Page 14 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TWELVE

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I slam the door of my apartment shut, toss my gear bag into the corner of the foyer, and lean against the wall with my hands fisting the sides of my hair. My heart’s still pounding, not from practice, not from Keating’s bullshit, but from the look Logan gave me.

That look like he wanted to fix me and gut me at the same time.

I don’t know what was worse…the fire in his eyes or the way my chest aches every time he turns away from me like I’m too dangerous to be around.

Maybe I am. Maybe he’s smart to do that. And maybe that’s why he walked away from me the other night.

I told him it was better that he didn’t kiss me, but that was a lie.

I thought leaving him would protect me. If I give in to these feelings, if I start to let him in, to trust him, it will wreck me when he walks away.

Falling for him would make me vulnerable.

Weak. And if he ever found out the truth about me…

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Fuck, I tried to fool myself into thinking it’d be better watching him from a distance and wondering how his lips would have felt pressed against mine. How I’d feel safer. I was wrong. It’s worse. So much worse.

Because he didn’t want to know what it felt like. And that rejection stings worse than a hive full of angry wasps. It dredges up all the toxic memories I have of my past life, the fear of abandonment that I constantly carry with me.

I’ve spent my whole life surviving. And Logan…if he turned his back on me, it would be the end.

I rip off my hoodie and head to the bathroom, splashing water on my face, trying to cool down my flushed skin.

It’s not just heat, though. It’s fear. And cold water can’t rinse that away.

My stomach’s still twisted from seeing that smug bastard Keating touch my stick again.

I can feel his eyes on me even when he’s not there, like he knows how close I am to snapping.

And Logan. Fuck. The way he stares at me. He doesn’t know anything, not really, but he’s getting close. His questions sting now. They’re not just jabs. They’re hooks, tugging at a truth I’ve buried too deep to pull out without bleeding out.

I dry my face with a towel, then head into the living room and grab my phone. Notifications fill the screen, and for a second, I think about not opening them.

But I do.

A chill ripples through me.

And there it is.

Another message.

Connor, Connor… still playing pretend? Can’t wait to see you fall on your perfect little face.

My throat tightens. This one came with a photo of me, years younger, sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in a tux, with a drink in my hand, and my lips curved into a smile I practiced in the mirror until it didn’t look fake anymore .

But it was fake.

All of it was.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I shut off the phone and toss it onto the couch. My hands are shaking as they scrape a path down the front of my face.

My lungs are so tight, I can barely suck in a breath.

Not because someone found that picture.

But because I knew this would happen, knew my past would catch up to me. I knew he would eventually find me.

I just didn’t expect it now when things are finally starting to feel…right. When I’m skating my ass off, winning games, being part of a team that actually gives a shit. When I feel like I might actually belong.

When Logan looks at me like I’m not broken.

And now it’s all slipping out of my control again.

Two hours later, I’m in a Raptors-issued polo and jeans, sitting in the back of a luxury SUV with Jaren and Colby, headed to some fan meet-and-greet at a downtown sports bar. The league organized it for publicity. It’s called the “Rising Stars” event or some bullshit.

“You good?” Jaren asks. “You look a little worn down.”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”

Colby grins. “That stick fight with Keating was something else. You looked like you were gonna throw down right on the ice. I was hoping you’d take a shot, can’t lie.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter, forcing a smirk. “I’d end his whole career with one swing.”

“Jealousy’s a hell of a drug,” Jaren says with a chuckle. “Fucking asshole that he is.”

They laugh, and I fake it with them.

Because what else am I supposed to do?

The rest of the ride is spent talking about nonsensical crap. But it’s a nice distraction from the thoughts normally looping though my mind.

“Larson told me that Sin City is in town this week and that they might be doing a private concert somewhere in the city,” Colby says. “We should go. I love their music. Tate and Masterson said the last private concert they did was off the hook.”

“Sounds good,” I say, not really listening but instead looking out the tinted glass to see a long line of people waiting to get into the bar for the event. My stomach clenches. Great, more people to convince that I really do belong here, that I’m not a total fraud.

The SUV pulls up to the curb and the crowd goes wild when I hop out of the backseat. I flash my biggest, brightest smile and wave. The screams get louder.

“Wow, Foster,” Colby says once he catches up to me. “You’re like a god. They all want a piece of you.”

