Page 23 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

The next shift is more of the same. Tight checking, barely any opportunities, massive bodies colliding like wrecking balls.

I take a hard hit along the boards, the wind knocked out of my lungs.

Logan is on me in a hot second, shoving the Pittsburgh defender away, his eyes flashing with a protectiveness that shouldn't make my heart jump.

But fuck, it does.

"You good?" he asks, helping me up.

"I've had worse," I rasp.

By the end of the first period, the score is still deadlocked at zero. Coach Enver makes a few adjustments to the lines, tweaks our zone entries, but keeps Logan and me together.

"Keep working the cycle," he tells us. "They'll eventually crack."

The second period starts with another chaotic charge of activity. Pittsburgh scores on their first shift, a deflection off a point shot that Tate has no chance to defend against.

Logan and I take off down the ice. I intercept a weak attempt from Pittsburgh to send the puck down the ice and then pass it to Logan. He fires it and the buzzer sounds. The arena erupts, my brain rattling from the cheers reverberating between my ears.

As we skate back to the bench, Logan bumps his glove against mine. "Nice pass."

"Nice finish."

For a moment, everything feels right. The crowd, the game, the rush of competition. No James, no blackmail, no secrets. Just hockey.

The feeling lasts until halfway through the period, when I catch a glimpse of a familiar face in the stands behind our bench.

It’s not James I see, but Ryan Keating's father, William Keating. He’s a well-known hockey agent, notorious for his cut-throat tactics and the way he's completely manipulated his son's career.

William watches me with an intensity that makes my gut clench. There’s a guy next to him whom I don’t recognize. He’s tall, well-dressed, with dark hair going silver at the temples.

He watches me, too. And it’s fucking eerie.

I try to focus on the game, but I can’t shake the unease hovering over me. I miss a pass, fumble a breakout, and earn a glare from Coach Enver.

"Get your head in the game, Foster," he barks from the bench.

At the next commercial break, I lean over to Logan. "Who's the guy sitting with Keating's dad?"

Logan glances up at the stands, his expression darkening. "Don't know. Why?"

"He keeps staring at me."

Logan's eyes narrow as he turns to look closer. The man is still there, still watching, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Fuck him," Logan says, voice tight. "Focus on the game. "

But the damage is done. My concentration is shot, my timing off by half-seconds that feel like hours. I push harder, my muscles tense and screaming as I try desperately to make up for it, taking chances I shouldn't.

Late in the second period, I jump a pass that isn't there. The resulting turnover sends Pittsburgh on a two-on-one rush the other way. They score, putting us down 2-1 heading into the third.

Coach Enver doesn't hold back in the intermission.

"Foster, what the hell was that? You're chasing ghosts out there." He points at the whiteboard, where he's mapped out the play. "Stay in your lane. Stick to the fucking system."

I nod, cheeks burning. "Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again."

The third period is a battle of wills. Pittsburgh clings to their lead, making us fight for every inch of ice. With five minutes left, Coach Enver calls us to the bench. "Shaw, Foster, you're up. I need a goal."

I catch Keating's expression tense as we hop over the boards, but I push it from my mind. Fuck him. It’s only about the game now.

Logan wins the face-off and sends the puck back to the defense. I drive myself forward. Masterson passes it to me, and I catch it, searching for space. The Pittsburgh defenseman closes on me fast. Too fast.

Logan appears in the slot, stick blade on the ice, ready for the pass. I slide it between the defender's legs, right onto Logan's tape.

He fires and misses. The puck ricochets off the crossbar, bouncing into the corner of the ice.

"Fuck," Logan mutters.

Thirty seconds later, the puck comes to me behind the net. I fake a wrap-around, draw the goalie out, then find Logan in position. This time, he doesn't miss .

The arena explodes as the red light flashes. Tie game, 2-2.

Logan crashes into me, his arms wrapping around my shoulders, his face inches from mine. "That was fucking beautiful," he shouts over the roar of the crowd.

The embrace lasts half a second too long and feels too much like something else entirely. I pull away with a racing heart and skate back to the bench.

