Page 18 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)

LOGAN

Me: Hey Red.

Red: What…

Me: How’s your night going?

Red: Fine.

Me: Cool. Hey, so quick question. Why was there a dude standing outside my apartment door holding flowers?

A s Coach Draper goes over some last-minute strategy tactics, I’m not even listening.

My knee bounces as I stare down at my phone, clutching the device so tight I’m surprised the screen hasn’t cracked with the pressure the longer I’m forced to sit here and stare at that godforsaken read receipt.

Millie Shaw is going to be the death of me, I swear to fuck.

“You good, man?”

I look up from my phone to see Robbie right there, his brow furrowed as he looks down at me while securing the straps on his shoulder pads. His gaze flits from my phone to me and back again as I turn the device over so it’s face down on my thigh.

“Yeah,” I mutter, avoiding his curious eyes as I grab my stick tape.

“You look nervous,” Robbie continues. “And pissed.”

Oh, if only you knew … I think to myself. Instead, I shrug a shoulder. “I’m just trying to keep focused on the game.”

“Good!” Rusty, our team captain, overhears me, and he glowers at me from across the locker room where he’s taping his socks. “Because you fuckin’ sucked last night, Cullen.”

I balk, shaking my head, because I must have heard him incorrectly. I point a finger at myself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Rusty spits. “That double clutch you pulled in the third cost us the game.”

I close my eyes on a heavy exhale because this fucking guy. Did I make a mistake last night? Yes. But I’ve already been chewed out by Coach, social media, and my fucking father. I don’t need Rusty bringing it up. Again .

“Says the guy who missed three wide open fuckin’ nets!” Dallas roars with laughter from his cubby, turning on his skates and pointing a finger a Rusty. “You can sit there and act high and mighty all you fucking like, Cap . But if anyone’s to blame for last night’s loss, it’s fucking you.”

Rusty’s face gets redder, and I can tell he’s on the verge of a meltdown. But thankfully, before things can escalate any further, Coach reins it in.

“That’s enough, the lot of you knuckleheads,” Coach Draper yells between chomps of his gum. “One more mention of last night’s disaster and you’re all riding the bench.” He’s bluffing, of course, but his empty threat does the trick, everyone shutting their mouths.

I glance across at Dallas, tipping my chin at him in silent thanks and, in return, he shoots me a wink.

And as Coach goes back to tonight’s plays, I continue taping my stick blade, which is when my phone shudders on my thigh.

I grab the device and eagerly check it, heaving a sigh of relief when I see Red’s name on the screen.

But then I open the message, regretting it the second I do, that relief turning into white, hot rage.

Red: Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m on a date.

Less than five minutes into the third period and I’m being escorted to the box for the seventh time so far tonight.

My second two-minute stint for roughing.

Frankly, I don’t even know what just happened.

But I take a seat to the tune of the home team’s fans booing me, some asshole kid slapping the glass and grabbing my attention only to flip me off.

I glance up at the replay on the Jumbotron and accept my fate with a slight grimace because even I can see my check against the Montreal D-man was uncalled for.

My head is not in this game at all, and it’s all Millie’s fault.

A fucking date? With some flower-wielding douchebag wearing a turtleneck?

This has got to be some sort of fucked up joke.

She knows I can see who comes and goes on the cameras and she’s paid some asshole to make it look like he’s taken her out because there is no way she would voluntarily go on a date with fucking Parker 2.

0. It has to be a joke. It fucking better be a fucking joke.

Rusty skates past the box and punches the glass, pulling me from my thoughts.

He flashes me a warning glower as he passes, and I roll my eyes because Rusty Morris is getting on my last fucking nerve tonight.

We’re leading four-two, three of the goals scored by me; what more does the guy fucking want?

I chomp down hard on my mouthguard, my knee bouncing as I watch the play out on the ice, and sure, my mind should be on the game, but it’s not.

Who the fuck even is this guy? Millie’s literally been in the city for what? A week? And she’s already going on dates? Where has he taken her? Is she safe? What if he’s an asshole just trying to take advantage of her? Only assholes wear turtlenecks.

When the attendant opens the door to the box, I realize my two minutes are up.

