Page 40 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TWENTY-EIGHT

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I can’t fucking sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Logan's face, the echo of his disgust-laced voice when he called me a complication. One more thing he can't handle. One more burden in his already fucked-up life.

So I lie on my couch and stare at the wall watching shadows move across the room as cars pass outside. My apartment feels smaller than usual, like the walls are closing in. Like I’m being crushed, the life slowly and tormentingly being sucked out of me. I’ve never felt so empty, so rejected.

My phone is on the coffee table next to me. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing from Logan.

Good. That's what I said I wanted, right? Space. Distance. One less problem for him to deal with.

But fuck, it hurt like hell hearing him say it.

His taut jaw, clenched fists, pained voice.

I can’t forget any of it, the image is branded into my memory.

And each time his words loop through my mind, I ache like he drove a machete into my chest and slashed the shit out of my heart until it was dead and shredded.

Maybe Keating was right all along. Maybe I'm poison. I already know I fucking destroy everything I touch. What made me think things would be different this time?

When morning finally comes, my body aches like it’s been dragged on the ground under a Mack truck. I pull myself off the couch and get dressed in a fog. I need to get the hell out of here, to escape the toxic thoughts that plagued me for most of the night.

I scrub a hand down the front of my face, my eyes bleary and burning. Maybe if I get some ice time alone, maybe if I push my body hard enough, I can quiet the fucking voices in my head. I head to the arena and manage to make it inside without being noticed.

The hallways are mostly empty, just a few staff members getting ready for the day. I'm on my way toward the locker room when someone calls my name.

"Foster."

My spine stiffens at the nerve-grating voice.

When I turn around, my stomach roils at the sight of Ryan Keating standing near the executive offices.

But he's not alone. His father is with him. I remember seeing him at one of our games, the same one where he watched me too closely for my liking. He’s tall, dressed in an expensive suit, with dark hair and a menacing expression zeroed in on me.

My breath hitches. I’ve never even spoken to the guy before, but he way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl like there are poisonous snakes slithering around my limbs.

“What do you want, Keating?” I say, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

"We need to talk," Keating says, nodding toward an empty conference room. "My father wants a word."

My eyes flicker to the older guy, my fingers balling up tight at my sides.

The older man steps forward, extending his hand like we're meeting at a fucking cocktail party. "William Keating. I represent several players in the league, including my son."

I lift an eyebrow at his outstretched hand. "What do you want?"

"Direct. I like that." William's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I think we should discuss your future with the Oakland Raptors. Privately."

He gestures toward the conference room. I want to walk away, tell them both to fuck off, but something in his tone tells me this isn't optional. I follow them inside, my heart thrashing hard.

"Have a seat," William says, closing the door behind us.

"I'll stand."

"Suit yourself." He pulls out a chair and sits down.

His asshole son follows his lead, leaving me on the offensive.

"I'll get straight to the point. My son's career is important to me.

Very important. And lately, certain obstacles have been preventing him from reaching his full potential on the ice. "

"What kind of obstacles?"

He sits back in the chair. "Showboat rookies who command attention. Media darlings who steal opportunities that should rightfully belong to players who've put in their time." His eyes narrow. "Players like you."

The pieces start clicking together. "So this is about ice time."

"This is about legacy. Ryan's worked his entire life to get to this level. He’s played with the Raptors for years. He deserves to be a star, not riding the bench while some flashy rookie steals all the headlines."

"That's not how hockey works. You earn your spot."

"In an ideal world, yes. But we don't live in an ideal world, do we, Connor ?"

My blood freezes. What the?— ?

All of Keating’s snide-ass comments and threats suddenly make alarming sense. He knows. William fucking knows.

"What the hell are you getting at?" I say in a low voice, the lump in my throat choking me.

"Oh, did I say Connor? My mistake. It's Cam now, isn't it? Cam Foster, the rising star. Amazing how reinventing yourself can open so many doors." William smiles like we’re just old friends catching up.

Ryan shifts uncomfortably in his chair, but doesn't say anything. Just watches his father work me like he’s running a business meeting.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, but my voice wavers. And the look on his face proves he knows exactly what panicked thoughts are flooding my mind.

He leans forward. "I think you do. You see, I recently learned some very interesting things about your background. About your time in New York before you made it to the NHL. The creative ways you found to pay for hockey equipment and training."

My legs buckle and I grab the edge of the conference room table, my fingertips white as they dig into the wood grain. "I don't know what you think you know, but?—"

"Oh, I know everything." William pulls out his phone and swipes through screens. "I had a professional look into your history, a man named Mark Lawson. He’s a very thorough investigator who specializes in digging up information on public figures. It still amazes me what kind of things he has the ability to dig up, things that people think have been long buried.” He pauses, his nasty smirk widening.

