Page 17 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

He laughs, loud enough that nearby patrons glance our way. "You think I'm afraid of a piece of paper? I'm here because I choose to be. And I'll leave when I choose to leave."

"What do you want?" I ask again, fighting to keep my voice steady. But the rage gathering force in my chest is so damn close to spewing all over this psychopath.

"What I've always wanted." He leans closer, his cologne overwhelming to the point where I almost choke. "You."

I recoil. "Fuck that."

"Then I suppose these will have to find their way to the press." He slides his phone across the table, screen lit up with a photo of me from three years ago. In a hotel room. With a client I can't even remember.

My blood runs cold. "You kept photos?"

"Insurance." He swipes again. More photos. Different hotels. Different suits. "And not just photos. I have videos, names, dates, client reviews. Quite the little collection. I had access to your other clients and paid big money to gather all of the evidence. And now I own you."

"The hell you do. No one will care about what you think you have over me." I swallow down the panic, trying like hell to sound confident. "It was years ago."

"Will they care about this?" Another swipe. My breath hitches and I grip the edge of the booth.

It's me and Logan. Outside the rink after practice, his hand on my arm. I tense, just like I did the first time I saw it. There’s nothing explicit about the photo, but we look intimate in a way that can't be misinterpreted.

"How did you?—?"

"I have eyes everywhere, Connor." James takes his phone back. "What do you think the NHL would make of their golden rookie's sordid past? What would your teammates think? Your fans?" His smile widens. "What would Logan Shaw think?"

The name hits like a physical blow, a machete to my chest. "Leave him out of this."

"I could." He drums his fingers on the table. "For a price."

"What price?"

"Come back to New York with me. Just for a while, so we can reconnect." He says it like he's offering a vacation, not a prison sentence.

I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. "You're insane."

"Am I?" He taps his phone screen. "One call to the press. One email to the right blogger. That's all it takes to end your little fairy tale. "

"You think I care about that?" I meet his gaze, fury eclipsing the fear. "Go ahead. Tell them. I'm not that scared kid anymore, James. I don't need hockey to survive."

It's a blatant lie, but I sell it with everything I have.

His expression darkens. "Maybe not. But what about your teammates? Do you think the Raptors would keep you around once they know? There would be a lot of backlash on the organization. And do you think Logan would look at you the same way?"

The words hit their target with devastating accuracy. He’s a fucking asshole marksman as well as a psychopath.

James slides a business card across the table.

"You have a choice. Come with me willingly, or I send everything I have to every sports outlet in the country.

" He stands, straightening his jacket. "Make the right one this time, Connor. And do it fast.” He flashes a nasty smile. “Everything is riding on it."

He drops cash on the table and walks out, leaving me frozen in the booth, my heart hammering a hole in my chest.

Everything. And everyone.

By the time I make it to morning practice the next day, my mind has sped through no less than a hundred scenarios. None of them end well for me.

The locker room is loud when I walk in. Tate and Colby argue about some new reality show, Carter reviews plays with Masterson, and equipment guys work their way around with tape and jerseys.

Logan sits in the corner, meticulously wrapping his stick. He doesn't look up when the other guys greet me, but I feel the pull. The memory of his lips on mine makes my skin flush hot.

"Earth to Foster," Tate calls, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "You with us, brah?"

I blink. "Yeah. Just tired."

"Didn't sleep?" His eyebrows waggle. "Or couldn't sleep?"

If only he knew the reason was fear, not lust, for keeping my eyes open all night.

"Something like that," I mutter, opening my locker.

As I strip off my shirt, I catch Logan eyeing me in the mirror. His gaze is neutral, almost cold, but I see the heat flickering in the depths of his blue eyes. The question that hangs.

Why did you leave me after that kiss?

I want to go to him. Explain. But the words stick in my throat like tar.

If you knew what I was, you'd never look at me that way again.

So I keep quiet.

Practice is brutal. Coach runs us through drills that make my lungs burn and legs scream. I push harder than I need to, trying to drown out the dread pulsing through me. I ignore Logan’s curious gaze as we run through our plays, counting down the minutes before I can get the hell out of here.

