I motion toward his sketchbook, then his face. “You’re clearly upset about something. If it’s not me, then what is it?”
“No, I’m—”
“You’re not a very good liar?” I interrupt, arching a brow. “Yeah, I know. So…”
Logan huffs out a little laugh and lets his pen clatter to the counter. “Okay, yeah. I’m annoyed, but it’s not with you. It’s my parents making me attend some stupid award banquet for my dad and uncle.”
“The alumni awards?”
“Yes,” he mutters with a huff. “Which is just a fucking bullshit excuse for my dad to relive his college glory days and add another fucking plaque or trophy or whatever else to that fucking trophy room at the house.”
My lips roll inward, having never heard that many F-bombs leave him in such a short span of time. Then again, I haven’t really seen him get this heated about hockey, his dad, or really anything before now.
Honestly, I’ve done my best to avoid the subject of hockey altogether around him, and apart from the smallest bit he shared about not knowing how to skate, I still have no idea where this loathing stems from. And while I’m wholly aware it’s none of my business, it doesn’t stop me from becoming more curious about it.
While running my fingers over the rim of my mug, I somehow find the nerve to hedge the topic ever so slightly.
“Can I ask you something without you getting upset?”
He arches a brow at me. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”
Guess that’s better than nothing.
I drum my fingers on the ceramic mug some more, looking for the right way to ask this, before deciding it might be better to just rip off the Band-Aid instead. “What is it with you and hockey? I mean, I can understand not loving a sport—I can’t stand watching basketball myself. But this just seems…different.”
To his credit, Logan doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by my question or the blunt delivery of it. From the way his gaze drops and he leans back on the stool, it’s almost as if he was expecting it. Like he’s beenwaitingfor it, even.
“It’s notjustabout hockey,” he states, his tone low and even. “Yeah, it’s like…the cornerstone, or whatever. But it’s deeper than just my dad and my uncle and Oakley and this stupid legacy I was expected to fit into.”
“Expected to?” I echo, leaning my forearms on the countertop.
His eyes lift to find mine, and I can see him weighing how much armor he’s willing to take off—how much of himself he’s resigned to bring into the light.
“Ever since I was a kid, hockey has been held up on this pedestal, you know? I don’t exactly remember the first few times my parents put me on the ice when I was, I don’t know, maybe three or four. But it didn’t go well, according to my mom. I just didn’t take to it the way my brother did, and I guess that really frustrated my dad,” he tells me while rolling his eyes. “It didn’t help that Oakley was seven or eight then, and already skating with club teams, playing really well, showing all this promise.”
“But he was older than you. Of course he’d be doing better.”
I mean, the skater I was at six and then at nine are completely different. There’s no reason he—or his dad—should’ve expected him to keep up with Oakley.
“Oakley was already skating around with a stick in his hand when he was that age, though, so it was almost like…what was wrong with me that I couldn’t?” His voice cracks toward the end, but he just clears his throat and continues. “I remember sitting in the bleachers, watching my brother compete in some tournament—it was maybe a year later, at that point—and I just got this feeling. Like, I knew I wassupposedto love it, but I was so indifferent about it. I think my dad hoped watching Oakleyplay would make me want to do it too, you know? But I didn’t care at all. I’d been more interested in drawing and coloring with whatever my mom brought to keep me occupied.
“My dad gave up pretty quickly after that. But then it felt like everything was always Oakley this, Oakley that. His schedule, his team’s seedings, his ice time, his promise and talent, and I was just the little brother who couldn’t even stay upright on a pair of skates.”
With every word that leaves Logan’s mouth, the vise around my torso clamps tighter and tighter, making it feel nearly impossible to breathe. More than anything, I want to reach out and hold his hand, wrap him in a hug, something to give him a bit of comfort while he divulges all this to me.
But I have a feeling he’d hate that even more, so I just sit here, helplessly, and continue to listen.
“It didn’t just begin and end with hockey, though; it slowly bled over into everything. It didn’t matter that I was the better student or that I had other talents, I still wasn’t Oakley. I still wasn’t the son my dad wanted me to be. So I’ve spent my entire life stuck being compared to him. Been stuck…losingto him. I got into a great art school? Well, it wasn’t a full ride for hockey at Dad’s alma mater. I graduated top of my class in high school? Not as good as Oakley bringing home the City Championship trophy his senior year.” His face contorts into a pained smile, and a humorless laugh spills from his lips. “I was the fucking valedictorian of my class, and my dad didn’t even come to graduation. He decided that was the perfect time to celebrate Oakley and Quinton’s Frozen Four win by taking them to watch the Stanley Cup Finals instead.”
I’m floored by what he tells me, and at a total loss for words by the time he finishes, but I do my best to find some.
“I’m sorry, Logan. That’s…incredibly fucked-up, and you deserved better.”
His gaze finally finds mine again, and I can tell before he even speaks that his moment of vulnerability is over; now he’s hardening back into the stoic, more controlled version of Logan.
“The point is, it’s not just about hockey; there are very few things in the world that feel like mineanymore. Things Oakley can’t touch. Things that this stupid legacy doesn’t touch. And even then, he still finds a way to overshadow them. Taint them.” Pausing, he motions between the two of us with one hand and says, “I mean, this is even tainted by that. You were his friend and teammate long before I ever came into the picture.”
Instinctively, I reach across the counter, placing my hand on his forearm. “But I’myourboyfriend. Fake or not. And, personally, I don’t think he could’ve gotten me through this semester the way you have.”
