Page 12 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TEN

cam

Practice is supposed to be sharp, clean, and fast-paced. But today, I feel like something’s off before I even hear the first whistle. Like there’s an ominous cloud hanging out over my head, hovering close, taunting me.

Coach Enver stands at the blue line, stopwatch in hand, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Line one on the ice. Zone entry with speed. Move that puck,” Coach bellows.

I glance around as Larson and Tate finish their drill and skate off to the side. Coach points at me, Keating, and Colby. “Foster, Keating, Colby, next rush. Let’s go!”

Great. Keating. My gut twists at the sound of his name.

He’s been a pain in my ass since day one, showing up in my path more than anyone else.

I’ve managed to avoid him since we got back from Arizona, but he’s still pissed at me for the comments I shot at him during the gala.

Keating likes to have the upper hand, always.

He knows he’s nothing without that pedestal, and he doesn’t appreciate that it’s always me kicking him off of it.

We line up at center ice. Coach’s whistle shatters my eardrums. I explode forward, flexing my quads with each slash of the ice, feeling every muscle fiber scream.

The puck’s on my stick. I drive through the neutral zone, watching Colby dart toward the far slot.

I feed him a clean pass, then loop wide, ready for the give-and-go.

My blade channels the cold smoothness of the ice and it feels good. I let out a breath.

Colby snaps the puck back across the ice to me.

I catch it on the heel of my stick. I shift left and load a backhand shot.

Then everything goes wrong. My stick buckles under the shot, the blade giving way with a sharp crack.

The puck skitters on the ice and goes wide.

I stumble and crash into the boards so hard the glass rattles. So does my brain.

The whistle sounds. Coach calls a time out on the drill and skates over. Carter grabs my stick. Logan is already there, skates kicking up snow as he closes the gap between us.

“You’re off your game today,” he mutters.

“You watching me that close? ”

“I watch everyone.”

I smirk. “That’s funny. Because I only ever catch your eyes on me.”

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t deny it, either. And the tingles dancing over my sweat-pebbled skin know it’s the truth.

I pick up the stick, fingers tracing over the precise split down the blade’s center. It’s not a jagged tear from normal wear. It’s a clean cut, too neat, too even to have happened by freak accident.

“I taped this up myself earlier,” I say to him, my voice low.

Coach’s brow furrows as he approaches. “What the hell happened, Foster?”

I shrug, not about to play into my suspicions. Yet. “Stick failure. It’s done.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Pick out another one and get back in line. Move!”

I skate back to the bench, hands shaking as I grab my taped-up backup from the rack. Logan trails behind. “Let me see it,” he says .

I hold out the broken blade. He tilts his head, frowning. “That’s not normal.”

“I know.” My jaw clenches. “Someone messed with it.”

He eyes me. There’s something in his gaze. Is it worry? Loyalty? But he doesn’t say anything before heading back out to the ice. My heart flipped at his concern and then took a nosedive at his avoidance.

Pretty typical for my interactions with him.

I take position again on the ice. Coach blows the whistle, and we’re off.

Our line darts forward, practicing crisp breakouts.

I chip the puck to Keating, who rim-breaks it behind the net and dishes to Colby at the point.

I swoop in and slam the puck low off the boards then crash hard to the side of the net, my eyes on the rebound.

Looking up, I catch Logan watching. Again.

His lips twitch like he wants to say something, but Coach yells, “Forecheck, boys!” and we’re back on the boards, battling in tight cycles.

The resin smell of the ice stings my nostrils.

Sweat drizzles down my spine as I pivot and shield the puck from Keating, whose elbows flare out just enough to let me know he’s out for blood.

“Eyes up, Foster,” Coach yells from the bench .

I’m paired with Logan against Keating and Jaren for the next drill.

We skate into the mass of guys angling for position.

The puck drops. Logan and I pass in a quick triangle, drawing Jaren out of position.

Logan slides into the open slot, and I pop a perfect bounce pass to him. He roofs it off the post for a goal.

Again, my heart floats up in my chest. A real, honest-to-goodness smile from the Ice King. And I had something to do with it.

Keating skates past, his jaw clenched. “Cheap goal.”

I smirk. “Don’t worry. We’re not close to even yet.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Keating says, grinding on his mouth guard.

I shrug and skate away from him, tired of breathing in his toxic air.

By the time we hit the next drill, my focus is split in two directions.

One is half laser-locked on the plays, the other is on Logan.

He corners a puck, then pins a defenseman to the wall and flicks it back to me.

We move so smoothly together that I almost forget I’m supposed to be angry with him for what happened…

or rather, didn’t happen...on that balcony the other night .

