Page 40

excerpt - puck struckDIRTY PUCK SERIES: BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE

Logan

The fans used to scream my name.

Now it’s a low murmur, like they're waiting for the next headline about how I’m washed up, broken, done. How I need to just fucking retire already.

Maybe they’re right. But I’ll be damned if I go out tonight without reminding them who the hell I am.

The score is tied, two-two against the New York Renegades with three minutes left on the clock. The Renegades are a brutal team. They play hard, fast, and dirty, and the bad blood between our teams always makes for a tense game.

But tonight, they’re not gonna win. They won’t take that victory away from me, not now, when I need it the most.

I line up at center ice, jaw tight, stick gripped in my gloved hands so hard my fingers ache. Across from me, their winger, Pollack, grins—a cocky little shit with cheap elbows and a worse attitude .

“Think you can last another three minutes, old man?” he hisses at me. “Or should I just put you out of your misery now?”

I bite down hard on my mouth guard, pain slicing through my shoulder from the hit into the boards I took earlier.

“You’ve got a lot to say for someone who hasn’t scored shit tonight,” I say, my eyes glued to the referee.

The puck drops.

It barely has a chance to bounce on the ice before I lunge forward, body screaming, shoulder sparking white-hot pain through my chest. I win it anyway. But barely. My skates slice at the ice, kicking up snow. I ignore the intense burn in my legs, the pounding of my heart, the tightness in my chest.

I can’t stop. Can’t breathe. Can’t think about anything other than the puck sailing into the net. I can see it fly right past the goalie’s head.

This goal is mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Carter Van Kleef, our team captain, skate up the ice on my right, ready for a pass that I don’t plan to make. Cam Foster, the Raptors newest winger, shows up on my left, streaking toward the zone, tapping his stick like he’s the second coming.

Not tonight, rookie.

No way is that showboat dickhead gonna get my glory.

I focus on the Renegade net, ignoring Cam. Then just before I drive the puck deep, one of the Renegades slams into me at the boards, his massive body plowing me hard. The crack in my shoulder’s deafening, even through the pads. I grit my teeth so hard, for a second I think I might crack the mouth guard.

Move your goddamn feet, Shaw. Get back in the game.

I choke down a breath and kick the puck free. Then I pull it onto my stick .

The New York goalie’s out of position, and he’s panicking.

This is it.

My redemption.

My middle finger to every asshole who said I should’ve hung it up last season.

I swing for the shot.

And my shoulder buckles.

I hunch forward and the puck dribbles off my blade like a rookie’s first piss-poor attempt at a slapshot. It’s pathetic. Doesn’t even reach the net.

My heart drops into my skates. No. Fucking no .

The whole rink gasps.

The Renegades scramble for the puck, ready to counter. Ready to take the win.

And then?—

Cam fucking Foster shows up to save the fucking game.

Golden boy. Rookie phenom. Little shit with too much talent and not enough patience or humility.

He darts into the chaos, scoops the loose puck, and pops the goddamn thing right into the net.

The shot is clean. Effortless. Perfection. Like he was born with a goddamn hockey stick in his hand and a puck in his mouth.

The red light flashes. The horn blares. The Raptors win and the crowd explodes.

But once again, it’s not my name they’re screaming.

Cam slams into the glass, his arms shooting up into a victory sign, grinning like he just won the goddamn Stanley Cup. The Raptors rush at him. Everyone is cheering and smiling, basking in the win he just snagged for us.

Nobody looks at me.

I’m still standing at the top of the crease, stick lowered, lungs burning, shoulder scorching. Panic sets in as I watch the kid soak up the glory that should’ve been mine.

Because without that goal, my value to the team shrinks just a little bit more. A few more games like this and it’ll shrivel up like a dick hitting cold water. I’m already in danger of losing endorsement deals because all the companies want fresh-faced kids pimping their products, not old-ass centers who are way past their prime.

And without hockey, I don’t know who the hell I’d even be. It’s all I know, what I’ve known for the past fifteen years, and now more than ever, I need it. My family needs it. And dammit, I’m not ready to let it go.

Coach claps Cam on the helmet as he skates back to the bench. I hang back, turned slightly away so I don’t have to see that perpetual gloating expression that makes me want to pummel his ass into the ice.

“Tough break out there, Shaw,” Coach Never says, clasping my bad shoulder.

I swallow a wince. “Yeah.”

He levels me with a stare that says everything that his mouth doesn’t need to. Blood rushes between my ears. I need to get the fuck out of here, away from the silent threat hanging in the air between us before it wraps tight around my neck and pulls.

I turn away and Cam catches my eye.

For half a second, something flickers there. Triumph, pity, I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter.

I tear my gaze away first.

Because whatever it was? It tasted like defeat. My goddamn stomach is roiling from it, and I’ve swallowed enough of that shit this season already.

Cam Foster is the Raptors’ hero .

And me?

I realize for the first time in my career, I’m the one being left behind.

I hang back after all the guys head to the locker room, the sound of the cheers still reverberating between my temples.

“Cam! Cam! Cam!”

I clutch the sides of my head and swallow hard as I duck around a column to get away from the press. My jersey clings to my sweat-slicked skin, my insides plunged into a deep freeze as I sink to my knees and drop my head into my hand.

Ethan looks up to me. And Tessa needs my help.

I can’t let them down. I have to find a way to pull myself out of this damn rut, have to find a way to compete with these younger guys. I’m Logan fucking Shaw, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got two championship rings and a hell of a career record.

Rubbing a hand over my shoulder, I realize that all of my success is hanging by a thread.

Nobody knows the truth.

And nobody ever will.

A loud clacking sound on the floor jerks me from my pity party for one.

I slowly look up, rage melting the ice in my veins at the sight of Cam Foster’s cocky smirk. His big blue eyes crinkle in the corners and I have the sudden urge to gouge them out with my fingers.

“Hey, good game tonight. Next time, just pass me the puck instead of trying to be the hero, Captain Crunch.”

Then the little bastard has the nerve to wink at me before he walks away.

I clench my fingers into a tight fist, imagining how I’d shatter that perfectly chiseled jaw.

God, I fucking hate that kid. So much .

But even I know he only said what everyone else was thinking.

That my shelf life is damn close to expiration.

Then it’s out with the old…and in with Cam Foster.