“Fair point,” I muse with a little chuckle.
My eyes skim over his face, still noting the hint of insecurity in his brow and jaw that have nothing to do with a speech for his brother’s impending nuptials. And while I know I’ve done all I can to ease his worries—that it’s up to him to choose to believe it—I still find myself offering one final assurance.
“You’re gonna be great, Lo. No matter what you decide.”
He nods, a tight little smile forming.
And I have a sneaking suspicion he knows it’s not just the speech I’m talking about.
Twenty-Four
Camden
February
My schedule over the past couple weeks has been pretty relentless, consisting of hockey, class, naked-time with Logan, and minimal sleep, all on repeat. Big emphasis on the naked-time portion, because my cock has been buried deep inside Logan so much, it’s a wonder neither of us have missed class—or practice, on my end—because of it.
The copious amount of sex is also the culprit for my lack of sleep, but Logan being up at all hours of the night to draw doesn’t help matters. Granted, I could simply go to my own room, but I can’t help wanting to be close to him. To wake up beside him, feeling his body glued to mine like he turned into cling wrap while unconscious.
I think that’s my favorite part of the day.
Christ.
I’m so down bad for Little Reed, I should probably be concerned.
I’ve never felt something like this before. It’s new and unfamiliar and…just fucking terrifying. Especially since we stillhaven’t defined things between us. At every turn, I’m waiting for him to change his mind, be it from something I do or say, or simply because no one ever really wants to stay.
But I do know one thing: I’ve never been happier, and I have zero intention of jeopardizing it by questioning the status quo.
“You good, Steele?”
I glance up from where I’ve been sitting on the bench in the locker room, supposedly getting ready for our home game tonight against Waylon University, to find Brody staring down at me. From the confusion and hint of concern etched in his features—and the fact that I’m still in my street clothes—clearly all I actually managed to do was get lost in my own head.
“Peachier than a roadside fruit stand,” I tell him, and he lets out a sharp laugh.
“The shit that comes outta your mouth is exactly why goalies are labeled as the weirdos.”
“It’s also why you keep me around.”
His head bobs back and forth, lips pursed in thought before offering, “That, and you happen to have the best SV percentage in the league.”
I chuckle, noticing the heaviness on my chest lift slightly.
He does make a fair point, though. My good mood—and all the great sex—going into the second half of the season has been making me play amazing; to the point where I may have to put some stock into that superstition Quinton and Oakley had a couple years ago.
Or maybe sucking Reed dick gave me magic powers; like I’ve been deep-throating Excalibur or some shit.
Guess that’s a question for Quinton.
My lips twitch at the thought of howthatconversation would go, and it’s enough to finally pull my mind away from Logan long enough to start dressing for the game. Until I unzip my bag to grab my compression shirt, only to find a piece of paper, foldedcrisply in half, sitting on top. One with my name on it, scrawled in Logan’s messy, distinct handwriting.
What the hell?
Plucking it from where it lay, I slowly unfold it, only to realize it’s a page from his sketchbook. It’s sectioned out in different size rectangles for each scene, like a lot of his pages usually are, but after a second, I notice it’s none of the characters I’ve seen him draw before. In fact, they aren’tcharactersat all.
It’s me and him.
And each scene is a different moment we’ve shared.
