Page 37 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

The rest of practice is more of the same.

Logan skates like he's trying to escape something, I try to keep up and fail miserably. By the time we hit the showers, I'm exhausted and frustrated and no closer to understanding what's going on in his head…and why he won’t give me the time of day when last night…shit, last night was the most I’ve ever opened up to anyone. I’ve never let anyone see in that deep.

The fact that he’s ignoring all of it really fucking stings.

I pace in front of his truck in the parking lot, ignoring the reporters who try to flag me down for comments. When Logan finally walks out of the facility, his phone is pressed to his ear and a scowl twists his expression.

"No, I'm not doing interviews today," he says in a sharp voice. Then he hangs up and shoves the phone in his pocket. I see him stiffen when our gazes meet.

My breath hitches for a second, something raw and desperate flickering in his eyes. Then the mask slides back into place and I’m cut off again.

"What do you want?"

I ball my hands into tight fists, trying to keep my growing anger in check. "Can we talk?"

"I'm busy."

"It'll just take a minute?—"

"I said I'm busy, Cam.” I recoil at his harsh tone, my jaw dropping. “I've got meetings with management, calls with doctors, and about fifty reporters who want to dissect every decision I've made in the last twenty-four hours. So no, we can't talk."

"What about later? After you're done with all that?"

"Later I need to be with my family. You know, the people who actually matter right now."

The words hit like a slap. I step back with a startled gasp.

"I'm not trying to make this about me. I just want to help."

"You want to help?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Then give me some space. Let me handle my family's crisis without having to worry about managing your feelings too."

Each word is like a knife twisting deeper into my heart. The pain of rejection douses the heat of the anger curdling in my chest and I feel myself falter, all the old wounds opened back up to pummel me like a crushing wave.

"Okay, I get it," I croak out. "Space. I can do that."

"Good." He reaches for the door handle then pauses. "And Cam? Maybe you should think about whether this whole thing," he gestures between us "is really what you want. Because it's only going to get more complicated from here."

He gets into the truck before I can respond. The door slams shut, ignition roaring to life. When he peels out of the lot, I just stand there, staring at the back of his truck, my feet rooted to the pavement like they’re submerged in sticky tar.

I walk to my car and slide into the driver’s seat.

Resting my forehead against the steering wheel, I sit still for a long time after he leaves, trying like hell to process what just happened.

The Logan who held me last night, who shared his deepest fears and childhood trauma, who made love to me like I was something to be cherished…

that Logan is gone. For no good reason. Replaced by this cold, distant stranger who looks at me like I'm just another problem to solve .

Maybe I am.

Maybe Keating was right. Maybe I am the reason everything's falling apart for him.

A text rattles me. I grab my phone, hoping against hope it’s from Logan.

It’s not. It’s from Carter.

Team dinner tonight at Romano's. You coming?

Team dinner. As if I can smile and laugh and joke like my world isn’t crumbling. As if I could hold down a single bite of food when my insides are churning with the worst kind of anticipation and panic.

Maybe. Need to see how I'm feeling.

More importantly, I need to figure out how to give Logan the space he wants without losing him completely. How to be supportive without being clingy. How to love someone who's convinced he has to handle everything alone.

I finally pull myself together enough to start my car. I can't shake the feeling that I'm already losing him. That whatever we shared last night was just a moment of weakness, an emotional escape, a brief connection before reality consumed us both.

And the reality is that Logan Shaw has a family to save and a career to end, and I'm just the rookie who got in his way.

I spend the rest of the day pacing my apartment, checking my phone every five minutes for texts that don't come and sketching furiously in attempt to regain some sense of peace and calm.

None of it works. Then, like a moron, I turn on ESPN news and immediately regret it.

They're talking about Logan's retirement, speculating about his reasons, showing clips of him at practice looking distant and stressed.

I throw my pen against the wall.

They mention me exactly once .

"Shaw's linemate, rookie Cam Foster, had no comment when approached for this story."

No comment. Like I don't matter. Like I'm just a footnote in Logan's story.

Maybe that's all I've ever been.

Nighttime rolls in and I can't take the radio silence anymore. I grab my keys and walk to the door. I’ll just drive to his place and corner him. He’ll have to talk to me if I show up, right? I will find a way to make him explain why he's shutting me out when I'm just trying to help.

I press the ignition button and my phone rings in the console next to me. Logan's name flashes on the screen and I stab the Accept button.

"Hello?"

"Cam." He sounds exhausted. "I'm sorry about earlier. I was an asshole."

"It's okay," I say, even though it's not. "You're under a lot of pressure."

"That's not an excuse." He pauses. "Look, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."

"Okay."

"Are you sure you want to be part of this? Because it's going to get worse before it gets better. The media attention, the pressure, watching me fall apart piece by piece. Are you sure you can handle that?"

The question knocks me off guard. I definitely didn’t expect him to sound so…vulnerable. "Logan, of course I can handle it. We're in this together, remember?"

"Are we?" His voice drops, uncertainty lacing his words. "Because when I look at you, and I see someone who's young and talented and has his whole career ahead of him. And then I look at me, and I see someone who's about to lose everything. I don't want to drag you down with me. "

"You're not dragging me down. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." I cradle the phone against my ear, wishing I was next to him right now, there to hold him, to support him, to carry him…whatever he needs.

"Today you are. But what about in two weeks, when I'm just another washed-up ex-player with no prospects? What about when the reporters start digging into your past, trying to find dirt on Logan Shaw's boyfriend? What about when?—?"

"Stop." I cut him off. "Just stop. None of that matters to me."

"It should." His voice breaks. "Shit will come up. We all have skeletons. You should want more than this mess."

"I want you," I say. "Mess and all. That's not going to change."

Silence on the other end, and then, "I hope that's true."

"It is. I promise."

"Okay. I have to go and help Tessa make dinner.” He pauses. “And Cam? Thank you. For being patient with me. I know I'm not easy to deal with right now."

"You're worth it," I say, and I mean it. I just hope he believes it.

After we hang up, my heart is a little lighter in my chest. The weight of not knowing how Logan truly felt has been lifted.

Of course Logan's scared, and he's pushing me away because that's what he does when he's afraid.

And he called to make things right. He apologized.

He's still fighting for us, even if he doesn't know how to show it.

I can work with that. I can be patient. I can give him the space he needs and still be there when he's ready to let me back in.

Tapping my fingers on the arm of the couch a few minutes later, something niggles at my brain.

His voice was off. It wasn’t just that he was tired or stressed.

I know him well enough to recognize the difference.

There was something…final in his tone. Like he was saying goodbye instead of good night.

Fisting the side of my hair, I let out a groan. I’m overthinking it. I have to be. I can’t let Keating's poison get in my head, making me paranoid about things that aren't real.

Hours later when I’m lying in my bed, that feeling still feasts on my mind and heart. The fear sits in my gut like a rock, heavy and cold, the annoying-as-fuck voice taunting me, convincing me that Logan's call wasn't reassurance.

It was actually goodbye.