Page 19 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

SIXTEEN

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Some lies become truth if you live them long enough. At least, that's what I tell myself every time I sign autographs as Cam Foster, smiling for the cameras, pretending Connor never existed.

Fucking hell. I did everything to bury my past, but deep down, I think I always knew it was gonna come back to bite me.

I've barely slept since Logan left my apartment last night. My brain keeps replaying the moment, his stony face, tight jaw, eyes burning into my soul. I unleashed my deepest, darkest secret, and he didn't run. Not completely, anyway.

I trudge to the conference room for the team meeting, my shoulders tight, my insides flooded with impending dread.

Team meetings usually mean trouble. The topics are usually upcoming trades, a need for disciplinary action, or damage control for someone's fuckup going public. And I've got plenty of fuel for that fire.

But before I can get to the room, Keating suddenly pops out of the shadows and grabs my arm.

"Headed to the team meeting, Foster? "

I shake off his arm, my teeth gritted.

"Or should I say Connor?"

My hands freeze on my bag. "What do you want, Keating?"

"Funny thing," he says, stroking his chin. "I got another call from your friend last night. James, right? Said something about Shaw knowing your little secret now."

I turn slowly. "And?"

"And I'm curious why our team veteran is suddenly involved in your drama." Keating crosses his arms, his eyes glittering with malice. "Makes a guy wonder what else Shaw knows."

The threat hangs in the air between us.

"What did James tell you?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.

"Just that Shaw's in on it now. That things are getting interesting." He moves closer, his eyes glinting with malice. "Is that true?"

"Why would James tell you anything?"

"Because we have a common interest," Keating continues, his voice dropping. "Getting you off this team."

The bluntness of it almost makes me laugh. Almost. "At least you're honest about it."

"More honest than you've been." His eyes narrow. "What does Shaw know that the rest of us don't?"

"None of your goddamn business."

"See, that's where you're wrong." Keating steps closer. "This team was fine before you showed up. We had a system. Then you waltz in with your highlight-reel goals and media attention, and suddenly everything's about the fucking rookie sensation."

"That's not my fault?—"

"And now," he continues, "you've dragged Shaw into whatever mess you're hiding. Which means it's not just about you anymore. It's about the team. "

"You don't care about the team," I snap. "You care about your ice time and being in the spotlight."

His sinister smirk rattles me to my core. "I care about respect. Something you haven't earned."

Before I can respond, the conference room door down the hallway opens. Carter pokes his head out and narrows his eyes when he sees us.

"Everything okay here?" he asks, looking between us with apprehension since we probably look like we’re about to throw down. “Because you’re about a minute away from being late to the meeting.”

"Just talking strategy," Keating says smoothly. "Foster has some interesting ideas about team hierarchy."

Carter doesn't look convinced. "Great. We can talk about them later. But right now, Enver wants us inside.”

Keating heads for the door. Carter moves back inside and at the threshold, Keating pauses to glance back at me. "Think about what I said, rookie. People don’t always come back after their reputations are slaughtered by scandals,” he mutters.

When I get inside, I drop into a chair near the door. Carter turns to me. "What was that about?"

I shake my head. "Nothing important."

"Didn't look like nothing." He gives me a long look and rubs the back of his neck. "Look, I don't know what's going on between you and Keating, or you and Shaw, for that matter, but keep it off the ice. We're too close to the playoffs for any drama."

"There's no drama," I bite out.

Carter gives me a look that screams bullshit. "Whatever you say. Just keep it out of here."

I sit quietly, avoiding conversation with the guys. I don't see Logan come in, but I feel him the second he enters the room .

I lift my head, catching his gaze. He looks exhausted, dark circles staining the skin under his eyes. His movements are stiffer than usual. I hear his familiar ring tone and watch him check his phone, frown, then slide it into his pocket.

Coach walks in with a clipboard in hand.

He calls us to attention. "Afternoon, gentlemen.

Thanks for coming in." He stands at the front of the room, his expression grim.

"I'll keep this brief. Management's concerned about our public image heading into the playoff push.

We've got sponsors breathing down our necks and new contract negotiations on the horizon. "

He glances around the room. "Which means tightening up off the ice. No scandals. No social media firestorms. Nothing that could distract from our performance or damage the brand."