Keating corners me after practice, just outside the physical therapy room. His smile is sharp and knowing, and it takes everything in my not to smack it off.

“You were sloppy today,” he says.

“Fuck off,” I grunt, edging around him.

"Funny thing about secrets. They don’t stay secret forever.”

My heart stutters to a stop, mind tripping back to him whispering with the mystery man. “What the hell are you talking about?

“Got an interesting call this morning," he says, leaning against the wall and preventing me from a quick escape.

"Not in the mood, Keating. "

"Oh, I think you will be." His voice drops. "This guy says he knows you. Says he's got quite the story to tell."

Ice floods my veins. "What are you talking about?"

"Connor, right? That's what he called you." Ryan's smile widens. "Funny name. Doesn't suit you nearly as well as Cam . But then again, maybe it's the real you, the person you’re hiding from."

I clench my jaw. "What, did he offer you money? Is that it?"

Ryan laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Fuck no. I don’t give a shit about the money. To get the opportunity to take you down a few pegs is payment enough."

"Let it fucking go, Keating. You don’t know what you're getting into," I say, my voice dropping dangerously low. "This guy…he's not just some gossip columnist. He's dangerous."

"Dangerous to your career, maybe," Ryan scoffs.

"I'm serious." I step closer. "Whatever he told you, whatever he's planning, just stay out of it. For your own good."

Something in my tone makes him hesitate. His eyes narrow. "Are you threatening me now?"

"I'm warning you." I glance around to make sure no one else is listening. "This isn't a game. This guy won't stop with me. He'll come after anyone who gets in his way."

Ryan's smirk falters, just slightly. "Why the hell should I believe you?"

"Because I've seen what he can do." My voice is barely a whisper now. "And trust me, you don't want to be collateral damage."

For a moment, doubt flickers across his face. Then his expression hardens again. "Nice try, Foster. But your golden boy act doesn't work on me. It never has. You can try all you want to save your ass. In the end, it won’t matter."

He pushes past me, shoulder-checking me hard enough to make me stumble .

I stand there, frozen, long after he walks away.

James has already found Ryan. Which means he's serious about the threats.

Which also means I have no choice but to meet him and do whatever he wants to keep him far from Keating, Logan, and the team.

I avoid talking to anyone else and duck out of the locker room early.

By the time I get back to my apartment building, my nerves are stretched so tight, I’m about ready to snap.

Memories of James bubble to the surface with every breath.

His cold smile. His possessive grip. The way he'd whisper in my ear at events, making sure I knew he owned me.

A shudder ripples through me and I slam my hands on the steering wheel.

I turn off the ignition and step out of the car, trying to keep my face neutral when I see Logan. " What are you doing here?"

He stalks toward me. His expression isn't soft. It's hard, controlled, almost angry. "You’re not yourself."

"I’m fine."

"You're lying." His voice is accusatory.

I press my fingertips to my temples. "Go home, Logan. Please. You’ve seen me. I’m good."

"I’m not leaving until you tell me what's going on." He blocks my path to the door into the building, arms crossed over his chest. He looks more like my opponent than the man who kissed me days ago. "I saw your face when you got those text messages. I saw you with Keating today."

"It's not your problem."

"It became my problem the minute you dragged me into whatever the hell this is." His jaw clenches. "You kiss me, then you run. You avoid me and then disappear after practice. And now you show up here looking like you've seen a ghost. I think I deserve an explanation. "

He's not wrong. But the steel in his voice makes my spine stiffen.

"You don't deserve anything from me," I snap. "We're not together. We're barely even friends."

"Is that what you tell yourself to make it easier to push people away?"

Something cracks inside me, making the walls I’ve built to keep everything contained, protected, and controlled start to crumble.

"You don't understand what you're getting into," I bite out.

"Then explain it to me," he says, frustration edging his words. "Stop fucking running."

A bitter laugh slips through my lips. "That's rich, coming from the king of emotional distance."

