Epilogue
Logan
Eighteen Months Later — June
Stanley Cup Finals, Game Seven: Chicago Blaze v. New York Knights
“You know, you’re gonna miss the whole game if you never look up from your sketchbook.”
My gaze lifts, finding my mother staring down at me with mirth in her eyes. She drops onto the couch near the back of our box, the same one I’ve been occupying since the start of the game, and a flush heats my cheeks when I realize we’re already eight minutes into the second period.
Ah, shit.
My attention flashes to her, and I give a helpless little shrug. “I know, Mom. But I’m on this really big deadline with work, and—”
“We’re in game seven, Logan.”
I glance toward the sound of my father’s voice, surprised to find him approaching from where he’s been perched on a barstool at the outer edge of the box. He’s barely left the spot all evening, more engrossed in the game between the Blaze and the Knights than anyone else in here.
Game seven, as he just so aptly reminded me.
“Yeah, I got that, Dad. But my career is just as important as Cam’s is,” I remind him, arching a brow. “And like I said, I’m on a deadline, so…”
My father looks as if he wants to argue, but my mother shoots him a brief, silent look. It’s one I’ve seen her aim at him often as of late—especially with me coming back into the hockey fold last season—and I know it’s meant to tell him to lay off.
And to my surprise, most of the time, it has the intended effect.
“I’m not saying your work isn’t important, because it is. I’m just saying…” He trails off, his attention slicing to my mother, then back to me. “Can it maybe wait until the next intermission? God forbid this is only a once-in-a-lifetime moment for him; I’d hate for you to miss it.”
Guilt lances through me, because he does have a fair point: This is the last game of the season, and there’s no guarantee Cam will ever play in another Final—and even more unlikely for it to be against my brother and Quinton.
With a drawn-out sigh—which is more for posterity than out of actual annoyance—I flip my sketchbook closed and commit myself to watching the rest of this game without opening the damn thing again.
Though, if I’m being honest, it could probably wait until we’re home from New York entirely.
The submission I’m working on has been “done” for weeks now, but with it being the first of my own work I’ll be handing over to my publisher at the end of the month, I’m trying to perfect it as much as I can.
And if this game goes the way I’m hoping it will, there won’t be any time for me to work on it for the next week. After all, the post-win celebratory fuck just for getting into the Finals lasted almost two days, so I can only imagine how long it’ll be if they actually win the damn thing.
The sacrifice made for love, Logan.
As if spending days on end getting naked and sweaty in every room of our apartment could ever be a sacrifice.
Mom rises off the couch and places a gentle kiss on my father’s cheek before ducking into the box’s private restroom. I expect my father to make himself scarce again—or maybe grab a beer from the bar across the room—but instead, he plops down where Mom was just sitting.
“Not to be nosey,” he says, motioning toward my sketchbook, “but why aren’t you drawing on an iPad or something? Isn’t most of this stuff digital now?”
“I do, sometimes,” I admit while tucking it into my bag, only to pull out my tablet to confirm. “The project I’m working on is early enough in the process that they won’t mind it being hand drawn, that’s all.”
Granted, even with spending the past year assisting one of the top artists at our publisher, I have an extreme distaste for drawing on the damn thing. It’s part of the process these days, so I still do it, but I happen to think it takes away from the magic of putting ink on paper.
My father simply nods before briefly glancing over toward the rink again, where the Blaze fans have started some sort of chant. I can tell he’s itching to get back to watching the game, which is why I motion in that direction.
“I’m done working. You don’t have to stay here to watch me or whatever.”
“No, no, I’m not. I just…” His gaze slides back to me, only to fall to my bag. “Maybe you can show me what you’re working on, some other time. When it’s done, or just, whenever. Camden mentioned it’s really something special, and…I’d like to see it.”
My lips roll inward, and despite my immediate apprehension, I nod.
“Uh, yeah. Okay.”
He smiles before clapping me on the thigh gently and then rising off the couch.
I watch, a little dumbstruck, as he makes his way over to the bar where all the food is laid out, chatting up Cam’s dad, Brian, while making himself a plate.