My heart free falls into my stomach. Beside me, Tate leans over. "Someone's in trouble," he whispers.

But Coach doesn't single anyone out. Instead, he launches into new media protocols, mandatory charity appearances, and approved talking points for interviews.

It's routine stuff, but the timing is too fucking coincidental. Did someone tip him off? Has James already made contact with management? He wants to take me down and this is his perfect opportunity.

After the meeting, the team heads to the weight room for a light workout. I wait until most of the guys have left before approaching Logan.

"Hey," I murmur. "You good?"

He glances around, making sure no one's within earshot. "Fine."

"Doesn’t look like you slept."

"Rough night." His voice is low, tense, and it sends the hairs on the back of my neck into a frenzy .

“Sorry.” I swallow hard. "Still three o'clock?"

He nods. "Don't be late."

"I won't," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel, which is basically not at all.

He holds my gaze for a second longer than he needs to, like he's searching for something. Then he walks away, leaving me with the distinct feeling that something has shifted between us. Something I can't quite name.

When Coach finally ends his meeting, I get up and look around the room. My stomach crashes into my sneakers when I catch Keating watching me, that calculating flare in his eyes. I turn away. Fuck him if he thinks I’ll sweat in front of him.

Tate follows me out of the conference room. "Party at my place tonight," he says. "You in?"

"Can't," I say. "Got plans."

He raises an eyebrow. "What kind of plans? Shaw plans?"

I freeze, my fingers fisting the hem of my t-shirt. "What?"

"Come on." He rolls his eyes. "The tension between you two is thick enough to skate on. What's the deal?"

"There's no deal," I mutter. "We're just trying to work better together. It’s the whole mentorship thing. You know."

"Right." Tate grins. "Working together. That's what the kids call it these days."

"Drop it, Tate."

His smile fades. "Seriously though, you good? You've been off lately."

The concern in his voice catches me off guard. "Yeah. I’m…fine."

"If you need anything..." He leaves it hanging, an unexpected offer from the team's resident chaos agent.

"Thanks," I say. "I'm good."

But I'm not. I'm nowhere close to good.

By the time I leave the rink, dark clouds hover overhead, the first few raindrops splattering against my windshield. Great weather for the shit storm brewing in my life.

I check my watch. It’s two-thirty. Just enough time to get to Logan's place.

I plug the address into my GPS and follow the directions to a big brick-face colonial house in a quiet suburb of Oakland, twenty minutes from the arena.

It's not what I expected. I figured he’d live in some bachelor pad or luxury condo, not a family home with a well-kept yard and toys scattered across the porch and lawn.

I sit in my car for a long moment, trying to reconcile this new piece of Logan with everything else I know about him. The stoic veteran. The grumpy mentor. The man who kissed me like he meant it.

The man with a son? It’s too weird.

I finally step out of the car and jog up the front steps to the front door. Before I can knock, it swings open. Logan stands there, expression guarded.

"You're early," he says.

"Is that a problem?"

He hesitates, then steps aside. "No. Come in."

I walk past him into the entryway, shocked to see how lived-in the place feels. Family photos cover the walls. It's homey, cozy, inviting, nothing like the cold, sterile space I'd imagined.

"Nice place," I say, looking around and feeling like I might be seeing him for the first time.

Logan nods, watching me closely. "Thanks."

"So, what did you need to tell me?"

A woman appears in the doorway to what looks like the kitchen. She's pretty, with Logan's blue eyes and a warm smile that immediately puts me at ease.

"You must be Cam," she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "I'm Tessa. Logan's sister. "

Sister. Not wife. The relief that floods through me is overwhelming because for a hot second, I was consumed by panic that my crush might possibly be married.

"Nice to meet you," I manage.

Logan's shoulders tense. "Tess, can you give us a minute?"

She raises an eyebrow but nods. "Sure. I need to pick Ethan up from school anyway.

He's got that science project due tomorrow so we have lots to do tonight.

" She grabs her purse off a hook by the door.

"Don't mind the mess. Someone around here thinks that since he pays the mortgage, he doesn't have to pick up his socks. "

The pointed look she gives Logan makes it clear who that someone is.

"Thanks, Tess," Logan mutters, a hint of color popping into his cheeks.