“But you can never outrun skeletons. They always have a way of jumping out when you least expect them to.”

The name means nothing to me, but the threat in William's voice is crystal clear .

"Photos, videos, detailed documentation of your various... entrepreneurial activities. All very professionally compiled." He sets the phone on the table, screen facing me. "One call to the right reporter, and everyone gets to see exactly what Cam Foster used to do for money."

I stare at the images on the phone, my mouth drying up like it’s filled with cotton, sand, and crushed Saltines. "What do you want?"

"I want you gone. Off this team, out of my son's way, back to whatever gutter you crawled out of.

" His voice is pleasant. Like we're discussing the fucking weather instead of my total destruction.

"You've got until tomorrow night's game to make it happen.

Request a trade, fake an injury, disappear into thin air. I don't care how you do it."

"And if I don't?"

"Then Mark starts making calls. Not to tabloids or gossip sites, mind you.

I'm not some amateur. I have relationships with NHL team management and owners, as well as serious journalists and people who investigate character issues in professional sports.

Your story becomes a legitimate news investigation, not just scandal sheet fodder.

And with my connections, I can bury you forever. "

This is worse than anything James threatened. James was a crazy stalker with different motives. William Keating is a professional, connected to the right people, with the power to crush my career through proper channels.

"Your precious Logan Shaw gets dragged into it, too, of course. Questions about his judgment, his leadership, whether his personal relationships affected his decision-making. What a shame if his final game got overshadowed by a scandal about his boyfriend's sordid past."

Logan's last game. The thing he's worked for his entire life, the last piece of his legacy .

"And you knew about this?" I look at Ryan, who's been silent this whole time. My temples throb, blood bubbling with pent-up fury. Red bleeds into my line of sight. "About your father’s plan to destroy me for your career? How many other obstacles has Daddy cleared for you, Keating?"

Ryan's face flushes, but he doesn't say a word to deny any of it. "I just want what I've earned."

"You think you've earned this? Having your father blackmail people is earning your spot on the team?"

"That's enough," William cuts in. "Ryan's a good kid. Talented, hardworking. He deserves every opportunity I can provide."

"And by opportunity, you mean the destruction of innocent people."

"I mean removing road blocks. You've had your moment in the spotlight, Foster. Time to step aside and let someone more deserving take center stage."

The casual cruelty in his voice reminds me of every powerful man who ever looked at me like I was nothing but a commodity to be used and abused. But fuck him. I'm not that scared kid anymore.

"No," I say.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said no. I'm not disappearing. I'm not requesting a trade. And I'm sure as hell not giving up what I've worked for just because some fucking entitled asshole wants to buy his son a better spot."

William's pleasant expression morphs into something dark and dangerous. "You're making a mistake, Foster."

"Maybe. But it's my mistake to make." I walk toward the door and grab the handle. Before I twist it, I slant them a look over my shoulder. "And just so we're clear, I earned my spot on this team. Your son lost his because he wasn’t good enough to keep it. That’s not my problem. That’s on him. And if you dare touch my equipment again, Keating, you won’t like where it ends up. "

Ryan’s eyes drop, his cheeks flaming with color. Asshole. I knew it was him.

"You have until game time tomorrow," William says in a tight voice, ignoring my last comment. "Your future, your choice."

I stalk out of the room, the door slamming shut behind me.

But as I walk down the hallway, my hands shaking, muscles tensing with each step, I know this isn't over. Far from it. William Keating isn’t the type to make empty threats.

And unlike James, who was clearly unhinged and had plenty to lose, William has the connections and the credibility to follow through.

In the locker room, I sink onto the bench and pull out my phone. I scroll through my contacts until I find the number I need.

Carter will know what to do. He’s the team captain, a leader, and a friend to Logan.

Need to talk. It's urgent. About threats to the team.

He responds right away.

Everything okay?

I scrape a hand down the front of my face.

No. But it will be. Can you meet me before practice?

Of course.

Thanks. And Carter? This stays between us for now.

Understood.

I tuck the phone into my pocket and take in deep breaths to settle the angst consuming me.

If William Keating wants a fight, he'll get one.

But first, I need to figure out how to protect Logan's final game without destroying my own future in the process. Because unlike James, who was operating alone, William has the entire NHL network at his disposal.

And that makes him infinitely more dangerous.

Twenty-four hours until game time.

Twenty-four hours to figure out how to fight back against a man who has the power to take a wrecking ball to everything I've built.

Because fuck him. There’s no way I’m running away, even if it costs me everything. Including Logan.

And it just might.