Page 44 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

THIRTY-ONE

logan

I sit across from Dr. Patel, my hands twisting in my lap, trying not to wince every time I move my left arm. The X-rays are clipped to the light board behind her, and even I can see how fucked up my shoulder looks.

"The damage is more extensive than we initially assessed," she says, tapping her pen against the file on her desk.

“The liver donation surgery requires very specific positioning.

You'll be on your side for several hours, with your arm extended in ways that could aggravate your shoulder injury significantly.

" She folds her hands together, pursing her lips.

"We also have to consider the anesthesia.

With your shoulder's current state, we'll need to modify our approach, which adds complexity to an already delicate procedure. "

My jaw tightens. "I can handle it."

"It's not about what you can handle. It's about what's medically safe.

" Her voice is gentle but a no-nonsense tone.

"Post-donation surgery, you'll need to follow a very specific physical therapy regimen to prevent blood clots and ensure proper healing.

Your shoulder injury could prevent you from meeting those requirements. "

"So what are you saying?" I grip the arms of the chair tight.

"I'm saying we need to have a serious discussion about pain management conflicts, infection risks, and whether you'll be able to maintain the proper recovery positioning.

" She pauses. "And honestly, Logan, I'm worried about the additional stress this surgery will put on your already compromised joint. "

I run my good hand through my hair. "Dr. Patel, with all due respect, my shoulder is already fucked.

My career is over. And I made it worse by playing that final game when I should have listened to you.

" The guilt eats at me. "I threw a wrench into this whole procedure because I was too stubborn to sit out one game. "

"Logan—"

"What's a little more damage if it saves Ethan's life? I already screwed this up by being selfish."

"Because if complications arise during your recovery, it could affect your long-term mobility.”

The words hit harder than I expect. She's right, and I hate that she's right.

"So what do you recommend?"

"I want to bring in an orthopedic surgeon to consult on the procedure.

Dr. Raja specializes in complex cases like yours.

If we can develop a modified surgical approach that accounts for your shoulder, we can move forward safely.

" She looks down and jots a few quick notes on my file.

"But, Logan, you need to understand that this adds variables to Ethan's surgery too.

Any complication on your end affects his outcome. "

My stomach drops. "Are you saying I might not be able to donate?"

"I'm saying we need to be absolutely certain we can do this safely for both of you." Her expression softens. "Ethan needs his uncle healthy and whole, not just his liver. "

I lean back in the chair, an unsteady breath expelling from my lips. Everything I've sacrificed, every hit I've taken, every game I've played through the pain…it might all be for nothing if my stubbornness cost Ethan his only chance since we haven’t been able to get a liver as of yet.

"How long do we have to figure this out?"

"Dr. Raja can see you tomorrow morning. We'll do additional imaging, assess the risks, and make a final determination." She closes the file folder. "Logan, I know this isn't what you want to hear, but we have to consider every variable for everyone’s safety."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. And again.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, pulling it out. "Let me just..."

The screen is filled with notifications. Incoming news alerts, missed calls, text messages. The first headline makes my stomach drop into my Nikes.

NHL Rookie Stabbed in Team Facility Parking Garage

What the?—?

My hand trembles as I click on the article. There's a photo of an ambulance, police cars, the Oakland Raptors practice facility in the background. And then I see the name.

Cameron Foster.

"Logan?" Dr. Patel's voice sounds far away, an echo that barely registers. "What's wrong?"

My pulse pounds, jumping into my throat, choking me. I can't speak. Can't breathe. The words on the screen blur together, swimming as I try to process what I'm reading.

Oakland Raptors rookie Cameron Foster was rushed to Oakland General Hospital after being stabbed multiple times in the team facility parking garage this morning.

Foster, 22, was reportedly attacked by an unidentified assailant who was subdued by teammate Ryan Keating until security arrived.

Foster's condition is listed as critical. ..

Critical.

My phone rings. Mike's name flashes on the screen.

"Logan." The urgency in Mike's voice causes another rush of panic to crash over me. "Jesus Christ, are you seeing this?"

