Page 2 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TWO

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Winning should feel better than this.

And yet…

My mind trips back to Logan sitting hunched over on the floor a few minutes ago, his pained expression, the defeat in his deep-set eyes.

I don’t know what burns worse…the taste of victory or the sharp, sour twist of guilt that follows.

I won.

I stole the shot, stole the game, stole the goddamn night.

And part of me wants to chase Logan down and give it back.

Maybe I was just lashing out for all of the times since I joined the team that he’s completely disregarded me. I’ve had more than enough of that in my life and I don’t deserve that shit, least of all from that geriatric hockey player.

Or maybe it’s because he’s exposing my deepest fear…that I really don’t belong here and if I don’t keep smiling for the cameras, someone’s going to pull the rug out from under me and I’ll spiral back into my past life .

“Here comes the rookie golden boy now,” Tate, our goalie, calls out to me as he strips out of his uniform.

I walk inside the locker room and take a deep breath. If it’s bright and shiny enough, nobody will be able to see what lies beneath. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. “You called?”

"Jesus, Foster, you cocky little shit. Save some miracles for the playoffs, huh?"

I flash the kind of grin they all expect, the too-big, too-damn-proud one. Then I let myself soak in the moment.

This is what I worked for.

This is why I never quit.

This is survival.

Victory buzzes like static in the air in the form of shouts, jokes, the slap of towels and the clang of helmets hitting the bench.

Tate's holding court for the team and the press, doing a reenactment of my play.

“And then Foster, this arrogant bastard, he just snatches it outta nowhere, right?" he says, spinning around and fake-sniping a glove into the laundry bin.

Laughter explodes around me.

I roll my eyes, smirking. "See, you guys just needed some fresh young blood to resurrect your record from the grave.”

Another round of howls follows.

Someone shoves a beer into my hand.

I raise it like a king accepting a crown.

The perfect golden boy moment.

And then I catch Carter Van Kleef watching me from across the room, that captain's heavy gaze taking in more than I'm ready to show.

He’s not laughing.

Not smiling .

Just...watching.

I slam the beer back harder than necessary, the foam stinging my throat.

Fake it.

Own it.

Laugh louder than the part of you that wants to apologize for being such a dick.

The guys snicker, clapping me on the back as the throng of press vultures invades the locker room. They surround me, microphones are stuck in my face, questions peppering me from all sides.

“Cam, how does it feel to be the top contender for rookie of the year?” one guy asks.

“ Top contender?” I ask, stroking my chin. “Wait, don’t you mean only ?”

“Hey, hey,” Ryan Keating yells out from across the room, slamming his fist on his locker. “Be careful or your ego won’t be able to fit into your helmet, brah.” He follows up the comment with a sharp laugh, but he’s clearly anything but amused.

My eyes narrow slightly at him. “I’d be more worried about your shots than mine, brah . We play the same position, yeah?” I give him an exaggerated wink and that brings on more jeers from the peanut gallery. Not from everyone, though.

Carter furrows his brow at me, his disapproval damn evident.

It takes a second for me to shrug it off and flash a smile at another young woman with a microphone. “Seriously, though, it was a team effort.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Team effort? Really, is that how you’d have called that final play of the game? Sure looked like you were chasing glory out there.” With a cock of her head, her lips curl into a toothy grin .

“Oh, shit!” Masterson says, clapping his hands. “She fucking called you out, Foster.”

My pulse explodes against the side of my neck, a fresh drizzle of sweat slipping down my back. “I don’t have to chase glory,” I say with a tight smile. “It finds me , and that’s been pretty apparent since the start of the season.”

A low grunt from behind me hits my ears and the flashes are going off again as Logan walks into the locker room, helmet in hand.

“Logan, you were so close to making the game-winning shot tonight. What happened?”

His expression darkens, his blue eyes sliding over to me. There’s disgust and disdain in the depths of his gaze and I can feel my blood icing in my veins with each second that ticks past.

He finally looks at the person who asked the question, jaw clenched. “I stumbled and lost control of the puck. Luckily,” he says, venom lacing his words. “There were other guys who were close by and in position to take the shot.”

“And how does it feel to be the oldest guy on the team getting shown up by the rookie?”

A low murmur goes through the locker room and I twist around to get a look at the guy who asked the question. He’s a short guy with glasses and a soul patch that looks nothing short of fucking stupid on his weaselly ass face.

Carter steps forward. “Hey, bud, this isn’t the place for mudslinging. You want to ask questions about the game, fine, but don’t get personal. No need for that.”

The guy’s lips twist into a condescending smirk as he looks back at Logan. “S’ok. No comment actually speaks volumes. Anyone with eyes can see the battle between these two on the ice. And I guess the silence confirms that.”

My jaw damn near hits the floor and the guy turns to walk out of the locker room like he didn’t just stir up a pot of shit.

I don’t dare look at Logan, mainly because what the asshat just said is true.

I idolized Logan growing up. I wanted to be a Stanley Cup-winning NHL player, just like Logan Shaw. And when I’d been drafted to the Oakland Raptors, when I finally got my chance to be seen, I wanted him to notice.

So maybe my attempts got a little out of control tonight.

