Page 36 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TWENTY-SIX

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I wake up in my own bed with the taste of Logan still on my lips. But there’s a hollow ache in my chest that has everything to do with what happened between us. The morning light peeks in through my blinds. It’s bright, but not bright enough to eclipse the darkness hanging over my current reality.

Ethan's sick. Really sick. Logan's career is over in two weeks, maybe three.

How the hell can I lie here thinking about how perfect it felt to be held by him and to make love to him, about how relieved I was when he looked at me like I was something precious instead of something broken.

I’m a selfish fucking bastard.

I roll out of bed with a heavy sigh and stumble to the bathroom.

I flip on the light and narrow my eyes at my reflection in the mirror.

A subtle bruise from Logan’s demanding mouth, light purple against my skin, stares back at me.

Running my fingers over it, my mind trips back to the way he kissed me there, desperate and hungry like he was trying to memorize the taste of me .

Like he knew it might be the last time.

The thought jolts me.

Fuck.

Maybe it was the last time. Maybe Logan's going to wake up and realize that I'm just another problem in his already fucked-up life. Another one he doesn't need with everything else plaguing him.

I splash cold water on my face and try to get my shit together. Logan's got enough on his plate without me acting like some clingy asshole who can't handle a little distance.

But I already feel it. And it sucks because all I want is to be close to him.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I walk back to the bedroom and grab it. A text from Tate appears on the screen.

Morning skate at 10. You better not be hungover, golden boy.

Right. Hockey. The thing that's supposed to matter most in my life. The thing that brought Logan and me together in the first place.

I shower quickly, trying not to think about Logan's hands on my skin, his hot breath against my neck, and how scared he looked when the doctor said two weeks until the transplant.

Two fucking weeks. Like it was a death sentence.

Although, we all know without Logan, that’s exactly what it would be.

The drive to the rink is torture. Just more time for my mind to torment me.

Every red light gives me more time to think, to spiral, to imagine all the ways this whole thing could go wrong.

Logan's going to retire early. The team's going to fall apart without him.

Management's going to blame me for distracting their veteran leader during a crucial part of the season.

Maybe they'll be right .

And who the fuck knows what Keating might have up his sleeve.

Just because James is out of the picture doesn’t mean Keating will back down. My skin crawls at that realization.

The parking lot is more crowded than usual for a morning skate. I see news vans parked near the entrance, reporters with cameras and microphones lurking around like vultures ready to pounce on unassuming prey.

My stomach drops into my sneakers.

What the hell is happening? Did James really back off or…?

I keep my head down and slip in through the back entrance to avoid the throngs of people. The locker room is loud as I pull open the door and all conversation screeches to a stop the second I walk in. Twenty pairs of eyes stare at me.

No. No, no, fucking no.

James didn’t leave. He fucking sent all of the evidence to the press, just like he promised he would. My skin pebbles with sweat as panicked thoughts loop through my brain.

"There he is," Keating says, not bothering to lower his voice. "Wonder if golden boy knows what he's cost us."

Cue the record scratch sound effect.

What?

"Shut the fuck up, Keating," Carter grunts.

"No, I'm serious. Fifteen-year veteran, team leader, and suddenly he's retiring before the playoffs? Right after he starts playing house with the rookie?" Keating's eyes on me are cold and calculating. "That's some coincidence."

My shoulders relax. This is about Logan. Not me. Not James.

Thank fuck.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” I say, storming toward him. I throw my gear onto the bench and get right in his face. This motherfucker won’t break me. He has no idea what I’ve been through and how I wouldn’t let any of it drag me down. He’s got no idea who he’s dealing with.

"Shaw's been solid as a rock for fifteen years. Never missed time for injury, never caused drama. Then you show up with your pretty face and your sob story, and suddenly everything's falling apart," Keating growls.

I can feel the color drain from my face, my heart plummeting into my sneakers. "You don't know what you're talking about, asshole. So you should stop running your goddamn mouth.” I step closer to him. “Before someone permanently shuts it for you.”

"And by someone, you mean you?" He steps closer, the stench of stale coffee on his breath making my gut roil.

"Please, rookie. You don’t scare me. I know Shaw's been distracted for weeks.

