Page 21 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

SEVENTEEN

logan

My stomach drops like a brick falling off the side of a building as I stare at the photo on Cam's phone. My house. My fucking house. The house we're standing in right now, where Tessa and Ethan live. Where they sleep.

This psychopath has to be fucking stopped.

"When was this taken?" I ask, voice tight with barely contained rage.

"Today." Cam’s eyes widen. "Look at the timestamp."

Three hours ago. While we were at practice. While Ethan was at school. It's a clear day shot, taken from across the street, probably from a parked car. The dinosaur-shaped wind chime Tessa hung last spring is visible on the porch.

The picture isn’t just a threat. It's a message.

I stalk to the front window, scanning the street for unfamiliar cars, for anyone watching. The quiet suburban scene looks normal, peaceful even. But now I know better.

Cam stands frozen, guilt etched into his features, as I pull the blinds closed in the living room.

"Logan, I'm sorry. I never meant to?— "

"Stop," I cut him off, pushing back my hair. "This isn't on you. This is on him."

Cam averts his gaze, but not before I catch the raw pain in his eyes. "I should go. It's not safe for your family if I'm here."

"You're not going anywhere." The words come out harsher than I intended.

"Logan, please. Let me go."

"No." I step closer, taking him by the arms, unable to shake off the charge of electricity that fizzles my fingertips. "That's exactly what he wants. To isolate you. To make you think you're toxic. That you have to face him alone." I grit my teeth. "Well, fuck that."

Something shifts in Cam's expression. Surprise, maybe. Or relief. I can't tell.

"We need a plan," I say. "A real one, not one of me storming over there half-cocked, which is exactly what I really want to do."

"What kind of plan?"

"The kind that puts this asshole away for good."

Cam's phone buzzes again. We both freeze, eyes locked on it like it might explode.

"It's him," Cam whispers.

"Read the message."

"What if he?—?"

"We need to know what he wants. Read the fucking thing." I slide in close, watching over his shoulder as he clicks on the text.

Change of plans. Unexpected business deal in Chicago requires my immediate attention. Lucky you.

He's not demanding Cam leave tonight. Relief washes over me, but it's not long before it’s replaced by a rush of anger.

Another message follows.

I'll require your presence when I return in two weeks. You'll understand my need to focus on business first, I'm sure. After all, I've spent three years rebuilding what your little restraining order stunt cost me.

Two weeks. He's giving us two weeks.

"Why the extension?" I ask, suspicious. "What changed?"

Cam shakes his head. "I don't know."

A final message vibrates the phone, this one with an attachment.

Something to keep you motivated in my absence. In case you're considering backing out.

Cam’s finger shakes before he stabs the screen to open it, and we both suck in a sharp breath at the same time.

It's a video of a younger Cam in a hotel room. His hair is much shorter, his eyes harder. But he's not alone. The video is grainy, dimly lit, but unmistakable in its implications. It looks like a fucking porn shoot.

"Jesus," I mutter.

Cam's hand trembles as he locks the phone and sticks it into his pocket. "There's more where that came from."

The defeat in his voice sparks something fierce in my chest. I'm not a violent man by nature, but in that moment, I want nothing more than to find psychopath James and beat him within an inch of his shit stain of a life.

"He won't get away with this," I say instead, fists clenched at my sides.

"He already has." Cam's laugh is hollow. "For three years."

"Not anymore." I grab my own phone. "We're calling Mike."

"Who's Mike?"

"An old friend of mine. He’s a cop." I'm already scrolling through my contacts. "He'll know what we can do legally. How to gather evidence, build a case. "

"A cop?" Panic laces his words. "Logan, I can't let this get out."

"We're not filing a report. Not yet." I find Mike's number. "I already spoke with him without saying names. Now we're just getting advice."

Cam doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't stop me either.

Mike answers on the third ring. "Shaw? Twice in one week. I'm flattered."

"Listen, I need more advice on that hypothetical situation," I say, putting the phone on speaker. "How would someone gather evidence of blackmail? Legally admissible evidence."

"Still asking for a friend, huh?" I can hear the skepticism in his voice. "Well, hypothetically , like I said, you'd want to record conversations. California's a one-party consent state, so as long as one person in the conversation knows about the recording, it's legal."

"What else?"

"Document everything. Screenshots of texts, emails, photos. Times, dates, locations. Any witnesses to threats or harassment. The more detailed, the better." Mike pauses. "Logan, you sure you’re not in some kind of trouble?"

"Not me," I say, watching Cam. "My friend."

"Right. Well, your friend should be careful. Blackmailers can be dangerous when cornered. If there's any physical threat, don't mess around. Call 911."

"Got it. Thanks, Mike."

After I hang up, the kitchen falls silent, both of us processing our circumstances.

"So we have two weeks," Cam says finally. "What's the plan?"

"We gather evidence. Document everything." I tap my fingers against the counter, thinking. "And we find out everything we can about James Harmon."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we dig. Where he works, where he lives, who his connections are. The more we know about him, the better equipped we are to fight back."

Cam looks doubtful. "And how do we do that without him knowing we’re nosing around when he’s literally got someone watching our every movement?"

"Carefully." I meet his gaze. "And we don't let him isolate you. That's what he wants. It's how guys like him operate. They cut you off from support, make you feel like you have no choice but to give in."

I don't mention that I've seen this pattern before. I don't tell him about my father's mind games, the way he'd isolate my mother, make her feel crazy for questioning him. Some wounds are still too raw to poke at.

"We have a game tomorrow," I remind him, changing the subject. "We need to focus on that, too."