"I'm reading it now," I croak out, my eyes glued to the news article, silently willing it to rewrite itself and confirm that Cam is safe. "Mike, what the hell happened?"

"My contact at Oakland PD filled me in. The attacker is James Harmon.”

"Fuck, I thought we handled that." I scrape a hand down the front of my face.

"Apparently not. The guy went completely off the rails. He apparently ambushed Foster in the parking garage with a fucking knife." Mike's voice is tight. "Logan, it's bad. Really bad. They're saying significant blood loss, possible internal bleeding. He’s in surgery now."

The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. I lean forward with my head in my hands, bile rising in the back of my throat.

"Logan." Dr. Patel shoves her chair back and springs up, around her desk in seconds with a hand on my back. "What's happening?"

"I have to go," I say, standing up too fast. I grab onto the desk for a second. The room spins, but I force myself to stay upright. "My…I just…I have to get to the hospital."

"It looks like you’re in shock. You shouldn't drive."

"I'm fine." But I'm not fine. I'm the furthest thing from fucking fine. Cam is in surgery, fighting for his life, and the last thing I said to him was that he was a complication I couldn't handle.

I somehow make it out of the office and into my truck, my hand shaking as I start the engine. Seconds stretch into hours. My head spins with what-if scenarios that make my blood ice in my veins during the ride to the hospital. I park my truck in front of the Emergency Room entrance and run inside.

The place is pure chaos. Reporters gather in hordes, cameras and microphones ready to capture every moment of this disaster. I keep my head down and push through the revolving glass doors. I run to the information desk, breathless, my temples throbbing.

"I need to know about Cameron Foster," I rasp at the nurse. "He was brought in this morning."

"Are you family?"

"I'm..." I stop. What am I to Cam? His mentor? His teammate? The asshole who broke his heart? "I'm Logan Shaw. I'm with the Oakland Raptors."

She lifts an eyebrow and types something into her computer. "He's in surgery. That's all I can tell you right now."

"How long has he been in surgery?"

"About two hours."

Two hours. Two hours of machines and doctors trying to put him back together and I had no idea. Two hours of him being alone, his life in jeopardy, because I was too much of an idiot to realize I couldn’t live without him.

“How much longer will he be in there?”

"I’m sorry, I just don’t know. There's a waiting area on the third floor for family and close friends," the nurse says. "The surgical team will update you when they can."

I take the elevator upstairs, my legs feeling like limp spaghetti noodles.

The waiting area is small and sterile, painted taupe which does absolutely nothing to soothe me.

It’s lined with plastic chairs and outdated magazines scattered on cheap wooden tables.

A few people sit in clusters, talking in hushed voices .

Looking around, I see Ryan Keating hunched over in the corner, an ice pack pressed to his swollen face, his shirt stained with blood.

A shiver skitters down my spine.

Not his blood. Cam's blood, I’m assuming.

"Logan," he says when he sees me, straightening up quickly. "I didn't know if anyone called you."

"A friend of mine is a cop and he called to let me know.” I look at Ryan's bruised face, the guilty expression. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. It's not my blood." He pulls his shirt away from his body. "I tried to stop the bleeding until the paramedics got there."

"What the hell happened?"

Ryan's face crumbles. "It's my fault. All of it. My father is the one who hired that psycho to dig up dirt on Cam. And when the guy went rogue, my dad cut him off. But the damage was already done."

"Your father did what? " I grab onto the wall for support because my legs are about to give out on me.

"He wanted me to have Cam's spot on the team.

So he organized this whole character assassination campaign.

Hired investigators, made deals with that James guy, manipulated everything to destroy Cam's reputation.

" Ryan's voice cracks. “I fucked up by getting involved with his plan. I fucked up so goddamn badly.”

The pieces click together fast and I don’t like the picture at all.

"That's what Cam was trying to tell me. About his past, about threats he was dealing with.

It was about your father. He tried to tell me, but I.

.." My lower body gives up and I sink into one of the chairs. My heart hurts with each word, stomach roiling at the memory of Cam’s stricken face that night I sent him away.

"I called him a complication. Told him I couldn't handle any more problems. "

Ryan stares at me, his jaw dropping. "You called him a what?"