Page 16 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

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I shoot up out of bed, a gasp knotting in my throat.

Fisting my bed sheets, I struggle to take a few deep breaths.

The nightmare clings to me, with teeth and claws that refuse to let go.

Splintered memories of hotel rooms, faceless men, and the constant, crushing fear that someone would find out what I was doing pollute my mind.

I fumble for my phone, squinting at the screen.

My thumb hovers over them, shaking as I bite down hard on my lip. I already know what I'll find but swipe to read them anyway.

Better start packing, Connor. The clock's ticking.

I warned you about the restraining order. Now you're going to pay.

I see you've found a new friend. Would be a shame if he found out about us.

My heart hammers in my chest, each beat thundering in my ears. The last message includes a grainy photo of me and Logan outside the rink yesterday, his hand on my arm, our faces close. Too close .

Restraining order.

Fuck. I know who’s sending these messages.

I know the voice. The threats. That devious, calculating tone.

James Harmon.

The name alone makes bile rise and shoot up the back of my throat.

Three years ago, he was just another client. Older. Wealthy. Powerful. He booked me through the agency for what was supposed to be a one-time arrangement. I was going to accompany him to a fundraiser, nothing more.

But he became obsessed and started booking me directly. Then he began showing up at hockey events and following me home.

I remember the expensive suits he'd buy me. The way he'd parade me around at events like a trophy. The possessive grip on my arm that left bruises. The way his smile never reached his eyes.

And most of all, the restraining order I filed when he wouldn't take no for an answer.

When I tried to cut him off, his obsession changed into something a lot more dangerous.

"No one walks away from me, Connor."

I’ll never forget those chilling words he left on my voicemail the night before a junior league playoff game. Then he'd slashed my tires, left threatening notes on my windshield, and started rumors with scouts.

The restraining order was a last resort, but it was the only way I could exist without constantly having to look over my shoulder. I filed it under my real name, not Cam Foster, the name I'd created to separate myself from Connor, from the desperate kid who'd done what he had to just to survive .

And fuck, I wish all the time that I’d had other options and made different choices.

I thought I was free when I got drafted and moved across the country. I changed my number and deleted all my old social media accounts. I buried Connor…and James.

But the bastard found me anyway.

And now he's threatening Logan.

I climb out of bed, my heart rate spiking, and grab my sketchpad. But today, the pictures aren’t my normal happy, silly ones. Instead, my hand movements are jerky, the lines jagged, and the dinosaur I try to draw becomes something darker, more ominous.

I rip out the page, crumple it into a tight ball, and start over.

The next attempt isn't any better. The pencil tip snaps because of how hard I dig it into the page.

"Fuck," I whisper, pressing the heels of my palms into my burning eyes.

I can't drag Logan into this. I won't.

But the memory of his kiss still burns across my lips. And the way he looked at me, not at the golden boy, not at the rookie, but at me, still makes chills skitter up and down my arms. It was like he saw something worth holding onto.

I haven’t felt that in a damn long time.

I grab my phone and send a text to the account James’s last message came from.

Leave him out of this. He has nothing to do with us.

Three gray dots appear immediately. Christ, was he holding the phone just in case I’d finally reply?

Us? So you admit there's still an us. Meet me tonight. The bar at the Colombia Hotel at 8pm. Come alone or I start leaking things to the press.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, grinding my back teeth as I debate how to respond. I could forget what I just sent. Block him. Change my number again. Tell someone.

But who? The team? The press would have a field day. The police? They'd ask questions I can't answer.

Logan?

The thought makes my stomach twist. Logan with his perfect, untarnished reputation and straight-laced life. Family who loves him, teammates who respect him.

No. I can't.

And again, I’m about to make a bad fucking choice because there are no alternatives. Not for me.

Fine. But this ends tonight. For good.

Three dots appear and then disappear. Seconds later, his final message makes my gut wrench.

We'll see about that, Connor.

I hurl the phone onto my bed like it's on fire. I can’t stop my hands from trembling. I need air. Space. Time to think and plan.

This is bad. So, so bad. If word gets out that I was an escort, that I slept with men for money, my life will crumble around me. It’ll be worse than it was when I was trying to survive. At least then I still had my dignity.

