Page 10 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

EIGHT

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The white collar scratches my neck, another reminder that I’m not made for fancy shit like this. I’m more ink and scars than cufflinks and tuxedos, and it shows. Especially with Tate laughing his ass off while I fumble with the bowtie knot for the thousandth time in the men’s room.

He finally takes pity and steps in. “Here, lemme help you with that.”

I roll my eyes, but thank fuck. Tuxes and I go together like oil and water, and all I can think about is how much more comfortable I’d be in my gear, away from the cameras and prying eyes.

The sinister messages I’ve gotten prove that someone is watching, and for once in my career, I really don’t want to be in the spotlight.

My reflection stares back at me when he’s finished, a tightly wound bundle of nerves wrapped up in a fancy and now correctly knotted bowtie. I fidget with the stiff collar of my tuxedo, trying not to let the night ahead of me fuck with my head.

We beat the Scorpions in a shootout, and instead of enjoying a hot shower and a burger, I’m dressed in a penguin suit.

Some genius in NHL PR decided theYouth in Action Gala, the league’s big traveling charity event, should land smack in the middle of our road trip. Supposedly, it raises millions for youth hockey initiatives in underserved areas in the western United States. Great cause, bad timing.

I don’t know if the league scheduled this to make us look good or to see who’d crack first, but I’ve got my bowtie on straight and my game face locked in. Smile wide. Eyes sharp. Hair styled just messy enough to scream effortless.

No one can tell I’m unraveling on the inside.

Not even me, if I fake it hard enough.

I adjust the tie as I walk into the hallway of the venue with Tate, trying to ignore the feeling that this is the calm before the storm…the messages, the pressure, the fucking charade I’ve been living.

Logan walks toward us with Masterson, Carter, and Larson, then pauses when his gaze tangles with mine. For a moment, he just stands there, staring while the other guys head into the ballroom.

He looks dark and sleek in his tux and my knees wobble the tiniest bit.

The look in his piercing eyes when he sees me is almost worth the night of worrying.

Surprise flickers across his face, quickly replaced by something else, something borderline carnal, something that makes the air shift and pulse around us.

But I still can’t read him, his eyes are still too damn guarded, and uncertainty knots tighter in my gut. “If you’re going to undress me with your eyes, at least buy me a drink first.” The words come out more breathless than I mean them to.

Logan’s eyes rake over me, and I hate how much I like it.

How much it burns my blood. “Try not to trip over your ego tonight, kid. You don’t want to crack that pretty face on the ground.

” He holds the door of the ballroom open, like we’re something we’re not, like this is anything but what it is. “Ready?”

I don’t answer, just move past him, trying to look nonchalant, praying it’s enough to hide how rattled I am, how rattled he makes me. This is all a game, a performance, and no one plays it better than me.

But Logan makes me forget the rules, and that’s the dangerous part.

The gala is everything I expect it to be. Loud. Crowded. Fake. Photographers snap pictures as we walk in, the flashes blinding. I plaster on a smile, falling into old habits, but I can’t pretend my heart’s not racing.

We’re photographed together, arms nearly touching. I do all the talking, making nice with sponsors and the press, my practiced charm barely concealing the anxiety bubbling up right beneath it. Logan says nothing, but his presence is like gravity, pulling everyone in. Especially me.

Logan's hand hovers near my back. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel him there. His fingers brushing the air, the space between us like a live wire. He’s too close and too far away at the same time.

“Cameron Foster,” one of the sponsors, an older man with a booming voice, greets me. “The rising star himself. And Logan Shaw. The legend who’s just as fierce off the ice, I see.”

I laugh, hiding how much the word fierce gets to me. “Fierce as ever,” I say, avoiding Logan's eyes.

The amount of money in this room is staggering. It’s luxe and opulent with crystal chandeliers, floors draped in velvet carpet, and billionaires by the dozen in loafers that cost more than my car. Smooth jazz music floats through the air and highball glasses clink.

“You seriously own cufflinks?” Jaren asks once he reappears with a drink, tipping his glass toward my wrist.

“They’re borrowed,” I smirk. “From the last guy who told me I didn’t belong here.”

Colby chuckles. “Dude, you always talk like you're being followed by a camera crew,” he says.

“I am. In my mind,” I grin. “Music, lighting, full production budget.”

“You’re an imp,” Tate says, shaking his head. “You know that, right?”

“You only say that because I’m prettier than you.” I give an exaggerated wink and the guys laugh while Logan just watches me. I don’t even need to turn my head to feel the weight of his stare scorching my flesh. It bores a hole into my goddamn soul.

Tate grins. “You’re lucky you’re fast on the ice, or I’d tackle your ass just for that line.”

“Jealousy’s a disease,” I say, tossing back a sip of club soda from a glass I grab off a passing tray. “And I hope you both get well soon.”

