Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Camden
December — Five Months Later
My body aches in ways I never knew possible as I drop onto the bench of the locker room in Madison Square Garden, but I’m also vibrating with adrenaline unlike any other time. From the hoots and hollers echoing through the space, my teammates are on the same wavelength.
“Nice job tonight, Rook,” Sully says, clapping me on the back as I pull off my skates.
I shoot a grin at our captain, Darren Sullivan, who happens to be a former Blackmore center. And I mean almost a decade former, which is why I’ve taken to calling him—
“Thanks, Old Man. Glad you could finally find the net in the second period.”
He scoffs and waves me off, but there’s a wry grin on his lips as he mutters something about “Damn Timberwolves” under his breath, despite us both being on the Chicago Blaze roster now.
When I got the call up from the AHL farm team earlier this week, part of me thought it was some kind of joke. Even as I was dressing before the game earlier tonight, I was expecting Ashton Kutcher to pop out and tell me I’ve been Punk’d.
And yet, here I am, taking home a win after my rookie debut in the NHL.
My mind replays every minute of the game as I shower and redress, and I find myself picking apart my gameplay the way I never used to before; mostly because playing against this caliber of players takes it to a whole new level.
Still, I like to think I did a pretty decent job tonight.
I secured the win, after all, though I doubt Quinton will ever shut up about the goal he snuck by me in the second period—especially when I know damn well how killer his backhand is after playing with him for two years.
I just wish we didn’t have to head back home tonight, if only so I could grab dinner with him and Oakley.
It would be great to catch up since I haven’t seen them in person since the wedding.
Maybe rub the win in their faces a bit too.
And, of course, shamelessly inquire about Logan. Not that I get much intel from Oakley these days. He usually sticks to saying “you should ask him yourself” or some other prompt to get me to reach out.
I don’t, of course, no matter how much I want to. It doesn’t stop me from thinking about him, though. Every fucking day. Doesn’t keep me from wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake that I’m gonna regret for the rest of my life.
But I heard what he said that day in his speech. About love. About sacrifice. And I have to stand firm in my belief that, sometimes, making sacrifices for love means letting that person go. Loving them from a distance. So that’s what I’m doing, even if it hurts.
I check my texts after grabbing my bag, ready to head out to the charter bus that’ll take us to the airport.
There’s a text from Louis offering his congratulations on my first win, same with my brother, and there’s over a hundred in the group chat with all the guys, which I’m definitely saving for the flight home.
Quinton also sent a text in a chat with just me and Oakley, and I snort when I read the message.
Quinton: Congrats on your first NHL win, Steele. Still pissed about a loss at home, but at least I got to light the lamp on you once tonight.
Yeah, called that one.
I’m in the middle of typing out a reply when a text from Oakley comes in.
Oakley: Just don’t enjoy your victory present too much, okay?
My brows draw together as I push open the locker room door, and I frown at the screen, having no clue what kind of victory present he’s—
“Cam.”
My heart stalls in my chest when I glance up, finding Logan leaning against the wall across from me.
One of his heart-stopping smiles rests on his lips, and if that weren’t enough to send me into a tailspin, then him wearing a red and yellow Blaze jersey definitely is.
Or maybe it’s the number I catch on his sleeves that really does me in.
My number.
Except, I know it can’t be. Logistically, it’s impossible. Tonight was my first game; fan jerseys with my number don’t even exist yet. Still, the thought that it could be has my heart catching in my throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone find my voice.
“Little Reed,” I croak before clearing my throat. “What are you doing here?”
Still smiling, he pushes off the wall and holds out his hands, motioning to the space around us as he approaches me. “Well, I thought I’d finally cash in on the perks of nepotism and wait outside the locker room to meet the players after the game.”
An uncomfortable laugh slips out. “Uh, well, I think you got the wrong locker room.”
“I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head. He stops a foot away, close enough for me to see that cracked pattern of his chestnut eyes. “See, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Chicago brought up this stellar goalie from the AHL tonight. I decided I needed to see him in action for myself.”
The muscle in my jaw tenses as I grit my teeth together, attempting to gain control of the emotions coursing through me. Because what he’s implying? I can’t let my heart get carried away by it.