Maybe it’s because the guy won’t give me the time of day.

And maybe I just need his approval.

Everyone’s approval.

But they don’t understand why. And I never let anyone close enough to find out the reason.

The press leaves, and the guys head back to the showers, talking in hushed tones. I slowly walk over to my locker and pull off my jersey. With a quick glance back at Logan, I bite my lip.

I should just let it go. I’ll only make things worse.

But then my lips are flapping before I can stop them.

“Hey, listen,” I say in a low voice. “I wasn’t trying to show you up out there. I was just trying to make sure?—”

“That it was your name the whole crowd screamed,” he says, not even bothering to look at me. “I know your type, Foster. Cocky rookie asshole who thinks he’s king of the fucking ice.” He wraps a towel around his waist, slowly turns toward me, and my breath hitches.

I don’t mean to stare. Fuck, I don’t even mean to look.

But it’s hard to pull my eyes away from the deep V of his hips and the black ink adorning his thick, muscular chest. White hot flames spit from his blue eyes, his bearded jaw tight as he steps toward me.

“You’re just getting your feet wet, newbie,” he growls in that low, gravelly voice of his that I only just realized makes my body hum. “Be very careful unless you want to be thrown into the deep end, you fucking toddler.”

After a long, fiery look that I guess is meant to scare me, he twists around and walks toward the showers.

And the way my skin buzzes under the memory of his heated glare tells me in no uncertain terms that I’m not scared at all.

Nope. Shockingly, I’m fucking turned on.

I can’t drag my gaze away from his perfect ass and ripped back.

And it scares the hell out of me.

Because I don’t give in to those kinds of feelings.

They’re fucking dangerous and, more importantly, they can destroy lives.

I don’t see Logan again before I leave the arena, but I can’t get thoughts of him in that towel to stop looping through my mind. They plague me for my entire ride home.

I kick off my shoes and shrug off my jacket when I get into my apartment. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s been blowing up with notifications since the game ended. Texts from teammates, fan tags from reels and other social media posts, articles rolling in about the Raptors’ golden boy.

It should make me ecstatic.

Approval. Recognition. Accolades.

It’s what I worked so hard for, what I sacrificed so much for.

My shoulders slump as I drop onto the leather couch. I lean my head back against the cushion and stare up at the ceiling. Narrowing my eyes, I see a faint crack above the doorway to the kitchen. I’ve been meaning to fix it since I moved in but I guess part of me likes it there.

It’s a reminder of everything I left behind to become Cam Foster, NHL superstar.

My sketchpad is open on the coffee table in front of me. I flip through messy stick figures in different skating positions, random quotes I’ve written down to get me through tough times, and a series of silly dinosaur cartoons.

I rip off the cap of a pen with my teeth and gnaw it to hell while I doodle another stegosaurus. Nothing is coming out right, least of all the joy I’m supposed to feel from winning the game.

Logan’s glare keeps cutting into me, worse than any hit I’ve ever taken on the ice.

The first time I saw him play was when I was thirteen and we couldn’t afford the cable bill.

But there he was, on the TV at a diner where I bussed tables on weekends.

Larger than life. Already breaking records.

The news ran a story on him, how he got scouted out of nowhere.

It gave me hope…that maybe I could be that guy. And I needed to cling to whatever shreds of hope I could back then.

I pick up my pen again and turn to a fresh page, sketching loose lines with quick movements of my hand. I don’t focus on the subject, don’t think at all, but when I finally stop drawing, I know immediately who it is.

A player on the ice.

Helmet down.

Shoulders slumped.

Stick dragging behind him.

It’s Logan Shaw.

I grit my teeth and toss the sketchpad onto the table.

New messages flood the team group chat. Everyone’s on fire about some article predicting we’ll sweep the season.

Tate sends a meme with my face on a king’s body, and I want to hate it, but I can’t.

It’s what I said I wanted. It’s what I traded everything for.

My phone pings with a new message from Coach Enver.

Tomorrow morning. Shaw and Foster. Mandatory meeting.

The screen explodes with eyeball emojis.

Everyone reacts like the suspense is going to kill them.

I guess that’s a good thing, them wanting to know more.

It means they give a shit, even if it’s just for the gossip.

I tell myself it’s better than nothing. Then Tate sends a gif of me getting thrown off a rollercoaster, and all the old doubts rush in.

Maybe they care, but not the way I need them to.

When I finally reply, it’s another classic dickhead comment. Another attention-grabber to distract everyone from the reasons behind the shield of my cocky attitude.

Can’t wait for grumpy grandpa to show me how to cross-check in cursive.

They laugh like it’s the funniest damn thing they’ve ever heard, and I sit there, phone in my hand, exhaling hard.

The screen goes dark, and my eyes float up toward the ceiling again.

If peopleonly see the confident, unstoppable "golden boy," theywon’t dig deep enoughto find the kid who spent nights counting cracks in the plaster while huddling under a pile of blankets because the heat had been turned off again, wondering if he'd ever get the chance to make it out of his hellish life, to become someone great.

“But you did. You earned it,” I whisper to the empty room. “You belong here.”

Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll start to feel true.