Page 26 of Steam

“We’ve got this kid in Manchester regional,” Bernard said. “Apparently they want him transitioned from Design to Technical Artist, but there’s nobody out there to train him.”

“So you’re going to add that to my plate,” Logan had said, knowing where the conversation was going.

“Not yet,” Bernard had said. “We’re thinking about maybe just a mentorship. Do some desktop sharing with him sometimes, maybe Skyping once or twice a week. We’ll compensate you for it as a consultancy. They just want to know whether or not it’s going to be worth their time to fly him out stateside.”

“OK,” Logan had said. “I’ll chew on it.”

And he had, calculating the risks and potential payouts.

Life wasn’t all that different from a slot machine—the odds of it turning out in your favor were just as dismal.

But in the end, he’d taken on the mentee. Oliver Fremont. It started out informal, just like Bernard had suggested. They barely spoke at first, Oliver watching him on a shared screen as he worked for a few hours each week. But Oliver began to ask questions—a process that was almost as infuriating as it was insightful. He had such an oblique, bizarre way of coming at problems in game design. The kid was the goddamn definition of “thinking outside the box” and it didn’t take long for Logan to understand why Manchester wanted him moved up the ranks quickly.

Next came Skyping. The chat side was easier than email and it made sense to communicate in real time while they worked out design problems.

Chat turned to calls. Turned out they had a nice dynamic. Oliver didn’t seem afraid of Logan at all, despite his intimidating title of Senior Technical Game Designer, despite the age difference, despite the fact that Logan was borderline rude during most of their initial interactions.

And it helped that Oliver was an absolute fucking goofball, half of the time inventing his own nonsense words to describe what they were doing in-game. They jived well together. He challenged Logan. And Logan found himself ringing Oliver via Skype at all hours of the day, even when they weren’t officially working, to help him through difficult problems, to bounce ideas, to get feedback on in-game art design.

Of course they got to talking about things outside of the casino life. Oliver wanted to know what Nevada was like. Logan wanted to know about Europe. They branched into social media. And over the course of months, Oliver became a friend to him.

By design, Logan didn’t have many friends. But Oliver was easy, low maintenance, drama free.

* * *

After three months, Logan had another call from Bernard.

“Just wanted to follow up on the British kid,” Bernard had said. “Your consultancy contract is about to be up and Manchester wants a formal report on Fremont. But between you and me, do you think he’s worth us putting him up somewhere for training?”

“Absolutely,” Logan had said without hesitation. “Hell, if they’ll fly him out here, they won’t even have to put him up anywhere. The kid can stay with me.”

“Always wondered what you needed with two bedrooms in that giant fucking condo of yours,” Bernard had said. “Have you ever even seen the inside of the second bedroom or have you scheduled a precise rotation back and forth between the two?”

“Fuck you,” Logan had said.

In the end, Oliver never used the second bedroom.

Not even once.

Logan was there to pick Oliver up from the airport, the 26 year old bounding through the security gates, sprinting to Logan and hugging him like they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in ages.

Logan had been shocked at the warm contact, at how genuinely excited the other man was to see him. They fell into easy conversation as they picked up his bags from the luggage carousel and made their way out to Logan’s sedan. Oliver had wanted to celebrate what he saw as his incredible good luck, insisting on going straight to a bar, on buying the first of many rounds.

They hadn’t even made it home to Logan’s condo before they had a plan to drink, parking in the condo complex’s underground garage before abandoning Oliver’s luggage in the car and making an immediate detour to Logan’s favorite bar across the street.

The spot, housed inside of a 24-hour casino, felt natural for the two of them as they grabbed drinks and walked the slots floor. Oliver began to point out the IGT machines that he knew Logan had a hand in designing, asking him questions about the development, the latest theme packages, wanting to know what sets were in store for the next season, which machines had been deemed too loose and what had been done to fix them.

It was a nice ego stroke, and Logan was also pleased with how the kid held his liquor.

“I knew we were compatible, Oliver,” he’d said over the second or third toast of the evening, “but this really seals the deal.”

Oliver had smiled widely, and Logan couldn’t ignore the tug in his belly as he realized just how lovely Oliver was face to face—all wild hair and tawny skin and seemingly endless enthusiasm.

The sun sets fast in Reno. By four, it’s always beginning to get dark as the sun dips behind the mountains that cradle the city.

So seven o’clock felt like midnight as they stumbled their way arm in arm back to Logan’s condo on that first night. They didn’t bother to pick up Oliver’s luggage, opting instead to head straight up.

The ride to the 35th floor was quick and only gave Oliver enough time in privacy to press his body up against Logan’s—only a moment to enjoy the collision of mouth on mouth—until the doors were opening up into a shared hallway and Logan was fumbling to find his keys.

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