“Nice touch,” I pant, circling back for another shift.

He nods, piercing eyes heating my insides. “You’re not too bad, Foster.”

My heart gives a goofy lurch. Not too bad? For a rookie? For me? I just grin and skate hard toward the blue line, snag the puck, and whip a wrist shot to the top of the net just as the whistle blows.

Logan whips around. “Fucking show-off.”

“Jealous?” I say, stopping inches away.

He grins. “Of the guy who nearly face-planted into the boards?”

Before he can answer, Coach blows his whistle. “Cut the small talk and change lines.”

Coach claps his hands, signaling the end of practice station one. My lungs burn. My legs feel like Jell-O. But Logan’s voice drifts through the chaos each time he glides past .

When practice finally ends, we head to the locker room, our jerseys drenched, hair matted to our heads. The locker room smells like sweat and victory. I love it. Better than any Yankee Candle scent.

Carter sinks onto the bench next to me with a towel draped over his shoulders. “That broken stick of yours wasn’t an accident,” he murmurs.

I shrug, fiddling with the cracked blade on my new stick. “Maybe I’ve got a secret fan club.”

“Just be careful. I’m going to make sure we keep a tighter eye on things.”

I nod. “Thanks.” He doesn’t give any indication as to who he thinks might have tampered with my stick, but I have a pretty fucking good idea.

Logan walks over, peeling off his gloves. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” I finish taping my shaft. “You ready for the weekend? Big home game.” That’s right, keep it simple and neat and organized when my feelings for him are anything but .

He smiles. “Yep. But hey, let me know if you need anything.” He pauses for a second, almost as if he wants to say more but then thinks it’d be better not to. He’s gone before I can even press.

I finish getting dressed, throw my bag over my shoulder, and head toward the equipment room to drop off my stick.

The corridor is dark, a half-burned-out fluorescent light flickering overhead.

I push through the door to the room and find Keating already messing with the stick rack. His back is to me.

I glare at his back. “Touch my gear again and I’ll show you what real pain looks like.”

He straightens, slowly twisting toward me. A sly smile lifts his lips. He’s calm, and I want to beat his smug ass face with my stick. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t, asshole.” I hold up the shattered blade for him to see. “You think this is funny?”

He steps toward me, creeping closer and closer until our noses practically touch. “You think I’d risk fucking up my own drills to mess with your stick?”

“You’ve been trying to screw with me since I got here. ”

He shrugs, a knowing glitter in his beady eyes. “Maybe I just don’t like pretty boys who coast in and think they’ve earned their spot just because the press kisses their asses.”

My heart thuds. He just hit the nerve. “Pretty boy? Coasted? You don’t know a damn thing about me or what I went through to get here.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Entitled little prick. You’ve got a decent slapshot. Don’t trip on your ego, brah.”

Then he walks out the door without a look back. I’m left alone in the dark, cold room, surrounded by the sound of my own ragged breathing.

My fists clench. I want to chase the fucker down and slam his head against his locker. But I force myself to leave the room, squinting under the overhead lights of the hallway.

Coasted… pressure… cutthroat.

I shake it off, I can handle locker-room politics. I can fight back. And I will. Always.

Once I’m home, I lie on my bed with my sketchpad, drawing doodles of dinosaurs.

A few rogue lines and the Logan-osaurus comes to life on the page with lots of teeth and sharp lines.

My traitorous hand makes quick work of the Cam-ceratops.

This time, the dinos aren’t playing. They're facing off like they're about to rip each other to pieces.

It’s darn close to accurate most of the time. Except for today. Logan was legit worried about me after the stick broke. He was almost protective of me. It was nice. I haven’t felt that in…well, shit, it was in another life.

I stare at the sketch and shade in the figures, the television blaring in the background.

I like to have it on but I don’t really watch.

It’s just comforting to have some noise.

Keeps the dark thoughts at bay. When I was young, I spent a lot of time home alone, especially at night.

The television was kind of like a security blanket.

It made me feel safe, kept me company, made me feel less alone.

Unfortunately, it’s not working as effectively for me now.

My phone pings on the coffee table. I grab it, my throat tight as I swipe to view the notification.

Can you believe how close I can get to you, Connor? Are you scared? You should be.

Someone knows my secret and wants me off the ice.

And that someone’s ready to strike again.

I throw the phone at the wall. It leaves a deep dent in the freshly painted sheetrock .

Whoever the fuck is watching me…if they think they’re scaring me, that I’m going to back down to their bullshit threats, then they have no idea how hard I can fight.

And how I won’t lose.