze.
And it’s not lost on me that this is the kind of thing a real boyfriend would do.
My mother gives my arm a gentle squeeze, and I see the same pride beaming back at me when I shift my attention to her, only for her to mouth “that’s my son” just for me to see.
Of course, Dad dumps a bucket of ice water on the moment when he offers his two cents.
“Well, from the sounds of it, maybe you should look into a teaching degree, Logan.”
The heat in my face changes on a dime, becoming that of irritation and annoyance, when I utter, “I’ve already told you, Dad, I’ve settled on art.”
He waves me off. “Yes, but you’re only a sophomore. There’s still plenty of time to change your mind.”
“Except I don’t want to change my mind,” I remind him, my words coming out with some bite now. “And you agreed to back off on the subject if I went to Leighton instead of Tufts.”
“Isn’t that an Ivy League school?” Camden whispers beside me, drawing my attention to him briefly.
I nod and whisper back, “Sort of, yeah.”
Dad, oblivious to the exchange, continues berating me. “Son, what are you going to do with an art degree? I mean, honestly. You’ve been wasting your time on it since you were a child. And, frankly, you’re too smart to be playing games with your education.”
And just like that, I snap.
“That’s rich coming from someone who never finished college so he could go play games for a fucking living.”
“Sweetheart,” Mom whispers, aiming one of those “not here” looks at me. The same one she’s given me plenty of times over the years. Which is why I know she would rather me knock it off and wait to duke it out in private, especially when there are reporters here to cover the event.
Unfortunately, my father either doesn’t catch her tone or just doesn’t care, because he keeps railroading me—like always.
“I’m just saying, the odds are stacked against you when it comes to making any sort of money at it. Sure, you have your trust, but—”
“I don’t care about making money. I care about being happy.
Not everything revolves around legacies and net worth,” I snap, my frustration morphing more into anger by the second.
“And don’t you dare talk to me about odds being stacked against me when you put one hundred and ten percent of your support behind Oakley playing hockey. ”
“It’s different, and you know that.”
A sharp, sardonic laugh slips out, and I shake my head.
“Right. Because it’s in the name,” I mutter, bitterness and resentment finally spilling over.
My father hears it in my voice too. It’s obvious from the way his nostrils flare while he lifts his scotch off the table. “It is. But don’t forget, it’s a name you also bear.”
I can read between the lines of his statement better than I can my own name.
If it isn’t hockey, you need to do something else with your life. Something that won’t make a mockery of the Reed family.
I glare at him, feeling every bit the petulant child he’s often made me out to be.
I expected tonight to be uncomfortable—I was even prepared for another clash of the titans. I still came, though, despite not wanting to. Still put my best foot forward on a night meant to celebrate him.
But his night or not, I don’t need to stick around and act as his punching bag.
Wiping my mouth, I toss my napkin on the plate I barely touched and push back from the table, careful not to draw too much attention to myself.
“Excuse me, I need some air.”
I bolt from the ballroom, heading toward where I know an attached terrace overlooks Lake Michigan.
It’s empty and lit by lamplight, and without thinking, I shove through the glass double doors.
The brisk winter air hits me like a freight train the second I step outside, but I ignore the urge to go back in for my coat and stride toward the granite balustrade enclosing the terrace edge.
My palms press against the cool stone, and I take a deep breath in an attempt to temper the frustration welling inside me.
It’s gotta be damn near zero degrees, and it feels like shards of ice are stabbing me in the throat with every inhale, but I don’t care.
I just focus on the sound of the wind whipping around me as I stare out over the dark, expansive lake, willing myself to calm down.
A few minutes pass like that, the only sound coming from the wind, the crackling ice on the lake, and my breathing.
But then I hear the hinges of the glass doors opening and closing again, alerting me that I’m no longer alone.
I tense, waiting for either of my parents’ voices to echo out into the night.
Instead, I’m greeted with the sound of footfalls approaching, only for them to stop as something is draped around my shoulders.
My jacket, I realize.
Gratitude wells within me, and it takes everything I have not to start tearing up—my emotions seemingly coming to a head all at once.
Camden’s tall, limber form leans against the stone railing beside me as I take a moment to slide my arms into the sleeves. His back is to the water, gaze fixed on the doors he’d just come through, when he asks a simple question to break the silence.
“What do you need?”
God, I wish I fucking knew.
“I don’t know,” I answer. Dropping my head back to stare at the sky, I lace my fingers together at the base of my skull. “Just give me a minute.”
“Okay. Take your time,” he murmurs gently.
Silence falls over us again, much like the flurries in the air have begun blanketing the balcony, but once my aggravation subsides, it’s quite comfortable.
Peaceful, even. But it doesn’t last for long when all the chatter and festivities happening inside start creeping out into the night, though slightly muted through the glass.
I have to go back inside—I know that—though no part of me wants to.
More than anything, I’d like to grab Camden by the arm and get far, far away from this place.
Maybe stop somewhere for a slice of Chicago-style pizza before we head back to the townhouse, because the food inside sucks just as much as the company.
Yet I’m still standing here, rooted in place, and making no efforts to change that.
Releasing a long, drawn-out sigh, I shift my focus over to Camden, noting he’s still watching the door, almost like he’s playing bodyguard while I take a moment to have a meltdown.
Dressed in his black suit, complete with black button-down and black tie, he almost looks the part.
And, yeah, despite how begrudgingly I admitted it earlier, he does look really damn good in it too.
“I was expecting my parents to come find me, not you,” I murmur once I finally find my words again.
His gaze slides to me, those clear blue eyes almost a midnight navy in this lighting. “Your mom tried, but I told them it was probably better I come check on you.”
A rueful little scoff slips out, and I nod.
“Yeah, that was probably for the best.” I run my tongue over my lower lip before uttering, “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”
“Don’t be,” he replies instantly, shaking his head. “But I hope you know how wrong he is.”
“About?”
“You and your art,” he says simply. “I know you don’t love it when I watch you draw instead of, you know, studying, but I can’t help it. You’re really talented, Logan.”