“Yeah, that was probably for the best.” I run my tongue over my lower lip before uttering, “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”
“Don’t be,” he replies instantly, shaking his head. “But I hope you know how wrong he is.”
“About?”
“You and your art,” he says simply. “I know you don’t love it when I watch you draw instead of, you know,studying, but I can’t help it. You’re really talented, Logan.”
I notice how he says my name, rather than calling me Little Reed. I have no idea if it was a conscious choice or not, but either way, I’m grateful for it. Fuck, it’s enough to have tears pooling at the corners of my eyes, and I lift my gaze toward the night sky to prevent them from falling.
“It doesn’t matter. Not in his eyes.”
“Then fuck what he thinks.”
A sardonic laugh slips free, and I toss my hand in his direction. “Easy to say when you’re exactly the type of person he’d want for a son.”
My voice wavers with the statement, and despite my best efforts, a few stray tears spill down my cheeks. They’re warm against my freezing skin, and I quickly wipe them away with the back of my hand before Camden notices them.
He shifts to face me, and I can feel his gaze tracing my features, burning my skin like a white-hot laser with every pass it makes.
“Oakley never mentioned this side of your dad.”
“Because he doesn’t know it exists,” I scoff, my attention shifting from the water back to my date. “We might have the same parents, but we were raised by two very different fathers.”
Another tear spills over, but this time, it barely makes it past my lashes before he catches it with his thumb. Brushing it away, he whispers the same question as earlier, just as gently as he did before.
“What do you need?”
And that simple question breaks something inside me. His kindness paired with the warmth of his skin against my face has me physically restraining myself from leaning into his touch like a dog nuzzling its owner.
My jaw tenses, and I pull back, breaking the connection before I can do something that stupid. That fucking pathetic.
“You don’t have to pretend right now,” I whisper, looking away. “It’s just you and me.”
“Me caring about you isn’t for show.”
I scoff, glancing back at him. “Since when?”
“Since you’re the closest thing I have to a friend these days,” he admits, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small smile. “And I really hate it when my friends are upset. It’s why I make such a great court jester, always able to provide comedic relief when shit hits the fan.”
His words trigger something inside me, and I’m brought back to a few weeks ago after his game when Louis called. I thought it odd how he’d so quickly shifted his demeanor when he answered the phone, almost as if he were donning a mask or sliding into the role of the playboy—all charm and no brain or substance.
But I’ve seen behind the façade firsthand. Sure, some of the ridiculous things that come out of his mouth are a thousand percent real, but at his core, the person he presents to the world couldn’t be further from the truth.
He’s thoughtful, charismatic, and humble. Gentle and caring. Emotionally intelligent in moments of need. All things I’d never thought him to be until now.
“Except that’s not who you really are,” I find myself whispering.
His nostrils flare slightly, and tension lines his jaw and neck while he looks at me. “Now who’s the one pretending?”
I don’t know if either of us are. That’s the problem.
The thought has me glancing out of my periphery toward the building, finding a few people loitering just beyond the glass doors. Most of them have their backs to us, mingling amongst themselves, but there is one guy standing at the door, his attention curiously fixed on myself and Camden instead.
I don’t recognize him, though there’s no reason I particularly should. The hockey world may be small, but being part of it—even just by association—still has its limitations.
“We’re being watched. A reporter, I think,” I murmur, though I have absolutely no evidence behind it.
Camden is still staring at me, now with even more tension coiled in his body, when I look back at him. Or maybe it’s mine that’s coiled tight and ready to snap, especially when his gaze drops down to my mouth, lingering there for far longer than is reasonable.
