Page 22 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

EIGHTEEN

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Time doesn't flow the way it's supposed to.

Every second ticks past with the speed of a slug slithering over the ground, like it wants to stick around and watch me unravel.

I've been staring at the wall in my apartment since sunrise, watching shadows creep across the crisp white paint. There's a nail pop near the vent that catches my eye. It’s a small, jagged black mark against the clean white that reminds me of my past choices and how they’ve come back to slice through my carefully crafted future.

And now, I've dragged the one person who actually gives a damn about me into my mess.

The sound of my phone buzzing jolts me from my spiral. I grab it, heart pounding, expecting to see another message from James. Instead, I find a text from Tate.

Game day, golden boy. Get your ass to morning skate.

Right. Hockey. The thing I'm supposed to care about most. The thing that has been my salvation and might now become my downfall.

I roll out of bed, my muscles aching like I've been run over by a truck. The face looking back at me in the mirror looks like shit, hollow eyes with dark circles that could rival a raccoon's. I splash cold water on my skin and try to push away the fear feasting on my gut.

Hockey first. Focus on what you can control.

That's what Logan said. One thing at a time.

The morning skate is optional, but I need to feel the ice under my blades, like I'm still in control of something. I throw on a hoodie and sweats, grab my gear bag, and head for the door. As I step into the hallway, my phone buzzes again.

Let me know when you get to the rink.

I let out a breath, my shoulders sagging. It’s just Logan. Checking up on me.

A simple text shouldn't make my chest tighten like this, but it does. I tap out a quick reply.

On my way.

The drive to the rink is a blur. My mind keeps replaying the look on Logan's face when he saw the photo of his house, the anger, the fear, the panic that keeps making my stomach flip. He's putting everything on the line for me, and I still can't figure out why.

The parking lot is half-empty when I arrive. I text Logan to let him know I'm here, then walk inside. I keep my head down, half-expecting to see James lurking in the shadows with his fucking phone. But there's only the familiar cool air of the arena and the distant sound of blades scraping ice.

I find Logan in the middle of the rink, methodically running through warm-up drills.

His movements are precise, every motion calculated, like he's trying to control the one thing in his life that still makes sense.

Kind of like what I need to do. I watch him for a long minute feeling something tight and warm radiate through my insides .

I drop my bag on the bench and lace up my skates. As I step onto the ice, the familiar sensation of my blades hitting the frozen surface calms me.

This, at least, is still mine. For now.

He looks up as I approach. "You're here."

"Said I would be.” I pause. “Anything from James?"

"Nothing." He skates closer, his voice dropping. "But I set up a meeting with a security company for tomorrow. They'll install cameras at the house. And Tessa knows everything. She’s going to keep an eye out, too."

I expel a breath and it clouds the air. "That's good. Smart."

"You sleep at all?"

I force a tight smile. "Does it look like I did?"

"Not really."

"You?"

"Barely." He skates over to the boards and leans against them. I follow along, not ready to separate. "Listen, we need to talk about what happens next after the game."

"Okay." I roll my shoulders back. "For now, we play."

"Yeah.” His gaze is steady, intense. "And we win."

The morning skate is light, just a few passing drills, nothing too demanding before the game. I move through the motions, trying to focus on the play in front of me, not the freight train of chaos angling to derail my life.

After the skate, we all head back to the locker room. I hang back, waiting for the crowd to thin out before changing. Logan does the same.

I catch Keating following our movements. I try to pretend I don’t notice but it’s fucking hard when it feels like a vicious eye-raping.

"Shaw," Coach calls from the entrance of the locker room. "Management wants a word. Something about PR for the playoff push. "

Logan nods, shoulders tensing slightly. "I'll be right there, Coach." His forehead pinches as he looks between me and Keating since he has no idea that James is talking to Keating, too. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that one of our teammates is in on all of this and give him more stress.

I hold my breath until Logan is out of earshot. When he's gone, Keating creeps up to me, voice low. "Your friend James called again."

My blood runs cold. "What did he want?"

"To remind me there's a clock on this little arrangement." Keating's smile is all teeth, like a fucking shark smelling blood in the water, ready to attack. "Said something about Chicago and a two-week deadline."

