Page 5 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

FIVE

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I open my eyes a crack the next morning, my entire body aching. I shift on the mattress, swallowing a groan when my eyes slam into Cam’s long, muscular legs at war with the bed sheet. His bronze skin pops against the white sheet tangled around his ankles.

I don’t know how many times the image of Cam stripping down in the room last night looped through my mind before sleep finally, and mercifully, consumed me. But it haunts me again now that I’m awake and staring at him.

The fact that he’s gorgeous really pisses me off. It’s bad enough that he’s annoying as fuck and arrogant as the day is long. But does he really have to have a face like goddamn Chris Hemsworth and the body of Thor?

My shoulder throbs with every movement beneath the blankets, and the hotel bed feels like it was designed by someone who’s never had to fall asleep after blocking shots with their spine.

Cam’s sketchpad is open on his chest. I peer at the page hanging over the side. A cartoon dinosaur glares at me from the page, mid-roar and wielding a hockey stick .

I don’t mean to smile, but I do. It’s cute. Stupid. Somehow…disarming.

I struggle to sit up with a groan, rub my shoulder, and quietly grab my phone from the nightstand. Cam’s breathing is steady and soft. Definitely still sleeping.

I swing my legs around and move to the corner of the room by the window. Then I tap the screen and dial my sister, Tessa.

She answers on the second ring. “Everything okay? It’s pretty early, even for you.”

“Yeah,” I say in a low voice, my eyes flicking to Cam’s bed. “Just checking in. How’s Ethan doing?”

“We’ll see how things go today. I scheduled an appointment for Monday. I’ll keep you posted.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it. “You think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause.

“He’s just tired, Lo. You know how it is. You’ve seen it. It just makes me nervous because it seems to be more than usual. But that’s why we’re going to the doctor. He’ll run some routine tests and then…”

Tessa’s voice trails off. My nephew Ethan’s rare congenital liver condition is something he was born with, something that is manageable…until it’s not. For years, his liver activity has been monitored closely and yeah, we’ve seen little blips here and there, but nothing concerning to his doctors.

I let out an unsteady breath, tension winding around my spine.

This time…I don’t know. Something feels different, and I don’t like it at all. I wish I was there to hug my sister, to promise her that everything would be okay. So much isn’t, though. So much will never be right again and that makes my gut clench.

She can’t deal with any more loss. None of us can .

I wrap my fingers tight around the phone. “You’ll tell me the second something changes?”

“I always do.” Another pause. Then softly she says, “Take care of yourself, too, okay?”

“Yep. Love you.” I click to end the call and stare out at the gray Colorado skyline, my heart lodging in my throat.

A rustling of blankets jerks me from my thoughts.

“You’ve got a kid?”

I turn to see Cam sitting up, eyes still bleary, hair a mess, but fully awake and watching me like he’s just solved a puzzle.

My jaw tightens, fists clenching tight. “What?”

“Ethan,” Cam says, yawning as he stretches his arms overhead. “You said his name. Sounds like he means something to you.”

I just stare at him, anger battling the arousal swelling inside of me.

Cam shrugs. “I just didn’t know you were a family guy.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” The words are cold, sharp, and scathing, and Cam blinks, caught off guard. But his surprise only lasts for a second.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, brah. Just—” He rubs the back of his neck. “You sounded...I don’t know…different. That’s all.”

I take a few steps toward him. “You don’t get to comment on my life. We’re not friends, remember? Not now, not fucking ever. I thought I made that clear.”

Cam frowns. “I was just?—”

“You were just listening to a private conversation that wasn’t meant for you.”

Something in Cam shifts. His expression tightens.

“I didn’t ask for details. I just said it sounded like you cared. For a few seconds, it was nice to believe you’re not a complete dickhead to everyone on the planet. ”

The silence between us turns razor sharp and is damn close to slicing deep into places where he should not be digging.

Cam swings his legs out of bed and grabs his hoodie from the floor. “God forbid anyone sees a human under all that steel plating.”

I swallow hard, not answering. Mainly because I don’t know how. It’s way too much to unpack and I don’t want a shoulder to cry on or a fucking hug. I just want Ethan to be healthy. I’ll do anything to make it so. I made that promise years ago and I intend to keep it, however I can.

Cam scoffs, rolls his eyes, and disappears into the bathroom. I sink back down on my bed, my shoulder screaming, the silence screaming louder.

