Page 6 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

He doesn’t listen. Of course, he doesn’t. He flashes a grin that somehow amps up the heat I’m trying not to feel. It’s a wonder the ice around us doesn’t melt. “Keep it up,” he calls, backing away. “It’s cute how hard you’re trying.”

And that’s it. That’s the final straw.

I watch him walk off, casually cocky, so self-assured it twists my insides. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth, from refusing to let out everything boiling my blood. If I give in, I’ll lose more than my spot. More than my pride. I’ll lose every piece of myself that I have left.

And dammit, if he doesn’t make me want to anyway.

The locker room’s nearly empty by the time I stagger back. Almost as empty as the gnawing pit in my chest. Almost as quiet as the sound of my damn shoulder finally shutting the hell up. The burn from everything else? That’s another story.

Most of the guys have taken one of the buses back to the hotel by now.

The place is silent except for the hum of the air vents and the echo of my toxic thoughts, relentless as a bad pop song stuck on repeat.

Every second with Cam is tattooed on my brain.

The heat in his words. The knowing looks that lit me up more than I want to admit.

And then there’s the truth that I can’t avoid. He knows how to get under my skin, because I’m letting him. Nothing fazes him, not even me telling him to mind his own fucking business. It’s like he’s immune to my hostility, like he feeds off of it, for Christ’s sake.

I pull my bag out of the locker and drop it on the bench with a thud.

My shoulder’s gone from blistering to numb, but the rest of me is still reeling, adrenaline and frustration twisting through my veins.

I need to get a grip. I need to hold onto something that doesn’t look and sound and feel like him .

Like I conjured him up from the fiery haze in my head, Cam comes striding in from the showers, wearing nothing but a towel and a grin. Nothing weighs him down. Not like the tsunami of his words still tearing me up inside because I’m caught hard between anger and desire.

“Waiting for me?”

I turn my back, throwing my gear into the locker with more force than necessary. I can’t take any more of this shit. Not today, not when everything’s so close to unraveling. Not when he’s making me want things I swore I’d never want again.

It should be over by now. It should be the end of him, of us, of this fucking day that’s barely just begun. But Cam’s like a damn dog with a bone, except it’s my sanity he’s chewing on.

He walks past, purposefully close, and the edge of his towel drops next to me. It’s too close. Too calculated. The kind of move that would be all fun and games if I wasn’t so raw, if he wasn’t so wrecking-ball ready to destroy me.

He leans down to grab it, slow and deliberate, and I force myself not to flinch, not to react. It’s a wonder I don’t crack and shatter like glass, holding this still, this tight.

His voice is a low rumble, meant only for me. “Still think I’m just some punk rookie?”

I force out a laugh, bitter and jagged. “I think you want attention. You just don’t care who bleeds to get it.” My own words cut me as I say them.

He flinches. Actually flinches, and I see something dent that smooth, self-assured surface.

“You say I don’t know anything about you, but you don’t know a damn thing about me, either.” His voice isn’t soft, but it’s not the loud, obnoxious one I’m used to. It’s worse, because I believe it.

“Then stop trying so hard to make me look,” I say.

For a second, he’s quiet. So quiet I can hear the roar of blood in my ears, the steady, taunting beat of my heart. I can hear him breathing, I can see the flicker of pain in his expression, and it stops me dead in my tracks.

But not for long. He pushes past me, not bothering to hide the frustration, the anger, the raw ache I’ve clearly left him with.

Part of me wants to let out a sigh of relief that I was finally able to get to him.

The rest of me winces at the look on his face.

It doesn’t last long, though. He grabs his duffel, dumps his stuff inside and zips it up. When he walks out, he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t look at me at all.

I should feel like I won, but my small victory’s hollow. The slam of the locker room door isn’t enough to shut out the doubt and anger and his parting words that ricochet between my temples. He wanted me to see him, dammit. He wanted me to look.

And I didn’t just look. I couldn’t stop staring.

Carter catches him storming out and raises an eyebrow. I pretend I don’t see it, pretend it’s not the most awkward thing that’s happened all season.

“You good?” he asks, the disbelief heavy in his voice. “That looked intense. ”

I shrug. “We’re fine.”

“That’s why he practically tore the door off?” Carter crosses his arms, the familiar set of his jaw telling me this won’t be a casual conversation. “What’s going on, Shaw?”

“Nothing,” I snap, sounding more defensive than I mean to. I’ve been at war with my pride for weeks now, and every battle’s bleeding into the next.

“Pretty sure that’s not how Cam sees it.” He’s giving me the “you’re-not-fooling-anyone” look, the one that makes me want to slam a stick against something, anything. My head, probably. “What’d you say to him?”

“Nothing he didn’t need to hear.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost it, and maybe I have. Lost it. Lost my damn mind. “I’m all for tough love, but this isn’t mentoring. It looks more like sabotage.”

My hands fist at my sides, raw and shaky. I can’t explain it. I can’t explain any of it. “He’s not here to be mentored, Carter. He’s here to be the center of attention, the trophy, the hockey god everyone believes he is. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.”

And then Carter does the one thing I didn’t see coming. He laughs. He fucking laughs, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Stop being so defensive, Shaw. I know how your mind works. This isn’t about pitting you against the new kid. He’s not your enemy. You are.”

It hits somewhere deep, shaking things loose, things I don’t want to face.

Carter walks out, leaving me alone with his words and the sharp sting of the truth. I stare at the far exit, the one Cam disappeared through. He looked hurt when he left. Not just mad. And it twists my gut.

The locker room echoes with emptiness, the air heavy with everything that just went down. My fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, white-knuckled, a fight for control.

Somehow, Cam’s already managed to burrow under my skin. But what’s worse is that I’m not sure how to pry him out...or if I really want to.

And at that moment, I know it’s more than my career on the line.

That scares me more than the possibility of losing hockey forever.