Even Logan cracks a smile at that. “Smartass,” he mutters under his breath. Then Carter pulls him over to the bar for an introduction, and my heart immediately sinks into my fancy ass rented shoes.

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Jaren mumbles, nodding at our common enemy.

My spine stiffens when Keating struts over like a goddamn peacock, a dark glimmer in his eyes. “Oh yeah. The other winger.”

The guys snicker and down the rest of their drinks.

I remember the death look Keating shot me when I called him out at dinner the other night.

The asshole is bitter and territorial. He’s never met a rookie he didn’t love to torment, but he’s got a special brand of contempt for me. And maybe I’ve earned it.

He throws a lazy glance our way, then zeroes in on Jaren’s name tag, like he can’t even be bothered to remember who the kid is.

“You boys enjoying your big moment?” he asks with a smile. “Don’t get used to it. The league may say they love you now, but they only give a damn about stats. If you can’t keep your numbers up, you’re finished. And you guys were done before you even started.”

“Speaking of numbers, how are yours doing lately, Keating?” I ask, mirroring his fake-ass smirk.

Keating’s eyes narrow. He steps closer. “Careful, Foster. You might be the media’s flavor of the month, but I’ve seen what happens when pretty faces rot.”

Tate makes a move like he’s about to step between us. I shake my head.

“I’m not worried about my face,” I say coolly. “It’s my shot they can’t stop talking about.”

His jaw clenches, but I stalk away from the group before he can reply. I’ve already given him too much of my time. Fucking dick. He deserves to take a puck to the teeth, without his mouth guard in.

There’s a glass doorway nearby that leads to a balcony.

I push through the doors, even though the stifling heat persists outside.

I don’t care that I can chew on the air because it’s so thick.

I just need space to think. I only get about three minutes of staring off into the starry night sky before the door opens.

I jerk my head around, my breath hitching when I see Logan step onto the balcony next to me.

I loosen my tie because it’s so damn tight that it’s choking the life out of me. But I mess up the knot and the whole thing comes apart. “Shit,” I mutter, trying to fix it and failing miserably.

Logan reaches for it, and I freeze. “Let me help you,” he says, his voice low as he reties it, his fingers brushing my collarbone, my neck.

The touch is electric. It ignites the sparks deep inside of me. I don’t want to admit how much I need it. How much I need him.

His hand lingers there for a second, closer than he’s ever been. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been in close proximity to him plenty, most times, I’m in a towel and nothing else. But this is new. This is raw.

I break the silence. “If you kiss me, I’m going to let you.”

His eyes meet mine. “Then I shouldn’t.” His voice wavers, barely, but I hear it, and it’s a body slam that can bring me to my knees. But I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He pulls away, and it singes more than it should. More than I want it to.

Why didn’t I just keep my damn mouth shut?

My phone buzzes, and I grab it, using it as an excuse to step back, to breathe my own air. A new message notification appears on the screen.

Looking good, Connor.

My throat tightens and I grip the phone hard, the urge to hurl it over the side grabbing hold.

Fuck. My blood runs cold, and I click to shut off the phone, hoping Logan doesn’t see how panicked I am and question why. The pressure is suffocating, his rejection and the text all crashing down at once.

“Cam—” Logan starts to say, but I cut him off.

“We should get back,” I say, not looking at him. I can’t. “Big crowd to impress. ”

I walk back inside before he can say anything else. My heart stutters in my chest and I ball my fingers into tight fists. It fucking hurts, I won’t lie. But nothing hurts more than the fear of being exposed. Being found out.

I reenter the event, blood rushing between my ears, muffling the chaos of cameras and voices around me. I have to keep playing my part, pretending like nothing happened.

Logan returns to the ballroom. He watches me from across the room, his gaze like a laser, piercing through the crowd, sizzling my skin.

But I can’t let him in. Not now. Not ever.

I dive into conversation with a sponsor, words flowing like nothing’s wrong, like I’m not falling apart inside.

We talk about an organization I work with back in Oakland called Play It Forward.

It serves underprivileged kids in the city who want to learn to play sports but don’t have the means to buy equipment or pay for instruction.

I’d heard about it from Carter and Larson, and once I signed with the Raptors, decided to check it out since organizations like that would have really helped me out as a kid growing up in my shithole town with no hopes for a future in hockey.

“Cameron,” the sponsor says, nodding approval. “You’re as good off the ice as you are on it.”

“I try. Gotta be good at something,” I reply with a grin, knowing it doesn’t reach my eyes. Not with Logan out there and the truth clawing at my insides.

“Keep it up,” he says, moving on, and I’m alone with my thoughts again. My dirty secrets.

Smile pretty. Lie better.

I stand at the bar, fiddling with a glass of club soda and wondering how much longer the torture of the night will last for .

My phone buzzes again and I pull it out of my pocket with shaking fingers.

This time, it’s not only a message but a photo.

Me. Back then. A blurry screenshot. Rented tux. Cheap smile.

Four words follow.

You can’t outrun this.