Scrubbing a hand down the front of my face, I let out a shuddering sigh. I could have handled that better. I should’ve let the comment go. Cam didn’t mean any harm by it.

I clutch the edge of the comforter in my fist. But letting people close is how you lose the things that matter.

And Christ, I’ve lost too much already.

An hour later, we’re in the arena and on the ice for our morning practice skate. I clench my fingers tight around my stick, glaring at Cam as he tears up the ice.

It’s like trying to outskate a fucking hurricane. He’s impossible to keep up with, even at my best. And my shoulder feels like someone poured lighter fluid on it and flicked a match. He slams past me during a drill, too subtle to call out, but there. Definitely there.

Cocky bastard.

But he’s pissed, too. I shut him down hard in the room and he’s giving it back to me in spades…and with a fucking smile on his face to boot.

My blades carve into the ice, shooting me down the rink, but each move pulls sharp pain down my arm.

I watch Cam through the burn, skating fast and hot like he owns the place.

The rest of the team falls into line behind him like I’m not even there.

They’re eating it up, his speed and bravado, his ability to make it look like hockey’s a game and not the life-or-death struggle that it is.

Especially when the rookie's doing everything he can to knock me off my throne.

That part he does with brutal efficiency.

My teeth clench around the mouth guard as Cam circles back and shoots me a smirk before kicking into gear again. He wants a response. Wants to get in my head.

And I make the mistake of giving it to him.

“Need to be the center of attention that badly?” My voice slices through the rink, sharp enough that a few guys glance over. I catch Carter shaking his head like I’m some moody teenager and not the longest-serving player on this damn team.

Cam pulls up next to me, grin plastered wide across his face. “Not trying to be the center,” he says, all breathless ease. “I just don’t disappear.”

The words stab harder than I want to admit. My jaw locks up. My stick cracks against the ice. He’s too close, too confident, making me feel every bit of my fucking age.

And a whole host of other things I don’t want to admit.

I hate that I give him the satisfaction of going cold, locking him out with an icy glare.

Cam shrugs it off like it’s a game, tossing a wink as he glides past, and I should let it go. But the tension in my shoulder and the smug set of his mouth make that impossible.

He’s clearly trying to get me back for what happened between us earlier. And the fact that he doesn’t get angry, that he just keeps getting more and more in my face, aggravates the fuck out of me.

On the bench, Tate leans over, padding his goalie gloves against his thighs. “So,” he says with a wide grin, “are you two gonna kiss or kill each other?”

I want to slam my stick against the wall. Instead, I grip it until my knuckles turn white. “Real funny,” I mutter, wondering if he knows how close to the truth he is.

But Cam’s already halfway across the ice, slanting a glance at me over his shoulder. He lifts a hand in an obnoxious wave that makes my blood boil. It’s not a threat. That’s the worst part. He doesn’t think I’m worth worrying about. Just a washed-up obstacle in his shiny, new way.

I force myself not to react, but inside, everything's coming apart. He’s gotten to me, and I know it. The last thing I want is to give the rest of the team more ammo. To give him more ammo.

But the burn in my shoulder is nothing compared to the one in my pride. I know it, and the little shit knows it, too.

I head back onto the ice, my focus scattered like the ice chips flying off Cam’s skates. It should be easier. It should be automatic. Instead, I’m messing up drills I could do in my sleep. Drills I used to own.

“Great effort, Shaw,” Cam calls out as I trip over my feet. “Keep it up, and I might not show you up at the game again.” His voice is clear over the scrape of skates and the thud of pucks against glass.

Damn him.

His laugh follows me like a bad dream, one I can’t wake up from. I fight to stay professional, to put up the walls that used to protect me. To keep it from hurting, from sticking. But it’s all getting through, all clawing under my skin.

And the war rages in my mind.

I want him.

I want to kill him.

But I want him …

I finally drop onto the bench, stripping off my helmet. I need to get a grip before I lose it for real. Before this cocky rookie plants himself so firmly in my brain that I can’t see past him anymore.

Before we hit the locker room, he skates over, that same aggravating confidence radiating off him. “Hey, Shaw,” he says, way too smug. “Thought you were gonna keep me on my toes, but I didn’t even have to try.”

My grip tightens around the stick, stomach twisting itself into knots. “Fuck off,” I spit out, not giving him the satisfaction of anything else.