Page 3 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

THREE

logan

I thought getting punched in the mouth by a Renegades center last season was the real low point of my hockey experience. Turns out, it’s walking into a room where everyone thinks I’m yesterday’s news…and the rookie I can't stand is today's headline.

I clench my jaw and ignore the tightness in my shoulder as I enter the film room.

Carter and Coach Enver are already waiting, talking over plays from night’s game.

I don’t interrupt. And I sure as shit don’t need to see Cam’s victorious shot again.

The last thing I need is another reminder that I’m supposed to give a shit about rookies like Cam.

I tug the sleeve of my hoodie down to cover the ACE bandage. No one needs to see it.

My mood drops to a new low when I see Cam stroll in a few minutes later with a fucking green smoothie, acting like he owns the damn place. The kid can’t even bother to be on time. And that smoothie is like a silent “screw you” for dragging him out of bed this early.

“Glad you could make time in your schedule for us,” I say, anger bubbling in my gut .

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Cam chirps, flashing that toothy grin that makes me want to punch a wall...or better yet, his too-pretty face. Goddamn him for having shit come so easy.

Coach Enver doesn't waste time. “Okay, guys. Thanks for coming in this morning. I’ve been speaking to Carter and I think it’d be best for the team if we focus on a little bit of camaraderie building.

Cam is still in his first season here, as are the two other rookies.

It’s important that they fit in with our more seasoned players.

It will make the team stronger and build morale.

That said, I’m pairing the rookies up with older players.

Logan, you’ll mentor Cam. One-on-one drills.

Joint interviews. Press events. Rooming on the next away series, which starts with a four-night stint coming up on Friday.

You’ll make this work…together. We have big aspirations this season and we need full cooperation if we’re going to be successful. ”

I open my mouth to protest, but Carter’s sharp look shuts me up. It's clear as day whose side he's on. My blood pressure spikes another notch.

A fucking mentor? Really?

“Coach, come on,” I start, but Coach levels me with a stare that could melt ice.

“You’ll make this work,” he repeats. “I’m counting on you.”

Coach talks about some of the team outings that are coming up but I tune him out. Every second of this meeting feels like a junk punch. I’ve given the Raptors everything. Ten solid seasons. And they think I need to babysit the league's most arrogant rookie to advance our playoff goals?

Fuck that. What we really need is for Cam to play like he’s actually on a team and isn’t a one-man show.

By the time Cam and I leave the room, my patience is frayed like the edges of a cheap rug. The hallway is dim compared to his blinding confidence. I can practically feel the smugness radiating off of him, and it makes my skin prickle with rage.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” Cam singsongs, his words trailing behind him like they’ve got sparkles on them. And why shouldn’t they? He’s untouchable, an ice fucking god. He’s got everything, his future bright and shiny, just like his ego.

He’s…

He’s everything I used to be. And that’s the hardest pill to swallow. It’s like reliving my glory days but watching someone else reap the rewards. Someone who is a complete fucktard without one sliver of humility.

“Looks like,” I grunt, shoving my hands into my pockets and ignoring the fire creeping up my neck.

“I’ve seen more excited faces on people getting their wisdom teeth pulled,” he teases, unaffected by my barely veiled ire.

“I’m thrilled. Believe me,” I shoot back, voice as dry as a camel’s ass.

“I know you’re pissed about last night.” He salutes me. “But don’t worry, Shaw. I won’t hog all the goals next time.”

I stop short, fury exploding in my chest. “You think this is a game, Foster?”

Cam raises both brows, unfazed. “Isn’t it?”

“You got lucky last night,” I growl. “Don’t start thinking that means something.”

Cam smirks. “I’m not thinking. I’m scoring.”

“Maybe you should start thinking about how to play on a team since that’s what this sport is all about. Team fucking work.”

“Ouch,” Cam says, recoiling. “Did someone put rusty nails in your Cheerios this morning? You always this grumpy?”

“You always this obnoxious? ”

He laughs, the sound so carefree it’s like he’s never had a rough day in his life. “Nope, I’ve been saving it all for you.”

I glare at him. Is he really that clueless or is he just playing me like a fucking violin right now? Because truthfully, I can’t imagine anyone with half a brain being so obtuse.

He saunters ahead of me, humming some shitty pop song, then turns back with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Anything else I should know, Captain Crunch? Ya know, before we move in together for our first road trip?”

The nickname makes me stumble more than the fact that I’ll be cohabitating with him while we’re on the road. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw could possibly crack from the pressure.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Ooh,” he says, clutching his hand over his heart. “So sensitive. You can’t take a joke?” He winks. “Noted. See, this is the kind of stuff I need to know.”

I close the distance between us and back him against the wall outside the locker room. “You don’t need to know anything. We’re teammates. That’s all. We’re never going to be friends. So stop trying to figure me out. I don’t give a shit about you, Foster. Just stay out of my way.”

But the kid doesn’t look shocked or hurt or upset that I just basically told him to fuck off. He just smiles. And fuck me if my heart doesn’t jump just a little bit when he flashes those perfect cover boy teeth at me.

I dig my fingers into my palms, my fists itching to crack him in his gorgeous jaw, just to erase that smile from his lips. I don’t like how my pulse speeds up when his green eyes focus on mine, trying so hard to see what lies behind my carefully guarded glare.

He never will. Nobody will.

In the locker room, I try to rearrange my thoughts and my gear before my brain explodes. Cam’s empty water bottle stares at me like a fucking challenge, and if I had more time alone in here, I’d seriously consider pissing in it.