Part of me can’t believe that just happened, and an even larger portion of me wonders if anything will come of it.
But, either way, the effort has to count for something. He may not understand what I do—or me, in general—but he’s trying, and that’s more than he’s ever done before.
Cam’s mom, Laura, notices me getting up, and I offer her a wave before heading over to one of the empty seats overlooking the rink, making a mental note to bring this conversation up to Cam later. I’d love to know what was said to prompt the breakthrough.
Though, regardless of the hows or whys, it does make me glad I didn’t take my wonderful fiancé’s suggestion on making this new story about the two of us.
God knows I don’t need my parents seeing all the sordid details of how we got to where we are today.
Or Laura, who has taken quite an interest in my art as well.
Of course, not creating a full-fledged story based on the two of us doesn’t stop me from drawing little scenes out for him as gifts.
Private ones he refers to as his own little episodes, which is both hilarious and not totally inaccurate.
I usually hide one in his duffle when he’s about to leave for a stint of away games, or sometimes I’ll add them into gifts for holidays and his birthday, since he loves them so much.
Or I’ll give him one on random special occasions, like tonight, for example. If he brings home this trophy, I have a very special one waiting for him: the dick-copter episode.
I just hope it goes better than the last special occasion a few weeks ago—the day I attempted to propose. Emphasis on attempted, because the sweet, lovable jackass he is…he beat me to the punch.
I’d been working out how to ask Cam to marry me for weeks and finally decided the right moment was the night before he was supposed to leave for the Finals.
I did everything right, making a reservation at the restaurant in the Grand Shoreline, intending to lure him out onto the terrace that holds so many memories for us—both good and bad.
I drew it all out too; spent God knows how many hours with my pen scribbling against paper trying to get it just right.
But as the saying goes, even the best laid plans go awry, and Cam made sure of it.
Of course, as soon as I saw him drop to one knee on the terrace, I was done for, and that was before he started talking about how much he loves me, how he’s the happiest he’s ever been, only to make me an offer I could never refuse.
“You’ve despised your last name since you were a kid, so if you’ll allow me, I’d love to give you a new one.”
There was no way I could be upset after a moment like that.
And the look on his face when I pulled out a ring of my own? Well, that was fucking priceless. My lips twitch just thinking about it, even now, as I drop into the empty seat between Lexi and Cam’s brother, Marcus.
I feel my best friend’s gaze boring into me like lasers, and I try to school my features but to no avail.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Logan Reed smiling during a hockey game? Someone better take a picture to commemorate the moment.”
I glance over and flip her off, but she just shoves my hand away with a laugh.
“Stop being a dickhead and put that thing away.”
“You’re the one making snide comments and I’m the dickhead?”
“Uh, yeah. Obviously.” She smirks, cocking her head. “And if you thought I’d miss out on a chance to poke fun at you for actually watching the game like the rest of us, you don’t know your best friend very well.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter with an eyeroll. “How’re our guys looking?”
Our guys is still such a weird statement to me, despite her joining the WAG ranks with me earlier this season.
Even with her so clearly sporting a red and gold Sullivan jersey, it’s still a bit hard to wrap my mind around her and Sully being together.
Not because of the age difference, but just because… I never would’ve imagined it.
But when Lexi came to visit for Cam’s home opener back in October, he made the introduction to Sully, the two of them hit it off, and…here we are, with the two of them moving in together next month.
Her lips part, as if she’s about to explain what’s been happening the last period and a half, only for her brows to draw down in a frown. “You know, I can’t even begin to answer that. Even after spending most of the season up in the box with you, I still don’t entirely understand this sport.”
“Welcome to my entire childhood, Lex,” I reply wryly, and she laughs.
“Well, if I’m sure of anything that’s happening down there, it’s that your brother wants to kill your boyfriend.”
Fiancé, I correct internally with a little smirk, though no one here actually knows that yet.
And, regardless of his title, Cam getting under Oak’s skin isn’t an unusual occurrence when the two of them face off against one another on the ice.
Or Quinton and Cam, for that matter, but I take the bait anyway.
“What makes you say that?”
“My best guess is because Camden isn’t letting him score,” comes from Marcus.