Page 27 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TWENTY-ONE

logan

This hotel coffee is crap. It’s bitter and watery. Nothing like the coffee I make at home. I grip the handle of the mug tight, the tops of my fingers white against the porcelain. Gritting my teeth, I know it’s not the real reason for the shitty taste in my mouth.

The real issue is sitting five tables away, laughing at something Tate said, like he didn't walk out on me last night. Like he didn't shut down completely when I made the mistake of showing him too much of what I'm feeling.

I should have fucking known better. I’ve kept myself protected from emotional bullshit for years and decide that of all people, I’m going to open myself up to Cam Foster, probably the one guy who has more baggage than I do. Together, we could fill a goddamn luggage carousel at an airport.

Cam catches my eye across the hotel restaurant, his smile fading for a fraction of a second before he turns back to Tate looking more engaged than ever. But it’s bullshit. Even from here, I can see the strain around his eyes, the forced tone of his laugh.

Good. At least I'm not the only one feeling like shit .

I take another sip of the watery coffee, grimacing as Carter slides into the seat across from me.

"You two have a lovers' quarrel or something?" he asks.

I nearly spit out the shit coffee. "What?"

"You and Foster." Carter nods toward Cam's table. "You’re both trying so hard to pretend everything's normal that it's fucking painful to watch."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Carter lifts an eyebrow. "Right."

I don't answer. My phone buzzes on the table and I drop my eyes to the screen at the message from Tessa.

Ethan's at school. Still waiting on test results, but he seems better today. How's the road trip going? Nice game last night!

I tap out a quick reply. Good. St. Louis tonight. Glad E is better.

She responds immediately. Everything ok? You seem short.

Even through text, she can read me too well. I send back a thumbs up emoji, knowing it won't fool her, but hoping it'll stop her from texting again.

Carter's still watching me when I look up. "Whatever's going on between you two, fix it before the game. We need our top line clicking if we're going to sweep this trip."

He pushes the chair back, the sound grating against my ears, and stands up.

He leans down and claps me on the shoulder.

The bad one, of course. I can't hold back the wince this time, the white-hot pain shooting down my arm and exploding into my fingertips like tiny electric shocks.

My hasty tape job from this morning is already loosening, and I make a mental note to have the trainer redo it before the game.

This is the part no one sees. The grinding, daily battle against my own body, the way it's slowly betraying me season after season. How many more shots can I take? How many more checks into the boards before the whole thing just gives out?

My career’s hanging by a thread. Ethan's health problems hang over me. And now I have to deal with all these unresolved feelings about Cam, who's breached the barbed wire surrounding my heart.

The team bus leaves for morning skate twenty minutes later.

I grab a seat near the front and sit alone, my eyes fixed on the streets of St. Louis.

They pass by in a blur of concrete and glass.

I rotate my bad shoulder slowly, discreetly, hoping nobody will notice.

Even the slightest movement sends pain radiating down my arm.

I dig into my bag and pull out a bottle then pop two Advil.

I feel Cam's presence behind me, the weight of his gaze on the back of my neck, but I don't turn around.

I'm too fucking raw to deal with him right now.

Once we’re at the arena, we run through drills, work on power plays, and fine-tune our systems for the game.

Each pass, each shot is a battle against the stabbing pain in my shoulder.

I can't lift my arm above shoulder height without feeling like someone's jamming an ice pick into the joint.

Coach Enver seems pleased with the overall team effort, but I see the concern in his expression when he looks between me and Cam.

Coach walks over to us when we’re packing up our gear, a clipboard tucked under his arm. "Shaw. Foster. A word."

We follow him to a quiet corner of the visitors' locker room. He eyes us both, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Look, I don’t care if there’s something going on between you guys. Whatever you do off the ice isn’t my concern. But when you show up for the game tonight, you better have your shit sorted. We're too close to clinching a playoff spot to let personal drama interfere. "

"Yes, Coach," Cam says, his voice even.

"It won't be a problem," I say.

