Page 41 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TWENTY-NINE

logan

When my name is announced, I leap onto the ice for the game one of the playoffs against the New York Renegades, I’m greeted by deafening applause and cheers.

The sounds echo in the massive space and a wide smile stretches my lips as I skate around the boards, waving my stick at the crowd with my good arm for a few seconds before taking my position at the blue line.

Fifteen-thousand people are on their feet, screaming my name, holding signs that say things like "Thank You, Logan" and "Raptors Legend." I should be fueled by the energy flowing through the crowd. I should be excited, lit up by the welcome.

But fuck, all I feel is the grinding goddamn pain in my shoulder and the dull, hollow ache in my chest where my heart used to be.

My final game. My final game.

The words loop through my mind. Fourteen years of professional hockey, and it all comes down to the next sixty minutes. Win or lose, the second that final buzzer sounds, I'm done.

"You ready for this, Shaw?" Carter asks, circling me on the ice.

"As ready as I'll ever be." I flex my fingers, testing the grip strength. My shoulder bites back in protest, but I swallow the groan. "How’s the team doing?”

"Focused. Everyone knows what this means." He pauses, his blue eyes narrowing. "You sure you can do this? Your shoulder?—"

"My shoulder's fine." The lie comes easily now. I've been telling it so long, I almost believe it myself. "One more game. That's all I need. I’ve got this."

I know Carter well enough to see the suspicion etched into his expression. But he doesn’t call me out on my bullshit. He just nods. "Alright. Let's make it count."

So many thoughts pop between my ears as I stretch. This is the last time I’ll take the ice with the group of guys who have become another family to me. I’ll never tape my stick before a game again, never feel that pre-game buzz of adrenaline mixed with terror.

My mind trips back to the text I’d gotten from Tessa just before heading through the tunnel one last time.

Watching at home with Ethan. He's wearing your jersey. Go get 'em, big brother. We love you!

I smile. Some things are worth sacrificing for.

Cam is his normal showy self, flashing wide smiles at the spectators as they call his name. Except the emotion on his lips don’t reach his eyes as they normally do. And his shoulders are the slightest bit tense.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, a harsh reminder that I’m entirely to blame for that.

I haven't talked to him since that night in my office. Haven't even looked at him directly during practice. My words destroyed him, and then I left him to burn with the wreckage without so much as an explanation.

Maybe it's better this way. A clean break. Less mess for both of us.

I adjust my helmet and let out a shuddering breath.

But fuck, I miss him. So much.

I grit my teeth and prepare myself for the face-off. I can salvage at least one thing tonight.

The puck drops at center ice. I win the face-off cleanly, sending it back to the defense, and the game starts.

For the first period, like magic, everything clicks. My passes are clean, my positioning is perfect, and the pain in my shoulder is manageable. The Raptors take an early lead on a power play goal, and for a few minutes, I let myself believe this might actually be the perfect ending to my career.

I let that blissful thought power me into the second period. It’s almost too good to be true.

Almost.

In the middle of the second period, one of the Renegades defensemen pummels me into the boards in his quest for the puck. Burning pain shoots down my entire left arm. I choke back the yell knotted in the back of my throat.

Come on, Logan. You’ve got this. Get back in the game.

My little impromptu pep talk keeps me upright, but the stick falls from my grip. My heart stutters in my chest for a terrifying second when I realize I can’t feel my fingers.

"You okay?" Cam skates up next to me, his voice laced with concern, even after I kicked him out of my life. I turn to look at him, my gut twisting at the look on his face. I don’t fucking deserve his attention after what I did, after using what he trusted me with against him.

He’s better off without me. And giving him even an inch wouldn’t be fair to him .

"Fine," I grunt, flexing my hand until the feeling returns. "Just caught me off guard. I’m good."

He watches me in silence for a second, but the play is already moving away from us. He follows me back to the bench and I realize in those seconds how much I miss us. We were so good together, on the ice, off the ice.

The feeling doesn't last long. He moves to the opposite side of the bench to watch the next string of guys work the puck down the ice. My heart dips in my chest, the loss of him almost as painful as my fucking shoulder.

By the third period, we're down by two goals, and I’m fighting a silent battle against my body to keep up with my teammates.

Every shot I make is pure agony. Every check feels like someone's driving a knife between my joints. I don’t know how much longer I can fake my way through this game on pure adrenaline and stubbornness before it all shuts down permanently.

"Shaw!" Coach Enver calls over to me. "You're up!"

I hop over the boards for what I know will be my final shift. My legacy. The game is on the line. It’ll take a miracle to tie it up, and I have one last chance to make an impact, to end my career on a high note. On my terms, just like I said.

The puck comes flying at me. I take off in the direction of the Renegades goal, my skate blades slashing the ice in a frenzy. There’s an opening that’ll give me a clear path to the net.

I can do this. It’s mine.

I wind up for a slap shot, the puck perfectly positioned to sail cleanly into the net. With a low growl, I let it fly with everything in me.

The second my stick makes contact with the puck, something in my shoulder pops. And the fucking pain that follows sends me crumpling down to the ice on my knees as the puck sails past the outside of the net.

"Logan." Cam's voice cuts through the sound of blood rushing between my temples. He swings around me and lands on his knees, his glove on my back. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," I try to speak, but the pain is so intense, it comes out as more of a gasp.

The trainers skate toward us. In about thirty seconds, my final game is going to become a medical emergency on live television.

"Help me up," I hiss at Cam.