“Your brother plays for New York, Lo. You don’t have to pretend you’re here—”
“There’s no playing pretend when it comes to you,” he cuts in. “And yeah, Oak may play for the Knights, but the only reason I came to New York was to see you play.”
My mouth goes drier than the goddamn Sahara in the summer, and I gape at him wordlessly. Because, fuck, what am I supposed to say to that? How am I supposed to react?
So I just say the first goddamn thing that comes to my mind.
“You hate hockey.”
“But I love you,” he counters instantly, a little smile forming. “Which means I was gonna be at your rookie debut, regardless of where or when it was.”
Those three goddamn words leave his mouth so freely, but they slice through me like the blade on a skate, leaving me wincing from the pain of their impact.
“But we’re not together. We’re not—”
He shakes his head, immediately rejecting the implications my statement holds.
“That doesn’t matter. You’ve shown up for me, time and time again, well before we went and complicated things. There’s no way I wasn’t gonna do the same. Not when I know how much this means to you.”
“Well, thank you. I…” I trail off, once again at a loss for words.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, neither of us saying anything, and yet so many unspoken emotions pass through the scant bit of space between our faces. I can almost read each one in his expression too; the fear, the uncertainty.
The longing I know my own features must be reflecting back at him.
“I miss you,” he whispers, his voice cracking.
I hear the pain in it, and it’s a pain I understand more than I care to admit.
Because I miss him too. The same way I’d be missing my hockey stick while defending the net.
The way I’d miss a limb if it were suddenly severed from my body.
I fucking miss him every minute of every day.
That hasn’t stopped since we last saw each other at his brother’s wedding.
But just like then, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to give life to those thoughts and feelings. All that would do is breathe hope into a hopeless situation.
And that’s a cruelty neither of us deserve.
“Logan…” I trail off, feeling my lips contort into a grimace. “I can’t.”
“You can’t?” he repeats, a frown forming.
“I can’t have this conversation again. I mean, did you forget the way it fucking broke us both last time? And from where I’m standing, nothing has changed since then, so—”
“Except so much has changed,” he insists, his hand reaching out and wrapping around my wrist. “Baby, the only thing that hasn’t changed is me loving you.”
Fuck.
Any variation of those words has the capacity to kill me where I stand, and I don’t think I can take it.
Not tonight, when my emotions were already running so high without him standing in front of me.
So I pull from his grip and shake my head, doing my best to keep it together, despite only wanting to hold him.
“Logan, I have a flight back to Chicago to catch. I—”
“Then just take this. It’s the other reason I’m here.”
He holds out a sketchpad for me—one I hadn’t noticed he was holding until now. But I immediately recognize it as the same one he’d had on him my senior year of college.
My hand shakes ever so slightly when I take it from him, almost as if it’s a live grenade, before flipping open the cover. And again, I’m hit with a sense of recognition as I stare at the first page—one I’ve seen before, if only for a few minutes.
“It’s the one-shot. The same one I worked on back when we were…” Logan trails off, and I glance up to find him watching me intently. “I finished it over the summer after you moved out. And, um, I actually submitted it to this contest a couple months back, after getting some help translating it.”
“You did?”
He nods while gnawing at his lower lip. “Yeah. Um… It won, which means it’s getting published.
It won’t be printed until February, so this is all I have for right now, but I wanted you to have a copy.
I just didn’t know when I’d have another chance to see you again, and I thought the original would be better than nothing. ”
The ache in my chest has grown with every word, but it has nothing on the way a vise clamps around my heart to hear he’s finally doing what I always knew he could.
“That’s incredible, Lo. Congratulations. I’m really proud of you for letting the world see how talented you are.”
My gaze falls to the sketchbook in my hand, and I flip through a few more pages, already knowing I’m gonna spend the whole flight home looking at it—no matter how hard those damn speech bubbles are to read.
“Thank you for this,” I whisper, closing the cover again and returning my attention to him. “It’ll be a cool piece of proof to show off when you’re a famous manga author one day.”
“Mangaka,” he corrects with a smile. “And not to give you a chance to say I told you so, but—”
“We both know that’s your line.”