Coach Enver looks unconvinced but nods sharply before walking away.

I turn to leave, but Cam catches my arm, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my system.

"Logan."

"Don't." I tug my arm free. "Not here."

"We need to talk."

"You made yourself pretty fucking clear last night."

His expression tightens. "That's not fair."

"No?" I step closer, lowering my voice. "You walked out. That was your choice."

"I had my reasons."

"Yeah, well, keep them to yourself. I took a chance, gave a shit, and then you threw it all back in my face. I’m done with it."

I shoulder past him, ignoring the flash of hurt in his eyes.

It's easier to be angry than to acknowledge the hollow ache in my chest. And besides the loss of something I thought might be real, I still have a fucking stalker to deal with on top of it. Even with the security I set up for Tessa, Ethan, and the house, they won’t be completely safe until that fucker James is put away.

But I can’t think about that right now. I need to keep my head clear for this game. I’ll figure everything out afterward, see what other insights Mike can share. I will fix this since I broke everything in the first place making dumbass choices.

Back at the hotel, I try to nap but end up tossing and turning instead, my mind racing. I keep replaying Cam’s words from last night.

This was a mistake. We got caught up in the moment.

Like what happened between us was just some adrenaline-fueled error in judgment.

Maybe it was. Maybe I'm the one who made it into something more.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mike.

Any update on that situation you mentioned?

Mike's been a solid resource, even without all the details. And I can’t give them to him now. But once I get back, he needs to have the whole story, especially if it can get us better protection.

Situation's complicated. Target keeps changing timeline.

His response comes quickly. Remember what I said about recording conversations? And documentation?

Yeah. Working on it.

Let me know if you need backup. I know people in Oakland PD.

I drop the phone next to me, my gut churning. Having official backup would be smart, but involving the police means exposing Cam's past in ways he might not be ready for.

It also means surrendering control of the situation. I've spent my whole life maintaining precise control over my game, my home, and my emotions. It's how I survived after my father walked out, after my mother and Tyler died.

Control is safety. Control is survival.

And James threatens that control from every angle.

I force myself to rest before the game, knowing I'll need every ounce of energy tonight. When I finally doze off, I dream of Cam walking away, over and over, each time a little faster, until he's just a blur disappearing into darkness.

The St. Louis arena pulses with energy, a sea of blue jerseys taunting us from the stands, the fans eager for a division rival showdown. We start our warm-up laps, the familiar ritual usually centering me, but tonight my focus is fractured.

My shoulder is on fire after the trainer's aggressive pre-game treatment.

Each motion sends a jolt of pain through my upper body, but I force myself to push through it.

I've gotten good at hiding pain. Too good, maybe.

No one sees the way I favor my right side, the small adjustments I make to my skating stance to compensate.

Cam skates close by. There's a tension in his shoulders I now recognize. Between drills, I catch him checking his phone, his expression darkening before he tucks it away back by the bench.

In the locker room, Coach Enver gives his pre-game speech and pep talk, emphasizing the importance of a clean road trip sweep. "Two down, one to go," he says. "Let's finish strong."

We take the ice for the first period, and immediately I can feel the disconnect between the guys. Passes that should connect miss by inches. Plays that usually flow naturally feel forced. And the chemistry that's been building between me and Cam fizzles.

St. Louis capitalizes on our disjointed playing, scoring twice in the first ten minutes. Coach calls a timeout, his face flushed with anger.

"What the hell is this? Get your heads in the game," he growls. "Shaw, Foster, you're playing like strangers out there. And the rest of you, focus. Let’s win this."

He waves the guys back out to the ice but holds up a hand for me and Cam to stay.

I glance at Cam, who's staring at his skates. There's sweat beading on his forehead, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his stick.

"Get it together," Coach continues through clenched teeth. " Whatever's going on, deal with it after the game. Right now, I need my top line to show up."

Unfortunately, the damage is already done. The first period ends with us down 2-0, the guys tense with frustration as we file into the locker room.