Page 35 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

"He's dead now. I heard he overdosed three years ago." Cam's voice is muffled against my shoulder. "Good fucking riddance."

We sit in silence, wrapped in one another, silently commiserating about all the pain we suffered, all the ways we've learned to survive.

"I've never told anyone any of that," Cam mumbles. "About my dad, about my mom. Never."

"Neither have I. About raising Tessa, about my parents." I shake my head. “Nobody worth it enough to know the truth. Until now.”

His hand comes up to touch the side of my face, his fingers gently trace my jaw. "We're pretty fucked up, aren't we?"

"Yeah." I lean into his touch. "We are."

"Good thing we found each other then."

My lips find his, capturing them in a desperate, hungry kiss that is full of everything I can't say. He runs his hands up and down my back, fisting in my shirt, pressing hard against me.

"Logan," he breathes against my mouth, and the way he says my name makes something inside me crack wide open, letting go of all the things I’ve tried to keep protected over the years .

I back him against the arm of the couch, grinding against him, my cock straining against my pants.

He thrusts his hips against mine, his dick so thick and hard.

Tingles dance in my groin, my balls aching for this man.

He's real. And now he knows all my broken pieces but he's still fucking here. With me. By my side.

His hands slide under my shirt, demanding fingertips tracing the cuts of muscle, and I groan into his mouth.

"We should—" I start to say, but he cuts me off.

"Don't think," he says, pulling my shirt over my head. "For once in your life, don't fucking think."

So I don't. I don’t worry that someone will walk past my office.

I don’t worry that my heart feels damn close to exploding because I’m so crazy about him and I don’t know where all of this will lead.

I forget about all of it, let him strip off my shirt, and run his hands over my chest and my shoulders.

When he touches the scar from my past shoulder surgery, I stiffen, but he just presses his lips to it.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "I've got scars too."

He pulls off his own shirt, and in the soft glow of light, I see the cigarette burns on his chest, old belt marks across his ribs. The evidence of a childhood that should have broken him. Things I didn’t catch the first time we were together. Things he might not have even told me about then.

But everything is different now.

I trace the scars with my fingertips, and he shivers beneath my touch. "Bastard," I growl.

"Eh. Fuck him. He's dead," Cam says with a shrug before pressing his lips to mine again.

We fumble with the rest of our clothes, tearing open belt buckles, pulling off pants, stripping each other down, hands shaking with need and a surge of emotion. When I finally have him naked against me, his skin flush against mine, I take a breath. His heart races, beating in time with mine.

"You okay?" he asks, bringing his hand to his lips. He runs his tongue over his palm and reaches for my cock.

I groan at the carnal sparks that shoot straight to my balls as he strokes my length. "Just... fuck, Cam. You're beautiful."

He laughs breathlessly, but it comes out shaky. "You're the first person to ever say that and mean it."

"Then everyone else was fucking blind."

I reach around him, then slide two fingers into his ass.

His muscles tense and tighten as I work him open.

We rock together against the soft leather, our mouths voracious, hands frenzied.

He squeezes my cock then teases my slit as my fingers work him deeper.

He trembles, gritting his teeth as he thrust backward against my hand.

But I don’t have his control. My dick throbs, precum pooling at the tip, and I let out a moan.

"Quiet," he whispers, grinning. "Your family's upstairs."

"Then you better not make me scream," I mutter, and his laugh turns into a groan when I pump him harder.

“Not so easy, is it?” I say, pulling my fingers out.

I flip him around so we’re on our knees and he’s bent over the arm of the couch.

I line my cock up with his tight hole and push into his heat.

Christ, he feels so good. So right. I wrap one arm around his torso and pound into him with a fervor that even shocks me.

It's desperate and raw and nothing like controlled sex. This is messy and real and full of emotions I don't know how to handle.

"Please," he gasps. "Logan, please. Make me come."

I've never heard him beg, and the sounds he makes are so fucking erotic, they almost make me lose it right then. We move together with a growing urgency, connected on a level I’ve never known before.

My blood burns, white noise filling my ears as he pulls me deep.

He throws his head back and bites his lip to keep from crying out when I hit his spot.

"Fuck," I breathe, overwhelmed by the heat of him. His ass squeezes me tight, like he’s trying to milk me of all the cum rushing to the top of my dick, and I stop, trying to hold it together for him. "Cam."

