Page 42 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

THIRTY

cam

I’m not prepared for the attack when it comes early the next morning.

My eyes are barely open when my phone starts buzzing. Text after text, call after call. I grab it and squint at the screen, expecting maybe team stuff or news about Logan.

Instead, I find a voice message from Rex Ashton.

Shit…

"Cam, call me immediately. There's a situation developing. Don't talk to anyone until we speak."

My stomach roils. I quickly scroll through my missed calls. Rex. Rex again. Carter. Tate. Even Coach Enver.

Then I see the email notification. A link to a sports journalism article with a headline that makes me shoot up in my bed.

"Questions Raised About Oakland Raptors Rookie's Character and Background"

I hover a trembling finger over the link, suck in a breath, and click.

Sources close to the Oakland Raptors organization have raised concerns about rookie forward Cam Foster's background and character, citing potential undisclosed issues that may impact team dynamics and league integrity.

While details remain confidential pending further investigation, multiple sources suggest Foster may have misrepresented aspects of his personal history during the draft process. ..

The article is carefully written, full of implications without direct accusations. But the message is clear. There are questions about my character, my honesty, and my worthiness to play in the NHL.

William Keating's deadline passed. Game time came and went yesterday, and I didn't disappear. I didn't request a trade or fade quietly into the night like he wanted.

So the bastard delivered on his promise.

My phone rings. Rex’s name flashes across the screen and I click to answer the call.

"I just saw the article," I say, my voice hoarse. "How bad is it?"

"Bad. And getting worse. Three more news outlets have picked up the story. Eli has the whole PR department in full crisis mode. Bob Marshall wants a meeting in an hour."

Bob Marshall. The GM. The man who can end my career with a phone call.

"What do they know?" I fist the sheet, my knuckles turning white, fingernails digging into my palm.

"Nothing specific yet. But they're digging. Hard. Whatever this is about, Cam, we need to get ahead of it. Fast. I need the full story if I’m going to do my job here. Let’s talk before Bob shows up, just to get our story straight.

I’ll meet you at the team facility and text you the conference room number once I get it. "

“Okay.” I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning my head back against the headboard. "I'll be there."

I end the call and drop the phone next to me, my shoulders slumping. There’s no way to get ahead of this. William gave the vultures just enough to start pecking away at my hidden and shameful past. It’s only a matter of time before they uncover the sordid stories and accompanying photos and videos.

My career is over. My life will be in shambles faster than I can say Stanley Cup, which I will never, ever get to play for if William Keating has anything to say about it.

I drive to the team facility like I’m heading to my own execution. I try to find a parking spot as close to the entrance as possible to avoid the reporters who are already gathering outside. The predators are circling, voracious, and I’m their prey.

Inside, the hallways feel different. Colder, like I’m an unwelcome stranger.

After this meeting with Bob Marshall, maybe I will be.

A few staff members see me and twist away to avoid eye contact.

Others whisper when they think I'm not looking.

But I notice everything and hear every thought running through their minds.

Rex texted me the conference room number for our meeting.

In a daze, I wander the hallways in the direction of the room.

Voices drift into the hallway and my chest tightens.

Fuck, I figured I’d get to talk to Rex for a few minutes before getting chewed out by Marshall.

But Bob’s voice isn’t the only one that makes my blood curdle.

I stop short in front of the conference room door and recognize William Keating's voice immediately.

"…glad I found you here. I understand you have concerns about the team's reputation," he says. "My investigator was very thorough. The documentation is quite extensive."

"This is a serious allegation," another voice responds. Bob Marshall. "If even half of this is true... "

"Oh, it's all true. Foster has been living a lie since he entered the league. The question is whether the Oakland Raptors want to be associated with that kind of character issue."

I should walk away. I couldn’t pace my apartment for another second so I got here a little early.

I should find Rex and figure out how to fight this properly before facing Bob.

But I can't move, my feet are rooted to the spot on the dark carpet.

I clutch the sides of my head, their words ringing between my ears like clashing cymbals.

How can they just discuss my destruction like it's a fucking business transaction?

"What exactly are you proposing?" Marshall asks.