"How?" Cam asks, throwing up his hands. "How the hell am I supposed to focus on hockey when this is hanging over my head? Over our heads?"

"Because it's the one thing he can't touch unless you let him.

" I step closer, taking in a deep breath, letting the scent of his cologne fill my lungs.

"On the ice, you're untouchable. You're Cam Foster, rookie phenom.

Not Connor. Not anyone's victim. And every minute you play your best is a minute he doesn't control you. "

Something flickers in Cam's eyes. It looks like determination. And that’s fucking powerful for him, exactly what he needs right now.

"Besides," I say, "the team needs us. Both of us."

"We've been playing better together." The corners of his lips curl up the slightest bit .

"Damn right we have." I almost match his smile. "We keep that up, we clinch playoffs in the next three games."

Cam nods, a hint of his usual confidence returning. "Yeah. Okay. I, ah, I should go. Thanks."

"Stay for dinner," I say.

He hesitates. "I don't want to intrude."

"You're not. And I'm not letting you sit alone in your apartment tonight. That's exactly what he wants."

Cam studies me for a long moment, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why are you doing all this?"

"Doing what?"

"Protecting me. Risking your family's safety. Your career."

The question catches me off guard. Why am I doing this? Because it's the right thing? Because I can't stand bullies? Because the thought of him facing this alone makes something in my chest clench painfully?

"Because no one deserves to be controlled like that," I finally say. "Not even cocky rookies who drive me insane."

The corner of his mouth quirks up a notch more. "I drive you insane?"

"You absolutely do." But there's no bite to it. Not anymore.

A soft cough interrupts us. Tessa stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised. "Everything okay in here?"

"Fine," I say quickly, knowing there’s a longer, tougher conversation I need to have with my sister once I figure out the next steps. "Cam's staying for dinner."

She glances between us, clearly reading more into the situation than I'm comfortable with. "Great. I'll set another plate."

When she's gone, Cam turns to me. "We should tell her. About James. You can’t keep her in the dark. She needs to know what we’re dealing with. She has your nephew to think about."

"I know, I know. I just need to figure out how to keep them safe. I’ll do some research, look up security systems and cameras. And I’ll call that security firm the team uses."

Cam catches my arm. "Hey. Breathe."

I didn't realize how fast my heart was racing until he said that. I inhale deeply, trying to control the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

"They'll be okay," he murmurs. "We have time to figure this out."

"Two weeks." I nod. "We have two weeks."

"And a game tomorrow."

"And a game tomorrow." I nod, letting out an unsteady breath.

Ethan's voice carries from the living room, explaining something about dinosaurs to Tessa with the kind of enthusiasm only a six-year-old can muster. The normality of it, the innocence, makes my heart hurt.

"I won't let anything happen to them," I say, more to myself than to Cam.

"I know." His hand is still on my arm, warm through my sleeve. "And I won't let anything happen to you."

I look up, surprised by the fierce protectiveness in his voice. It's a side of Cam I haven't seen before.

For a moment, we just stand there, caught in some unspoken bubble. Then Ethan bursts into the room, and it just pops.

"I'm making a triceratops for science class," he announces, holding up a half-finished model. "I can't get the horns right, though."

"I'm not much of an artist," Cam admits, examining the model. "But maybe if you angle them more like this?" He gestures with his hands.

Ethan's face brightens to about a million watts. "That's it. That's exactly what I need. "

I watch as Cam continues to offer suggestions. Tessa appears beside me. "He's good with him," she says quietly.

"Yeah." Watching them makes a strange warmth bloom in my chest.

"Now, do you want to tell me what's really going on?" she asks, keeping her voice low.

I hesitate. "It's complicated."

"Try me."

I weigh my options. She deserves to know why I'm suddenly going to install security cameras and hire guards to keep an eye on things. But telling her everything puts her in the middle of this mess.

"Someone's threatening Cam," I say finally. "And they know where we live."

Her eyes widen. "What? Who? Why?"

"It's a long story. But I'm handling it. We're handling it."

“Jesus.” She stares at me for a long moment. "Are you sure?”

I nod.

"Logan, if anything?—"

"Don’t even say it. I won't let anything happen to you or Ethan." The promise comes out fierce, absolute. "Trust me on that."

She sighs and bites down on her lip, turning her head to look back at Ethan and Cam. "Just be careful, Lo. Whatever this is, don't do anything stupid."

"That's the plan."

Later, after dinner and after Cam tucks Ethan into bed…at my nephew’s request…we sit on the porch steps, watching the quiet street.

"Thank you," Cam says suddenly. "For dinner. For letting me hang out with Ethan. I didn’t realize how much I needed to be around people. "

"No big deal." But we both know it is.

"He's a great kid."

"Yeah." Pride swells in my chest. "He is."

We fall silent again, and it’s comfortable. Easy.

"We're going to beat this," I say. "James. The blackmail. All of it."

Cam is quiet for a long minute. "I don't remember the last time someone fought for me like this."

The simple honesty of it hits me harder than anything he could have said. I think of all the times he's mentioned being alone, of the glimpses of pain behind the cocky grin. Of a kid doing whatever it took to survive.

"Well, get used to it," I say gruffly. "I don't start fights I don't plan to win."

He turns his head to look at me, something like hope flickering in the depths of his eyes. "Game day tomorrow."

"Game day," I repeat. "One thing at a time."

And for the first time since seeing that photo of my house, I feel like maybe, just maybe, we might find a way through this.

One shift at a time. One day at a time.

That's how you win games.

That's how you survive.