Page 26 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

"Drive safe, Foster."

The Detroit ice shimmers under the arena lights, the crowd wild with anticipation. We're up 3-1 late in the third period, and the energy on our bench is electric.

"Foster, Shaw, you're up," Coach Enver calls out. We hop over the boards, our skate blades cutting into the fresh ice.

Logan wins the face-off and chips it to me as I skate along the boards. I catch it, twist away from the Detroit defenseman, and find an open spot. The chemistry crackling between us has always been there on some level, but since that night at his house, it's like a livewire lassoing us.

I can feel him on the ice without looking.

I know exactly where he'll be before he gets there. We communicate without words, just with glances and body language. It’s crazy and I’ve never felt anything like it in my life or been so in sync with another person, on or off the ice.

And while it’s exhilarating, it makes me nervous at the same time.

Detroit forces a turnover in the neutral zone. One of their forward darts toward Tate. Logan backchecks hard, and I’m able to sneak in and snatch the loose puck. Three short passes later, I fire it past the Detroit goalie, the red goal light flashing. Game over, Raptors taking the win.

The loud boos from Detroit fans can’t keep the smile from spreading across my face. We’re one step closer to the playoffs.

Logan crashes into me, his gloved hands clutching my shoulders, his face inches from mine. "That was an amazing shot."

I catch Keating watching us with narrowed eyes as we skate back to the bench. He's been quiet since our confrontation in the locker room, but I can feel his hateful gaze following me, calculating, waiting. Always. Another thing that makes me very fucking nervous.

After the game, we head back to the hotel. Carter suggests grabbing a victory beer in the hotel bar, and most of the guys cheer in response.

"You coming?" Tate asks as we ride the elevator up to drop off our bags.

"Maybe later," I say, not missing the way his gaze flicks between me and Logan, who's standing quietly in the corner of the elevator.

The guys exit on their floors, until it's just me and Logan left, on our way to the top floor where our rooms are. On this trip, Coach decided we’d have our own rooms. I guess he’s happy with the way we’re gelling.

The silence in the elevator is heavy with unspoken words.

When the doors slide open, I follow him down the hall. We stop at his door first. He holds his key card against the lock, hesitating before pushing it open.

"You want to come in?" he asks, voice low. "To talk strategy for St. Louis."

It's a flimsy excuse, and we both know it.

"Sure," I say. "Strategy."

Inside, the room feels suddenly smaller, more intimate. Logan drops his bag by the dresser and runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as nervousness.

"Good game today," he says.

"Yeah. That no-look pass you made in the second period? Fucking filthy."

A hint of a smile. "Been working on it."

I step closer, drawn to him like a magnet. "Maybe you can teach me sometime."

"Maybe." His eyes darken. "But I think there are other things I'd rather teach you first."

The air between us crackles with tension. I take another step, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. I need it, crave it.

"Like what?"

His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "Like patience."

He kisses me, slow and deliberate, nothing like the frantic passion of our first one. This is controlled, measured, and fuck, the sheer intensity of him makes my knees weak and my heart ricochet off my ribcage.

I push him back against the wall and a hiss of breath expels from his lips.

Taking my time, I unbutton his shirt and slip it off his shoulders, loving the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat at my touch.

My hands slide under his shirt, itching with the need to feel his skin against mine.

I graze each indentation and groove, working my way down the front of his muscular torso until my hands hit his belt buckle.

I fumble with it until I free him from the confines of fabric, his swollen cock thick against his boxer briefs.

He's so gorgeous, for a second, I can’t form a single coherent thought .

"Your turn," he murmurs, suggestively tugging at the hem of my shirt.

After he undresses me, he pulls me onto the mattress.

Our hands and legs are a tangled frenzy of touching, gripping, and tugging.

I hold him tight, scraping my nails down his back as we rut against each other.

My cock screams, hard and thick, already damn close to eruption.

And just as his hand slips into my boxer briefs, my phone buzzes from the floor where it’s still buried in my pants pocket.

Immediate dick deflator.

"Ignore it," he whispers, his teeth gripping my earlobe.

I try, squeezing my eyes shut, trying like hell to focus on his hands and his dick. But it buzzes again, and again, and the poisonous thought that it might be James makes me pull away.

"Sorry, I just—give me one second," I rasp.

Logan watches as I reach for the phone, his expression guarded, lips twisting. When I see the message on my screen, an imaginary icy hand grips me by the throat.

His fucking hand.

Looking good on the ice today, Connor. Detroit's a lovely city for a reunion, don't you think?

Attached is a photo of the arena exit, clearly taken today after the game. The timestamp proves that.

"What is it?" Logan asks, sitting up when I don’t say anything.