"Move," he demands, rolling his hips. "Please, just move."

So I do. I move like my life depends on it, like this might be the only time I get to have him like this. Every thrust is an apology for the years we both spent alone, every kiss a promise that we don't have to be alone anymore.

He quivers and stills, ropes of cum spilling over the sides of my hand. It’s only then that I let go and fill him with everything I have.

We fall against the couch, lying tangled together, sweaty and breathing hard. Cam traces lazy patterns on my chest while I play with his hair.

"That was..." he starts, then trails off.

"Yeah."

We're just starting to doze off when I hear footsteps pounding down the stairs.

"Logan!" Tessa calls out, sharp with panic. "Logan, I need you!"

We both jolt upright, scrambling for our clothes. Cam dresses with lightning speed. I'm still pulling on my jeans when Tessa appears in the doorway. She takes one look at us but doesn't even blink.

"It's Ethan," she says, her voice tight with fear. "He's burning up and he's babbling. Not making sense at all. We need to go to the hospital. Now."

We rush out of the house and it’s all a blur. Cam and I follow Tessa upstairs to Ethan's room. He’s lying in bed, cheeks flushed bright red, his skin radiating heat like a furnace. When I press my palm to his forehead, he barely stirs.

"Hey, buddy," I say, keeping my voice calm even though my heart is thrashing. "How are you feeling?"

He opens his eyes, but they're glassy and unfocused. "Uncle Lo? My tummy hurts really bad."

"I know, kid. We're gonna take you to see the doctor, okay?"

The ride to the hospital is a nightmare. Ethan drifts in and out of consciousness while Tessa takes his temperature every few minutes. Cam drives like a man possessed, getting us there in half the usual time.

The emergency room staff knows us by name. They take one look at Ethan's jaundiced skin and feverish state and take him back immediately. Tessa goes with him, leaving me and Cam in the waiting room.

Soon afterward, we're all sitting in a consultation room with Dr. Patel, and the news is exactly what I've been dreading.

"Ethan's liver function is declining rapidly," she says without preamble. "His bilirubin levels have tripled since last week, and his ammonia levels are dangerously high."

"What does that mean?" Tessa's voice is barely a whisper.

"It means we need to move up the timeline for transplant. Significantly." The doctor's gaze shifts to me.

I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. “Okay,” I say.

"We'll need to run some additional tests, make sure everything is still in order." She pauses. "Is there anything about your health that might affect your ability to donate? Any changes since your last evaluation?"

My shoulder throbs like it's mocking me. Beside me, Cam goes very still.

"No," I lie. "Nothing's changed."

The doctor narrows her eyes at me for a minute longer than I’d like, then nods. "We'll keep Ethan overnight and start him on a new medication regimen. But we need to schedule the transplant surgery as soon as possible."

"How soon?" I croak out.

"Two weeks. Three, at the most."

Two weeks. The playoffs. The end of my career.

It's nearly three o’clock in the morning when Cam and I finally get back to my house. Ethan's at the hospital, stable, sleeping peacefully with the new medications. Tessa stayed with him and told me to go home and rest.

We sit in Cam’s car, silent. "You should get some sleep," I finally tell him. "Big practice tomorrow."

"So should you." He studies my face, and I can see him wanting to say more, to offer comfort or help. But what can he say? What can anyone say?

"Logan," he starts to say then pauses for a beat. "If you need anything?—"

"I know." I force a smile. "Thanks. For tonight. For being there."

He nods, like he knows there's nothing more to be said right now. I get out and walk up to the front door. Once I’m inside, I stagger into the kitchen and drop onto a stool.

Two weeks. Maybe three.

Fourteen years of hockey, over. Just like that.

I think about calling Coach Enver tonight, just to get it over with. But it's the middle of the night, and the conversation that ends my career can wait until morning.

My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Patel.

Please call my office first thing tomorrow. We need to discuss the pre-surgical timeline and requirements.

I stare at the message, feeling the walls closing in.

Twenty-four hours ago, my biggest concern was whether Cam and I were ready to take things to the next level.

Now I'm looking at the end of everything I've worked for, the pressure of saving my nephew's life, and a media circus I'm not prepared for.

I toss the phone onto the counter and drop my head into my hands.

Everything's spinning out of control, and I don't know how the fuck to stop it.