"Nothing dramatic. A quiet trade. Send him somewhere he can't do any more damage to your organization's reputation. I'm sure there are teams desperate enough to overlook character concerns for talent."

My hands ball into fists. They're talking about shipping me off like damaged goods, kicking me to the curb before I can contaminate their precious team image.

"Mr. Keating," Marshall says slowly, "are you suggesting this investigation was motivated by anything other than concern for league integrity?"

There's a pause. Then William's voice grates against my ears. "I'm suggesting that some players are better fits for certain organizations. For example, Ryan's been with this team for years. He's proven his character and his commitment. Perhaps it's time he got the opportunities he's earned."

And there it is. The real reason behind everything.

"I tried to stop him.”

I whip around. Ryan Keating stands behind me in the hallway, his eyes glimmering with anger .

"Ryan," I say in a low voice. "I didn't know you were?—"

Ryan’s expression twists into one of regret and disgust. "It was fucking wrong to get involved with that asshole James. I went along with it because I was jealous. I wanted my spot back, and my dad told me this would do the trick, scare you off. But I want my spot fair and square. I don’t want to screw someone over for it.

So when I heard my dad was going to meet with management, I came here to stop him.

He went too far. This whole thing is so fucking wrong and I don’t want to be part of it anymore. "

"Yeah, well, it was never just about hockey for your father."

"I have to stop this," he mutters, pushing past me. He stalks toward the conference room.

I grab his arm. "Ryan, don't. This won't end well for you either if you speak up."

"I don't give a shit. I’m done with his fucking games.

" His jaw sets with determination I've never seen from him before. He’s always had a pole stuck up his ass, the entitled asshole whose father is a major power player in the league. He’s never been the guy to right wrongs, only cause them.

"This is bullshit. What he's doing to you, it's gotta stop. "

I really should leave now. I should get the hell out of here before this gets any worse.

Instead, I follow him. Like I get off on self-torment.

"Dad," Ryan says, pushing open the door. "We need to talk."

William looks up, surprise etched into his expression. "Ryan. What are you doing here?"

"I'm ending this. Whatever you’re doing." Ryan's voice is stronger now, surer, confident. It’s like the guy I’ve known since I got drafted was replaced with someone who has actual morals. Go fucking figure. "This investigation, these threats against Cam. It’s over."

William’s jaw tightens and his gaze flickers to Bob before narrowing on Ryan. "You don't understand the complexities?—"

"I understand perfectly." Ryan's face is flushed with anger.

"You're destroying someone's career to help mine.

That's not hockey. That's not competition. That's just evil. I tried to get onboard with the blackmailing. I was a total asshole to Cam. But I won’t do it anymore. This will ruin him, and I don’t want to be part of it. "

The silence is deafening. Bob Marshall lifts an eyebrow, looks between father and son, clearly trying to process what he's hearing.

"Ryan," William says in a taut, guarded voice, "let’s discuss this privately?—"

"No." Ryan turns to Bob. "Mr. Marshall, my father hired a private investigator to dig up dirt on Cam Foster. Not because of character concerns, but because he wants me to have more ice time. This whole thing is about getting Cam off the team so I can take his spot."

William's face pales then flushes a deep red. "Ryan, you have no idea what you're saying?—"

"I know exactly what I'm saying." Ryan's voice cracks slightly. "And I'm ashamed that I let it go on this long."

Bob's expression hardens as he looks at William. "Mr. Keating, is this true?"

A vein throbs on the side of William’s forehead. His glare focuses on me and I can practically see smoke pouring out of his ears. “You are a disgrace to the league,” he bites out.

“And you’re a controlling, manipulative asshole,” I say through gritted teeth. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about my past. And you will never hold any power over me. ”

I back toward the door. I need to get out of here before this gets any worse.

"I have to go," I mutter, twisting around.

"Foster," Marshall calls out. "We're not done here?—"

But my head spins like a top at what I just witnessed. Sweat prickles on the back of my neck. Everything is hanging by a thread and a giant scissor is looming over me, getting closer and closer to snipping that damn string.

Ryan follows me out into the hallway.

"Cam, wait," he says, catching up to me. "I need to say something."