“As much as I’d like to take credit, I think that belongs to Coach too. I’m training under one of the best goalies in recent history, as you know better than anyone.”
“Don’t do that, Steele,” Uncle Trevoradmonishes with a wave. “You have a natural gift. It’s my job to enhance it and teach you to harness it.”
“You’re just letting the history comment roll off your back, huh?” Dad jokes jovially before taking a sip from his dark glassof liquor.
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 unclechides, 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 daysof 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 ofme—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’twantto 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 goplay gamesfor 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.