Shaking my head in an attempt to clear the possible scenarios of what Millie is currently doing with Turtleneck from my traitorous mind, I grab my stick and skate out onto the ice, racing down to where the action is happening in our zone.

But before I can get there, I’m called off the ice by Coach.

I glance back at the bench to find him waving me over, Josef waiting to climb over the boards and take my shift.

And, I don’t know why, but that only pisses me off even more.

Don’t get me wrong, Coach Draper is the boss.

I know that. And, with the way I’ve been playing tonight, giving away seven power plays, instigating shit and looking for trouble, he’s not wrong to call me off.

And, normally, I would never disobey my coach.

But tonight, I’m not myself. And instead of doing what I’m told, I play dumb and continue toward the fray currently starting behind our net, throwing my stick and gloves before launching myself onto the back of Montreal’s center.

The final siren sounds. We win by one. But I’m not there to celebrate the win with my teammates on the ice.

I’m sitting alone in the locker room, one ice pack pressed against my left eye, one pressed against my fat lip, staring down at my phone as it lights up with message after message from my father.

Dad: What the fuck was that about?

Dad: A game misconduct, Logan?

Dad: You’re a disgrace.

Dad: Levi would be rolling over in his grave.

I switch my phone off after that last one, tossing it onto the bench next to me.

I’m still fully suited up, although my helmet is lying on the floor on the opposite side of the room where I hurled it against the far wall when I walked in after receiving a game misconduct because tonight’s refs are a bunch of fucking pussies.

When I hear the telltale sound of the team on their way down the tunnel, I drop my head, staring down at my skates, spitting bloodied saliva onto the floor.

From my periphery, I see the guys start to file in, the energy suddenly palpable with tension, despite our win.

Happy takes a seat in front of his cubby next to mine, reaching over and slapping my leg in a show of support.

I cast him a glance, meeting his eyes, but I say nothing, giving him a quick nod before I’m suddenly hit in the head with an empty Gatorade bottle that bounces off me and onto the floor.

I snap my head up, glaring at the culprit, expecting it to be Rusty, but when I see Coach Draper standing there, hands on his hips, jaw chomping on his gum like a man possessed, I tamp down the rage inside of me.

I know better than to go to toe-to-toe with Lance Draper.

Sure, he’s old, but he’s also six-three and built like a brick fucking shithouse.

“What the fuck was that, Cullen?” Coach yells at me.

I swallow hard.

“Roughing, hooking, holding, high sticking, holding,” Coach reads off a piece of scrap paper in his hand like it’s a grocery list, his eyes narrowed as he looks down at me.

“You’ve always been a hot head, but that wasn’t you tonight, son.

” He shakes his head, studying me like he’s trying to figure me out.

I stare up at him through my good eye, unsure what to say because he’s one-hundred percent right. I wasn’t myself tonight. I played like a third line fucking goon.

“I’m sorry,” I finally manage, my throat thick with frustration .

“You what?” Coach leans down, making a show of cupping a hand around his ear.

I clear my throat. “I said I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you’re sorry ?” he mocks, turning to his coaching team. “He’s sorry .”

Gritting my teeth to stop myself from saying something I know I’ll regret, my jaw clenches painfully hard.

Coach turns back to me, scrunching up the piece of paper in his hand and tossing it at my head. “Well, you better get yourself ready to face tribunal tomorrow, because Chris Garret is calling for a suspension.”

At the mention of our General Manager, Chris Garret, the fury bubbling in my gut boils over, and I jump up from my seat, my skates giving me a couple inches height advantage over Coach, allowing me to glower down at him.

“Yeah, well, you can tell Chris Garret he can suck my fuckin’ dick.”

There’re a few audible gasps throughout the room, and next to me, Happy conceals a laugh with a cough, but other than that, you could hear a pin drop as Coach stares at me and I stare straight back at him, the tension between us snapping and fizzing.

Thankfully, before anything more can be said or before I can do something else I might live to regret, the moment is interrupted by our press manager, and Coach Draper is called away, but not before offering me one last warning look, his gaze scanning me from head to toe.

And I remain tall, unwavering. Because honestly, right now, I dare anyone to fucking try me.