"Logan, you're hurt. Let the trainers?—"

"Help me up," I say again, grabbing his arm with my good hand. "Please."

He hesitates for a second, then supports my weight as I struggle to my feet.

My arm throbs, hanging dead at my side. I grit my teeth, blinking back the tears that sting my eyes.

A flaming hot poker could have been driven into my shoulder and it’d probably feel the exact same way as it does right now.

The crowd erupts in applause when I make it off the ice. They probably think I’m just shaking off a hard hit. They have no idea they just watched the end of everything I've worked for.

I make it to the bench without using Cam as a crutch, but barely. Coach takes one look at me and shakes his head.

"You're done," he says. "Get that looked at."

"There's still five minutes left—" Like I could last another fucking second out there.

"You're done, Shaw." His voice is firm, sympathy pooling in his gaze. "You've given us everything. That's enough."

I wave off the trainers and sink onto the bench for the final five minutes, watching my teammates battle to tie the game. I can’t leave. Not yet.

My heart soars when Cam sets up a beautiful play, but it just misses the net and we can’t recover the puck. I look up at the clock. Three, two, one. When the final buzzer blares out, we've lost four to two.

Season over. Career over.

The handshake line passes in a blur. There are a lot of congratulations and commiserations from the opposing team, most of whom I've played against for years.

Some of them pat my back or squeeze my shoulder—the good one—and mutter things about respect and career achievements.

I nod and smile but the words land hard.

I feel empty. Like a shell of the man I once was.

In the locker room, the mood is heavy and somber. Guys sit at their stalls in silence, peeling off their uniforms, tense and dejected expressions on their faces, processing the end of their season.

At least, there will be more seasons to come for them. For me, there's just...after.

"Hell of a career, Shaw," Masterson says, walking past my locker. "It’s been a privilege playing with you."

"Thanks, Mas."

The rest of the guys shower, dress, and pack up. They all offer encouraging words, wishes of good luck and speedy recovery for the transplant surgery. Carter wanted to organize a retirement party, but I told him no fucking way would I show up.

How could I when so much of my livelihood has just come screeching to a stop? How could I plaster a fake-ass smile on my face and accept what I’ve lost? Including Cam.

Cam hovers near his stall. He keeps peeking over at me, and it’s clear he’s got something to say. But he pauses every time. When I finally catch his eye for a second, my gut twists. The pain I see flickering in the depths of his eyes there has nothing to do with losing a chance at the Stanley Cup.

"Good season, Foster," I croak out. "You've got a bright future."

Coach Enver walks in with a clipboard under his arm. He rattles off details about exit meetings and off-season plans and Cam turns away, the moment crushed by my looming reality.

By the time I finish with the trainers and team doctors, the locker room is mostly empty. I sit alone at my stall, staring at my gear. Skates I'll never lace up for a game again. A stick I'll never score with. A jersey I'll never pull over my head.

My phone blows up with messages and notifications. I scroll through them all. Tessa checking on me. Ethan asking if I'm okay. Rex Ashton wanting to discuss "next steps." Dr. Patel requesting a meeting first thing tomorrow morning.

Nothing from Cam.

But can I even blame him? He doesn’t owe me anything. And I made sure to fuck things up really good with him.

I pack my bag slowly, my heart clenching. Every piece has a memory attached to it. The helmet I wore when I scored my first NHL goal. The gloves I used during our first championship run five years ago. I rifle through the locker, taking everything.

When I'm done, I sit down with a heavy sigh and take one last long look around the empty locker room. Next season, this locker will belong to someone else. Someone younger, healthier, with working shoulders and decades of hockey ahead of them.

Someone who isn't me.

The walk to the parking garage feels endless. A few reporters try to flag me down for comments, but I wave them off. I'm not ready to put words to what just happened. Maybe I never will be.

In my truck, I stare out the windshield for a long, agonizing minute before starting the engine.

My taped-up shoulder throbs with every beat of my heart, a constant reminder of what I've lost and what I'm about to face. My shoulder is done, and I can’t have it repaired first if I want to be a donor for Ethan. We can’t bank on a donor coming through in enough time to save him.

So I’m facing transplant surgery in two weeks. Months of recovery. A future I can't even begin to imagine.

And a guy I desperately want by my side, a guy whom I destroyed with weapons of fear, anger, and frustration.

I just need to talk to him one more time.

I pull out my phone and start to type a message. Gritting my teeth, I delete it. And again and again, rinse and repeat.

Because what do you say to someone you pushed away right before your world crumbled around you? How do you explain that calling him a complication was the biggest mistake of your life?

I slam the hand of my good arm on the steering wheel and toss the phone into the console.

Some conversations are too important for text messages.

Some apologies require looking someone in the eye.

But first, I need to figure out how to live in a world where I'm not Logan Shaw, famous NHL center.

I need to figure out who I am when I'm just... Logan.

I listen to the news coverage of the game with half an ear. When the sportscaster mentions my name in the same sentence as "career-ending injury" and "uncertain future," I shut it off.

Tomorrow, I'll figure out where the hell to go from here. There’s a lot to do over the next couple of weeks…surgery prep, media requests, and the slow process of accepting that the only life I've ever known is over.

Tonight, I just want to go home and hold my nephew and pretend that everything in my life isn’t falling apart at the seams.

Even though it is.

I don't know how to fix any of it.

And the one person I want…need…to help me through all this is the same person I forced out of my life.

The irony would be funny if it didn't hurt so much.