I keep my face impassive even though my heart hammers hard and fast against my ribs. "And what exactly did you agree to?"

"Just to keep my eyes open." He leans closer. "And they are, Connor . Wide open."

"You think you're smart," I say through clenched teeth. "But you have no idea what you're getting into."

"Enlighten me, then."

I shake my head. "Not worth it. Just stay out of my way today."

"Or what?" His smirk grows wider. "You'll tell Shaw? To sic him on me?"

"I don't need Logan to fight my battles."

"Could've fooled me." Keating's eyes narrow to slits. "Word of advice? Whatever's going on between you two, keep it off the ice. I've worked too hard to let some rookie's personal shit tank the season. And if I need to wait two more weeks before I can take you out, I will. Believe that."

Before I can respond, he walks away, leaving me with the sour taste of his threat in my mouth .

As I'm heading out, Logan returns to the locker room, his expression tight.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Fine. Just the usual pre-playoff media bullshit." He glances around to make sure no one is within earshot. "I saw Keating leave the locker room all pissed off. What’s his problem? "

"Nothing important."

Logan's eyes narrow like he doesn't believe me for a second. "You sure?"

"Yeah." I force a smile. "Just game day shit-talking."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. "See you tonight."

"Yep. See ya.” I try to keep my voice light and easy, but I know Logan will see past it all. I’ve shown him enough already to keep him suspicious.

As I walk to my car, my phone buzzes with a notification. For a second, panic chokes me, but it's just a reminder about the game. Seven o'clock. Home ice. The Pittsburgh Pelicans.

Hockey. Focus on hockey.

Everything else will have to wait.

The arena vibrates with energy. It’s a sold-out crowd because the game has playoff implications.

There’s a buzz of anticipation in the air that only comes with high-stakes games like these.

I've been looking forward to this showdown for weeks, but now it feels unimportant, a distant second to the category five storm brewing in my life.

I go through my pre-game rituals on autopilot. Tape, stretch, visualization, warm-up. The familiar routine keeps me grounded .

Logan catches my eye across the locker room. He gives me a quick nod, a silent reminder of our conversation. One shift at a time. One game at a time. One step at a time.

Coach Enver paces in front of us, his pre-game speech the usual mix of strategy and motivation. I try to focus, but his words blur together, drowned out by the noise clanging around in my head.

"Foster," he says, and I snap back to attention. "You and Shaw lead the first line. Keep up what you've been doing in practice. That chemistry is exactly what we need tonight."

Chemistry. Right. If only he knew the reason behind it all.

The roar of the crowd drowns out the noise between my ears as we step onto the ice for warm-ups.

High-pitched voices and cheers make me smile despite everything that’s on the verge of crumbling.

But I just can’t get pumped up like I normally do before games.

Raptors jerseys fill the stands, flashes from cameras sparkling like stars.

It’s amazing and I want to take it in, to really relish it all, but that fucker drained the excitement out of me.

I scan the crowd, half-expecting to see James in the stands, watching. The irrational fear crawls up my spine, making me stumble slightly on a crossover.

"Easy," Logan's voice cuts through my panic. He's right next to me, steady as always. "Eyes on the ice. Mind off the bullshit."

I nod, grateful for the reminder. "Right. Ice."

We skate the warm-up laps, fall into the familiar rhythm of passing drills. By the time the buzzer sounds, calling us back to the locker room for final preparations, I've managed to push James to the corners of my mind.

Hockey now. Everything else later.

The first period starts fast. Pittsburgh comes out hungry and aggressive. Their defense is huge, most of the players are over six-two, and they use every inch of their mass to make space in the defensive zone, which is a luxury we can't afford.

Logan takes the opening face-off and wins the puck, sending it cleanly to Carter, who sends it back to Masterson at the point. The puck cycles around the zone, players moving over the ice in sync, looking for an opening. Logan positions himself at the half-boards, waiting for the pass.

I cut across the slot, drawing the defenseman with me, creating an open space. Logan sees it, sends a quick pass to me. I catch it and fire the puck…a half-second too slow. The Pittsburgh goalie snags it from the air, killing the shot.

"Nice try, rookie," the goalie calls through his mask. "Gonna have to be quicker than that."

I grin despite myself. "Just warming up."