The metallic clang of locker doors echoes as I yank mine open and stare at what’s inside. My focus zooms in on the rolls of tape, perfectly aligned like I used to do with my army figures when I was a kid. Control. That’s what this is. My life in neat fucking rows.

If I don’t keep things this tight, then what? Shit falls apart and then I’ll have nothing. I’m already a little too close to that reality now that this hotshot rookie who thinks he can breeze in and disrupt everything I've built here has taken up residence.

I ignore the sting in my shoulder as I strip off my hoodie and start wrapping the bandage tighter.

Maybe too tight, but who’s here to tell me not to?

It’s a mess under there, but the trainer doesn’t know.

Doc doesn’t know. Nobody knows. And there’s no way I’m letting a rookie or an injury knock me off my game.

This mentoring bullshit. I can’t. I need to think. Regroup. Figure out how to pull it off without strangling him in his sleep.

I take a few deep breath to center myself. I never believed in that Zen bullshit but maybe it can work. I’ll try anything to get a grip what I can. To grip some semblance of control.

Coach and Carter want me to babysit him, do joint interviews, and fucking room together. Maybe I should also teach him how to sign his name with a little heart on every contract.

God, what a nightmare.

Practice is hell. I can’t get in the zone.

Every movement makes my shoulder scream, and the more I try to ignore it, the louder it gets.

Fortunately, Cam stays far away from me and Coach doesn’t throw us together for those promised one-on-one drills.

I guess he’s giving me a little reprieve before the shit storm really hits.

I duck out of the rink early, but I’m a few seconds too late because Carter appears in my path. He doesn’t wait for me to say anything, either. He knows better.

“This isn’t about you liking him,” Carter says, his voice cutting through my toxic mental fog. “It’s about the team needing you to lead.”

“It’s also about me not getting a choice,” I snap back, tired of this speech.

“You don’t want to be replaced?” he shoots back, eyebrow lifting. “Start acting like a legacy, not a liability.”

His words are caustic and cutting and feel like a knife twisting into my gut. A familiar fear bubbles up. It’s one I thought I had under wraps. Being seen as weak. Or worse, being seen as unnecessary.

He just voiced them both in less than a minute. Completely exposed me.

“You’ve got to give them a reason to believe in you, Logan. Right now, they’re starting to wonder,” Carter adds before walking off, leaving me reeling with the deafening echo of my worst insecurities pounding between my temples.

It feels like my entire reputation, my entire identity with this team, is tied up in how I handle this kid.

Like none of my past accomplishments mean a damn thing now that he’s here.

Nobody needed to teach me humility. I didn’t come from much but I worked my ass off and got where I am because of that.

I was grateful to get a chance to be an NHL star and I spent every waking second studying and learning and practicing so I could be the best. Cam’s on everyone’s radar because of his talent, and the longer he’s in the picture, the more the picture becomes his.

It’s not fucking fair. So many other, harder-working kids deserve this opportunity. I’d be happy to mentor them because at least they’d be gritty and hungry. Cam is just plain greedy.

I fist the sides of my hair. I need to find a way to get a handle on this situation before it gets a handle on me. I need control, but all I feel is chaos swarming. Lifting some weights might make me feel better.

Thinking about swinging one into Cam’s head will definitely make me feel better.

When I finally head to the gym, Carter’s words and Cam’s cocky grin swirl in my head like a storm I can’t take cover from. The idea that I might lose everything makes me feel something I absolutely hate…desperation.

The weight room reeks of sweat and Cam’s off-key singing assaults my ears. I’m not sure which is worse.

I walk in on him shirtless, doing pull-ups and belting out the wrong words to some godawful song. There’s enough ego in this room to bench press the moon, and it grinds my already shredded nerves.

Why the hell can’t I escape this guy? And why does he have to be shirtless?

“You’re too loud,” I snap, grabbing a set of weights to distract myself from staring at his sculpted pecs.

“You’re too grumpy,” Cam shoots back, dropping to the floor and giving me that insufferable grin. “But we already established that.”

I hate him. “It’s called focusing. You should try it.”

He picks up a pair of dumbbells, matching my pace. “On being a hardass? Nah, I’ll leave that to you. Life is too short to walk around with a pole implanted up your ass. ”

It’s banter, but it’s charged like live wires that electrify my insides. I up the intensity, and so does he. “I’m serious, Foster. Are you this annoying to everyone, or do I get special treatment?”

“Special’s about right,” he says with a laugh, effortlessly keeping up. “You always this intense, or is it just when you hate someone?”

I grip the weights harder, feeling my resolve slip. “I don’t hate you,” I manage to push the lie through my clenched teeth.

“Could’ve fooled me, Cap.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

My hands ball into fists. It takes everything not to launch one at him. “Can’t hate what I don’t think about,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, trying not to show how much he’s already crept under my skin. But it’s weak. So fucking weak.

Cam stops his set, moves closer, like he’s looking to start a real fight. Or something worse. “Could’ve fooled me on that too,” he says, low and confident, and the sizzle of his stare singes my bare skin.

I grab heavier weights, the tension in the gym cranked up as high as it’ll go. It feels like the air might snap in half, it’s so taut. My shoulder screams, my head screams louder. Everything is a mess.

“Or maybe,” Cam adds, leaning in, “you just like pretending you do. Either way can be fun.”

My throat constricts like there’s an invisible hand squeezing the life out of me. And as I gasp for air, my eyes glued to his knowing smirk, my body humming from the commanding way he gets right in my space and owns it, I realize that I’m allergic to him…and so very addicted all at once.