"James," I say, the name like acid on my tongue. “I think James might be here in Detroit. Or he at least has someone watching and photographing us."

Logan's expression hardens. "Show me."

I hand him the phone, watch as his eyes scan the message, the muscle in his jaw working.

"I thought he was in Chicago," he says .

"So did I." The familiar panic claws at my throat. "He said he had business there."

"He lied." Logan hands the phone back to me. "He's playing games."

"What if he's watching us right now?" The thought makes my skin crawl. "What if he knows about… this? "

Logan's eyes meet mine, steady and determined. "Let him watch. We're not doing anything wrong."

"But what if?—?"

"No." He cups my face in his hands. "Don't let him in your head. That's what he wants."

I want to believe him. I want to feel as sure as he sounds. But the fear is real, a living thing that wraps around my chest and squeezes like a vise.

"I can't drag you into this any further," I say, pulling away, reaching for my clothes. "It's not fair to you and your family."

"Cam, stop."

"No, I mean it." I stand up from the bed because if I don’t put distance between us, I know I’ll fall back into him.

And that would be wrong. Irresponsible. Self-centered.

He’s got too much to lose. I can’t be the cause of anything more.

"We expected this to happen, right? That he'd escalate, try to get to me through other people.

Obviously, he has with Keating, but I won't let that be you. "

Logan watches me dress, his expression stony and sullen. "So, what, you're just going to push me away? Handle this alone?"

"If I have to."

"Bullshit." He stands up and inches toward me, closing the distance between us. "You don't get to do that. Not now."

"It’s the only way."

"No, you listen to me. I'm in this. Not because I feel sorry for you, or because I need to rescue you, but because I—" He stops, takes a breath. "Because I care about you. And I don't walk away from people I care about."

The words hit me with a blunt force. Too much, too fast, too intense. I've heard them before, of course. Empty promises from people who claimed to care, who swore they'd stick around. None of them ever did.

And even though I want to believe Logan is different, the weight of his words, of what he's offering, is suffocating. I can’t breathe through the noose around my neck, and one false move will have me hanging, flailing, choking on my choices.

"You barely know me," I say, taking a step away from him. "Not really."

"I know enough."

I shake my head. "No, you don't. You know the parts I've let you see. The parts James forced me to show you."

"Cam—"

"This was a mistake." I slide my feet into my shoes. "We got caught up in the moment, in the game, in this whole fucked-up situation, but we need to be smart here."

Logan's expression darkens, his eyes lancing my heart like icy spikes. "Smart? Or scared?"

The accusation stings because it's true. "Maybe both. I have to handle this my way, Logan. I can't—" I swallow hard. "I can't let you risk everything for me. Your career, your family, Ethan's future. It's too much. I don’t want that on my head."

"That's my choice to make."

"No." I grab my jacket. "I won't let you make it. Sorry."

My hand is on the door handle when he speaks again, and it makes my chest shudder with regret. The anger and hurt in his voice makes my stomach roil. "So that's it? You're just going to walk away?"

I don't turn around because I can't bear to see his face. "It's better this way. "

"Bullshit."

"Goodbye, Logan."

I pull open the door and step into the hallway. When it closes behind me, I lean against it for a second and press my fingertips to my throbbing temples. Part of me wants to go back in, to take it all back, to fall into the safety and warmth of what he's offering.

But I can't. I won't.

Back in my own room, I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head falling into my hands. My phone buzzes with a new message and the hairs on the back of my neck spring to attention.

Running away again, Connor? Some things never change.

I stare at the screen, ice forming in my veins. How the fuck does he know?

Another message follows, this one with an image. But this time, it’s not of me. It’s Logan's house back in Oakland. Ethan's blue bike visible in the driveway. And fuck my life, it was taken today.

I have eyes everywhere. Your new boyfriend can't protect you. No one can.

The implication is clear. James isn't just tracking me. He's watching everyone I care about, even when we're on the road.

A third message arrives and I’m ready to hurl my phone against the wall and watch it shatter.

Enjoy your little road trip while it lasts. Our two weeks aren't up yet, but my patience is wearing thin. I might not wait the full time after all.

I switch off my phone and toss it on the nightstand. Tomorrow we play St. Louis, then we head back home to Oakland and whatever James has planned. The two-week deadline he gave me suddenly feels much shorter, and not knowing his next move has my mind in a complete twist .

And Logan?

I scrub a hand down the front of my face and fall back onto the mattress. He'll be angry, hurt. He'll think I'm a coward, running from the first real thing I've felt in years.

And I am.

“It's better this way,” I say out loud, trying to convince myself to believe those bullshit words.

But as I lie awake in the dark, I don't believe it for a second.