I know he's been making mistakes on the ice, fucking up assignments.

And I know he's been sneaking around with you instead of focusing on the team. "

"Shut the fuck up, Keating.” Logan's voice cuts in. I flip around to see him in the doorway, still in street clothes. Dark circles stain the skin under his eyes, his hair is a mess, and his jaw is tight with stress.

"Logan," I say, but he doesn't look at me. The guys scatter, getting their gear ready for practice.

Coach Enver walks into the room and claps his hands together. "Team meeting in five minutes," he says to us. Then he looks at Logan and gives him a quick nod.

The locker room clears out quickly, leaving just me and Logan. I wait for him to say something, to acknowledge what happened between us last night, but he just grabs his gear and starts to change.

"How's Ethan?" I ask cautiously.

"Better. The new meds are helping. Tessa said he had a good night." His voice is flat, emotionless.

"And you? How are you holding up?"

"Fine." He pulls on his practice jersey with sharp, angry movements. "Just fine."

"Logan—"

"Not now, Cam." He doesn't look at me. "I've got a team to talk to."

He stalks out, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

I change quickly and follow him to the meeting room where the guys are already gathered, waiting for the bomb to officially drop.

Logan stands at the front next to Coach Enver, his hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch the veteran leader.

“Logan asked me to pull this meeting together,” Coach says. “I’m gonna turn it over to him now.”

"Thanks, Coach. I'm sure you've all heard the rumors," Logan says. "So I'll make this quick. Yes, I'm retiring at the end of this season. Yes, it's earlier than planned. No, it's not because of anything that happened on the ice or with any members of the team."

The room falls silent. The guys all exchange concerned and confused looks but nobody says a word.

"You guys are important to me, so I want to be straight with you. My nephew needs a liver transplant," Logan continues. His voice is heavy with worry, the muscles in his neck taut. My heart hurts just looking at him. "He’s on a donor list but we haven’t had any luck securing a liver yet and his time is running out. In our family, I'm the only donor match. The surgery is scheduled for two weeks from now, which means my season ends after the weekend. The recovery for this kind of surgery could take months, and there are a lot of risks involved with it. I don’t know how it will affect me or my play, so I think it’s better for everyone if I step down now. "

"Fuck," someone whispers.

"I know this isn't ideal timing. I know it puts pressure on everyone to step up. But this is my family we're talking about. I'd make the same choice a hundred times over."

He looks around the room, meeting each guy's eyes. When his gaze lands on me, his eyes are guarded and completely impenetrable. I shudder. It’s exactly the way he used to look at me before we slept together. Before he opened up to me.

A shiver slices through me.

Before I dragged him into my nightmare.

Why did he just shut down like that? What the hell could have happened in the past few hours since we were together?

"Any questions?"

Silence. Then Carter stands up. "What do you need from us, Lo?"

"I need you to play like your lives depend on it.

I need you to remember that hockey is a team sport, and one person leaving doesn't mean the season's over.

" Logan's jaw tightens, his hands now loose at his sides.

"And I need you to keep the drama off the ice.

Personal shit stays personal. We're professionals here. "

My chest tightens, and I drop my eyes to the concrete floor.

We all head to the rink after Logan’s announcement.

Practice is a total fucking disaster. Logan skates like he's trying to punish himself, taking hits he doesn't need to take, making plays that are too aggressive, too desperate.

I try to find a rhythm, searching for the chemistry that we built up between us, but it's like skating with a ghost. He’s not there. Not really.

Every time I try to connect with him on a play, he's already onto the next move. Every time I try to catch his eye, he's focused somewhere else.

Coach Enver pulls us aside after the first hour.

"What the hell is going on out there?" he demands. "You two have been playing like you've never met before."

"Just getting back into the swing of things," Logan says, looking everywhere but at me. What the fuck? Why is he suddenly icing me out? "Long night at the hospital."

"Well, figure it out. We've got media watching practice, and you're making us look like amateurs. We have a playoff game to win before you leave, Shaw."

Media. Playoffs. Right. I glance toward the stands and see reporters with cameras and notepads, documenting every mistake, every missed connection.

Great. Just fucking great.