His eyes flash. "You don't know the first thing about me."

"And you don't know the first thing about me," I throw back. "That's the point."

"So tell me."

Suddenly, I'm tired. So tired of running. Of hiding. Of being afraid.

"You want the truth?" My voice rises, hands balling into fists at my sides.

"Fine. I used to be an escort, Logan. Okay?

I sold myself to pay for hockey. To survive.

And now the past I tried to bury is coming back to destroy everything I've built.

That's who you kissed. Connor, not Cam. A fraud.

A desperate kid who did what he had to do and lied to everyone about it. "

I wait for the disgust to seep into his expression. Instead, he just stands there, his face stoic and unreadable. Not soft, not accepting, but not angry.

"That's what this is about?" he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Your past?"

I can't tell if his tone is laced with judgment or confusion. " Yes. That's what this is about. My secret's about to blow up, and it's going to take everything down with it."

He scrapes a hand over his face and exhales hard. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Not the response I expected. "Because you wouldn't fucking leave it alone. Because you should know what you've gotten yourself into by being associated with me."

"Associated with you," he repeats, his brow furrowing. "Is that what you think this is?"

"I don't know what this is," I say, throwing my hands into the air. "But whatever it is, it's going to end when the truth comes out. You need to stay away from me."

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He steps closer, intensity in his heavy stare. "And what truth, exactly? That you did what you had to do to survive? That's not exactly breaking news, Cam."

I blink, confusion replacing the tension knotted in my chest. "What?"

"You think you're the only one with a past? With regrets?" His voice is rough. "Welcome to the fucking club."

"It's not the same?—"

"No," he cuts me off. "It's not. But that doesn't mean I can't understand desperation. That doesn't mean I can't understand doing whatever it takes to protect what matters."

There's something in his eyes I can't quite place. Something guarded, something he’s holding back.

"There's more," I say, my heart pounding. "The phone messages…they’re from a former client. This guy James. He's blackmailing me. He wants me to go back to him or he'll expose everything we did to the press and team management."

His expression is immediately eclipsed by confusion. "Go back to him?"

"He's obsessed with me. Has been for years. I got a restraining order, but he found me anyway." My voice falters. "He has photos. Of us. Me and you. The kiss. Everything."

This lands differently. I see the shift in his stance, the tightening of his jaw. This isn't about my past anymore. Now it's about a threat to the present. To him.

"Where is he?" His voice is dangerously low.

"What?"

"This James fucker. Where is he staying?"

"The Columbia Hotel downtown. But, Logan, you can't?—"

"I'm not letting some stalker blackmail you. Or threaten me." He grabs his keys from his pocket and turns toward his car.

I grab his arm. "Stop. This isn't your fight."

He yanks his arm free of my grip. "You made it my fight when you dragged me into it. When you let this guy take pictures of us." His eyes tangle with mine. "I protect what's mine, Cam. My team. My reputation."

"And what am I to you?" I ask, unable to stop the words from spilling out.

He pauses for a long minute, my throat tightening as I wait for his response. "I don't know yet," he says finally. "But I'm not letting this asshole decide for me."

It's not a declaration of love. It's not even warmth. It's determination, possessiveness maybe, but in no way tender or romantic.

"We'll deal with this," he says, again turning toward his car. "But when it's over, you and I need to have a real conversation. About everything. No more secrets. No more running."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak again.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he says, already pulling out his phone. "Lock your door. Don't answer if anyone comes."

He's halfway to his car when I find my voice again. " Logan."

He turns back.

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate. "For not...walking away."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I haven't decided if I'm staying yet," he says, his bluntness like a slap across the face. "Let's handle the blackmailer first. Then we'll see where we stand."

As I watch him drive away, I'm left with the unsettling feeling that I've crossed a line I can't come back from. I just handed Logan a piece of me, the darkest, ugliest piece, and I don't know what he'll do with it.

I don't know if he'll use it to understand me or to destroy me.

But for the first time since James's threats began, I don't feel completely alone.

It's not hope, not exactly.

But it's something.