Page 38 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TWENTY-SEVEN

logan

A blaring ring tone jerks me from a fitful sleep. I peer at my phone. Six o’clock in the fucking morning and Dr. Patel is calling. No doubt today’s going to be shit. Fear grips me as I stab the Accept button.

"Mr. Shaw, I'm sorry to call so early, but we need to discuss some concerns about your donor evaluation. I just got the report."

"What kind of concerns?" I mumble, my voice still thick with sleep.

"The orthopedic specialist reviewed your shoulder scans. The damage is more extensive than we initially thought. We need to run some more tests to determine if the stress of surgery could compromise your recovery or Ethan's outcome."

I shoot up in my bed. "What does that mean?"

"It means we need to reassess your eligibility as a donor. The surgery to repair your shoulder could take months of recovery, which would delay or potentially eliminate your ability to donate to Ethan."

"So what are you saying?"

"We're saying you need to choose. Repair your shoulder and potentially miss the window to help your nephew, or proceed with the transplant surgery.”

"There's no choice," I say immediately. "Ethan comes first. Always."

"I understand, but I want you to fully comprehend what this means for your future?—"

"Doc, with all due respect, my career is already over. My nephew's life isn't." I swallow hard. It’s not even a choice. I’d cut my fucking arm off to save Ethan’s life. "Schedule the transplant surgery. We'll deal with my shoulder after Ethan is safe."

"Are you sure? Once we move forward, there’s no turning back.”

"I've never been surer of anything in my life."

I crash back onto my mattress after hanging up with the doctor. My eyes drift closed for exactly one second before my phone buzzes again. With a groan, I grab it and glare at the screen.

It’s a text from Rex Ashton, my agent.

Need to talk ASAP. Management wants damage control on the retirement announcement.

My finger hovers over the screen to type a response when another text from Eli Hartnet, the team’s PR director, pops up in my notifications.

Media's going crazy. We need a unified message.

I’m not ready to deal with this shit right now.

I barely make it into the kitchen and over to the coffee maker when my phone starts blowing up again. A reporter from ESPN. Then one from TSN. Then the local news. I let them all go to voicemail, but the calls keep coming and my patience is stretched like a rubber band ready to snap.

By eight, there are news vans parked outside my house.

I sink onto the couch in my office and run my hand over the cushion, my mind stumbling back to the other night when Cam was over...when we were together and it was the most connected I’ve felt to someone in longer than I can remember.

The phone rings, startling me from my thoughts. I jab the screen and click the Accept button.

"Hey." I sit up and run a hand through my hair, the tightness in my chest relaxing the slightest bit.

“Hi,” Cam says. “I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.”

The weight of my situation constricts my chest until it’s hard to breathe. It’s so much, and even though Cam wants to help, it might be better for us both if I handle things on my own right now.

"Look, I’ve been thinking,” I say slowly, my heart aching with every word. “Maybe we should keep some distance until this blows over. Just until after the surgery, until things calm down."

Silence on the other end.

"Cam?"

"Yeah. Distance. I get it."

The sharp pain in his voice slices into me, but I tell myself it's for the best. Simpler. Safer. Temporary.

"I'll see you at practice," I say.

"Right. Practice."

I head to the management offices a couple of hours later, bracing myself for the fallout I know is coming.

Nobody smiles when I walk into the conference room.

Bob Marshall, the GM, and Eli Hartnet are there, stiff and stoic.

They're scrambling after yesterday's media explosion, trying to control a narrative that's already spiraled out of their hands.

"The retirement announcement should have gone through proper channels," Bob says. "Coach Enver should have known better than to handle it as he did. Now we're dealing with speculation, rumors, reporters calling about everything from your medical history to your personal relationships."

"I told the team the truth. My nephew needs surgery, and I'm the only family donor. There’s too long a wait on the transplant list, and we might not get a compatible liver in time."

"That's the story we're sticking with. Noble sacrifice, veteran leader putting family first. Clean and simple."

“It’s not a story,” I growl. “It’s the truth.