In the short break before overtime, Coach Enver lays out our strategy. "Quick shifts, high energy. First goal wins. Logan, Cam, you're starting."

I glance at Logan, find him already watching me, his eyes intense. "Let's end this," he says.

We take our positions for the opening face-off. The Pittsburgh center across from Logan is talking shit, trying to get in his head. Logan ignores him, his eyes fixed on the referee's hand, waiting for the puck to drop.

I scan the crowd once more. The man with Keating's father is gone. Relief floods me, followed immediately by a new wave of anxiety. Where did he go? And why was he watching me so closely?

The referee's whistle jolts me from my thoughts. The puck drops. Logan wins it and sends it to Carter, who chips it forward. I'm already moving, anticipating the play, my feet flying over the ice.

I catch the puck and tear through the defense. I fake a shot, drawing the goalie out, then pull the puck to my backhand.

The defenseman's stick slashes across my wrists. Fuck. Pain flares. It’s hot and sharp. The puck skitters away, and I crash into the boards.

"That should've been a call," Logan growls when he skates over to check on me.

Three minutes into overtime, we finally get our break. Pittsburgh turns the puck over at their blue line. Logan pounces on it and sends a perfect pass to me in the neutral zone.

Everything slows down. The roar of the crowd fades to white noise. The ice stretches out before me, totally open. Just me, the puck, and the goal.

My skates slash at the ice. The Pittsburgh goalie backs in, his eyes locked on me. He drops into a butterfly stance as I get closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan trailing the play. It’s gonna be tight. The defenseman is closing in on me and I don’t have time to make a pass.

So I take the shot. It sails into the top corner of the net, just over the goalie's glove.

The red light flashes. The arena erupts. Game fucking over.

My teammates crash into me. Logan is right in the center of it all, his arm slung around my shoulders, his smile wide and genuine for once.

The celebration continues in the locker room. Coach Enver heaps on the praise, highlighting our chemistry and our fight. The media swarms, cameras flashing, microphones thrust into our faces.

Throughout the celebration and the interviews, Logan stays by my side. It makes me feel protected. Secure. Shit, it feels so much better than the win.

When the last reporter finally leaves, he catches my eye.

"My place," he murmurs. "We need to talk."

I nod, stomach twisting. Back to reality.

As I zip up my bag, Keating stops next to me. "Congratulations, rookie. Enjoy it while it lasts."

I narrow my eyes, goosebumps pebbling my skin. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that fortunes change damn quick in this league." His smile looks like it was carved out of ice. "By the way, my dad wanted to meet you. Shame you were so busy after the game. "

"Another time," I say, trying for disinterest and hoping it lands right.

"Sure." Keating heaves his bag over his shoulder. "Oh, and your friend James sends his regards. Says he'll see you soon.”

He walks away before I can respond, leaving me rooted to the spot, clutching the strap of my bag so tightly my knuckles go white.

Logan walks over to me. "What did he say?"

"Nothing."

"Cam." His voice has that edge that says he's not buying my bullshit.

I sigh, dropping my voice. "James has been talking to him. Keating knows about the two-week deadline."

"Fuck." Logan runs a hand through his hair. "Okay. Let's just get the hell out of here.”

We walk to the parking lot together, the victory buzz already fading. It’s already been replaced by the roiling of my stomach and the rush of anxiety that have become constants in my life.

"Follow me home," he says. "We need to make a plan."

"We've got two weeks," I remind him. "Maybe we should just focus on the win for tonight."

The look he gives me is unreadable. "Two weeks isn't as long as you think. We need to be prepared."

I swallow hard past the lump lodged in my throat. He's right. Tonight's win is just a distraction from everything else in our reality. The tiniest flicker of light in a sea of darkness and uncertainty.

James is still out there, waiting. The clock is ticking.

But as I follow Logan's truck through the quiet streets of Oakland, I cling to that feeling of victory, the roar of the crowd, the red goal light flashing, Logan's arms around me.

For a few precious hours, I was just Cam Foster, hockey player. Not Connor, not anyone's victim, not a walking time bomb of secrets and shame and desperate fucking choices.

And I'm not ready to let that go.

Not yet.