The fallout will be devastating. Logan will run, not that I’d blame him.

It’ll destroy the team’s trust in me. Team management might try to buy me out of my contract because of the bad press and blowback it would cause.

Sponsors would drop me in a hot fucking second.

I’d be washed up, alone, and hopeless. The future I dreamed for myself would go up in flames and I’d burn in the center of the inferno.

I throw on a hoodie and sweats, grab my keys, and stalk out the door.

The cool air slaps me as I step outside.

The streets nearly empty at this hour. Too quiet.

There’s no noise at all except the screaming inside of my head.

I wander aimlessly, ending up at a diner with flickering neon signs and worn and torn red plastic booths.

I slide into a booth in the back with a piece of black duct tape slapped over the cushion, order coffee I don't want, and stare out the window at the empty street.

James found me. James knows about Logan. And tomorrow I have to face him alone.

I don't realize I'm doodling again until the waitress refills my cup. I glance down to see Logan's face taking shape on the napkin beneath my pen. The strong jaw. Those piercing eyes that see too much.

I crumple it in my fist. It’s better to forget him now, exactly the way he’s going to forget about me if this gets out.

I stand outside the hotel bar that night, staring at the entrance like it’s the gateway to Hell. Which it might well be. And James is the fucking Devil.

The Columbia Hotel isn't really fancy. It’s a pretty nondescript place with dim lights, a place where I know my identity would be safe. But I stand there, suffocating as I check my watch. I’m exactly fifteen minutes late, on purpose.

It’s my own personal rebellion against the control James thinks he has over me.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text.

I see you standing out there. Come inside. I don't bite.

My stomach twists. He's watching me.

I square my shoulders, push open the door, and step inside the bar. It’s mostly empty, just a couple of business people hunched over laptops and a few locals nursing beers. And there, in a darkened corner booth, is James Harmon.

A chill slithers through my insides when our eyes tangle from across the space. He stands up from the table, an expectant look on his face.

Three years haven't changed him much. Still tall, immaculately dressed in a suit worth more than my first car. Still wearing that smile that never reaches his cold gray eyes. He raises his glass in greeting as I approach, my steps cautious, calf muscles tensing as I edge closer.

"Connor," he says, my old name like fingernails on a blackboard. "How nice of you to join me."

“It’s not like you gave me a choice.” I slide into the booth, keeping as much distance between us as possible. "Let's get this over with. What do you want?"

He signals the bartender for another drink. "Still so direct. No small talk? No 'how have you been, James?'"

"I don't care how you've been."

"Ouch." He puts a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "After everything we shared?"

"We didn't share anything," I snap. "You were a client. That's it."

James laughs softly. "Is that what you tell yourself?" He leans forward. "You were my favorite, you know. The most convincing. I felt like you enjoyed it."

My fingers curl into fists under the table, nails digging into my palms. "I was a good actor."

"Were you?" He takes a sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of his glass. "Are you still acting now, Cam ? With your teammates? Your new...friends?"

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. "You've been following me."

"Just keeping tabs." He shrugs. "I was curious what became of you after you filed that ridiculous restraining order."

"Ridiculous?" I hiss, leaning forward. "You stalked me. Slashed my tires. Left threatening notes. "

"I was invested in your success," he corrects. "And you repaid me by ruining my life."

"I ruined your life?"

"That restraining order cost me my position at the firm." His smile vanishes. "I had to relocate. Start over. Three years of rebuilding what I lost because you couldn't accept what we had."

"We didn't have anything." My blood bubbles in my veins as I struggle to keep my voice even.

"A client who kept you playing hockey," he reminds me. "Who paid your bills. Who made you feel special when no one else did."

My stomach turns. "You're delusional."

"And you're ungrateful." His voice hardens. "After everything I did for you."

The bartender puts a drink on the table in front of me. I don't touch it.

"I don't owe you anything, James. I never did."

"And yet, here you are." He gestures around the bar. "You accepted my invitation and followed my rules."

"I'm here to tell you to leave me alone. The restraining order is still valid."