And thanks for asking how my nephew is, by the way.

I get that you’re worried about the team and media backlash, but this is life or death for Ethan.

I’d hate to think I gave you guys fourteen years and you can’t even give me the courtesy of understanding my situation. ”

“Logan, you know we are concerned about you and your nephew’s well-being, and your health and safety supersedes everything else,” Eli says in a weak attempt to smooth things over, but that asshole Bob already did the damage.

Eli leans forward, clasping his hands together.

"We need to make sure there are no... complications that could muddy the waters. "

"What kind of complications?"

"Questions about your focus this season. Whether personal relationships affected your decision-making." His eyes narrow. "There's been speculation about you and Foster. People are asking questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"The kind that make sponsors nervous. The kind that turn a family medical story into something else entirely."

The threat is clear. Keep my personal life quiet, or they'll make everything harder.

“I made this decision for the good of my family,” I say through clenched teeth. “This has nothing to do with Foster or any of my other teammates. My decision-making ability is solid. I choose my nephew over hockey. Period. ”

Bob just stares at me, his lips twisting. Eli looks between us and clears his throat.

“Of course. We understand completely. And you know we’ll do everything we can to keep you away from any speculation that can intrude on your family business.

And thank you for staying with the team for game one of the playoffs.

It means a lot to the team and to management.

We understand what you are sacrificing, Logan. ”

I give a stiff nod and stalk out of the conference room without another word.

In the parking lot, I sit in my truck, trying to process everything I just heard, all the questions fired at me.

The situation is devastating enough, but now management's up my ass about backlash on the team, the media's camped outside my house, and it seems like everyone is trying to use Cam as a scapegoat for my decision.

I mean, what the fuck? Doesn’t anyone give a shit about the most important person in this fucked up situation? It’s all about Ethan, not me, not Cam, not fucking hockey.

I drive home in a daze, dodging reporters as I pull into my driveway, ignoring their shouted questions. Inside, the house feels too quiet and empty. Tessa’s car is in the driveway so she’s probably in her room working so she can keep an eye on Ethan.

How fucking lucky for me. I can be alone with my toxic thoughts.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid burns a fiery path down my throat, but not as much as the realization that everything I touch turns to shit.

Maybe I should have listened to my gut from the beginning. Maybe I should have kept my distance, kept things professional with him. Maybe Cam would be better off without my chaos bleeding into his life.

The doorbell rings. I ignore it, figuring it's another reporter. But then I hear the door open and Cam's voice floats into the room.

A few minutes later, Tessa appears in my office doorway.

"Cam's here," she says. "I told him you've had a bad day, but he says it's important."

"I told him to stay away," I grunt, falling against the back of the couch.

"Maybe you should hear what he has to say." She stares at me for a long, tense minute. "You look like you could use a friend, Lo."

I catch a glimpse of Cam behind Tessa in the doorway.

She backs away and seconds later, her feet trudge back upstairs.

Cam stands just inside the room. He looks nervous and scared, like he's got something heavy to share.

I swallow a groan. The last thing I need is another crisis, another fucking problem to solve.

"What are you doing here?" The whiskey makes my voice rougher than usual.

"We need to talk."

"I told you I needed space."

"I know. But this can't wait." He closes the door, and I can see the tension tighten his shoulders. "Logan, there's something you need to know about my past. About why James has been?—"

"Stop." I hold up a hand. The word comes out like a whip crack. "Just... stop."

"You don't understand. I know I was supposed to tell you everything about my past, but there’s something you don’t know, something I just couldn’t bring myself to?—”

"I said stop!" I slam my hand on the coffee table, the glass jumping. The sharp sound echoes in the room like a gunshot.

He flinches, and I see fear flicker in his eyes. Good. Maybe he'll understand I'm not in the mood for whatever he's bringing to my door this time.

"Christ, Cam, do you have any idea what kind of day I've had?" I say, flinging my good arm over my face. “Do you really think I need more shit to deal with right now?”

"I know you're stressed, but?—"