Until they dig deep enough to find out the truth.

I grit my teeth to shut my annoying-as-fuck inner voice up.

The bouncers clear a path and guide us inside.

Neon signs hang behind the bar, strobe lights dangle over the hardwood dance floor in the center of the place.

The event is loud. Wall-to-wall people wearing our jerseys.

Cameras and fans are packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines.

It smells like beer and fried food and my stomach clenches from the stench.

I move through the crowd with a smile plastered across my face, signing pucks and snapping selfies with fans.

But every so often, I glance around the room, searching for a face that shouldn’t be there.

A camera that takes one too many photos.

A face that’s haunted my nightmares.

I feel hunted.

And I don’t know where the next shot will come from .

I lean on the bar, sipping a club soda, trying to calm my breathing when Logan walks in.

He’s in jeans and a dark Raptors t-shirt that hugs his thick muscular arms. God, he looks like sin with those deep-set icy blue eyes, dark hair, and beard.

I want to know how it feels, scratching against my face… and everywhere else.

I swear the air changes when he enters a room. People move around him like they know better than to block the impending storm.

He spots me.

Nods once, jaw tense.

I nod back, keeping it cool, but something inside me flares.

He doesn’t walk over to me right away. Just watches me from across the bar while talking to Carter and Coach Enver.

But I feel him. Every damn second that I stand there.

The bartender walks over to me, a cute brunette with big brown eyes and curly hair piled on top of her head. “Hey, handsome. They want you on the mic in five. Quick Q&A for the fans. Smile pretty,” she says. “They love you.”

I force a smile. “Got it, thanks.” I walk to the front, heart hammering harder in my chest with every step. Colby and Jaren follow, grinning like idiots.

The questions are simple to start. They ask us how the season’s going, what our favorite pregame meal is, if we have pregame rituals, blah blah blah. I answer them all, playing the part I know by heart.

Then a woman near the back raises her hand. “Cam, you went directly from junior hockey into the fray of the NHL. Seems like you’ve had a pretty charmed life. How are you dealing with all of the attention you’ve been getting?”

I freeze.

That word.

Charmed .

I laugh it off, shaking my head. “It’s definitely been a wild ride. I’ve had to fight for every inch, though. Don’t let the smile fool you. Nothing comes easy.”

A few people chuckle.

Logan’s stare weighs heavy on me.

I feel the burn of his questions. They singe my soul from across the bar.

The moderator saves me, moving on to the next question. But my hands are clammy. My heart beats hard in my chest.

I wipe my hands on the front of my jeans and excuse myself the second the friendly interrogation is over. Then I slip out the back door into the alley, sucking in the cool night air.

But I’m not alone for long.

Logan steps out a few minutes later, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“So what?”

He walks closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to invade my airspace.

“You’ve been jumpy since practice. Since that whole thing with Keating.”

“You think this is about him?”

“I think it’s about something,” he says, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Something bigger, maybe.”

I look away. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“ It doesn’t worry me. You do.”

My hands ball into tight fists. “Why do you care so much?”

He doesn’t blink. “Because I can see the cracks. And I’ve been where you are.”

“You’ve never been where I am.” I swallow hard and pace in front of the door, the heels of my Air Jordans digging into the uneven blacktop.

“Then tell me where you are.”

I open my mouth, but I can’t let the words out. I can’t tell him about Connor. About the cheap hotel rooms, the suits, the loneliness, the desperation. About what I did to survive. About how none of it was enough to make me feel whole.

So instead, I deflect.

“You almost kissed me,” I say.

“I remember. We established this.”

“And you walked away.”

His jaw tightens. “You said you’d let me kiss you. Not that I should.”

I nod, swallowing the growing lump in my throat. “Good. Because right now? You really shouldn’t.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out and my heart stutters to a screeching stop.

Another fucking message.

You’re running out of time. Say goodbye to your fairy tale, Connor.

Attached is a screenshot of the Rising Stars promotional flyer. There’s a red X slashed across my face.

I grip the phone tight, a red haze coloring my vision.

Logan steps forward. “What is it?”

I close the message. “Nothing.”

But I know he doesn’t believe me.

Not anymore.

I can lie to the press. I can lie to the team. But I can’t lie to him forever. And when the truth comes out…which it will…it’s going to destroy everything.