Page 9 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

SEVEN

logan

The hotel room is quiet when I wake up. I sit up in bed and look around the place. Cam’s gone. His side of the room is empty. But the scent of his cologne still lingers like a scab I can’t help but pick.

On the pillow, there’s a scrap of paper. I snatch it up, already grinding my teeth at the words that are written there…the message he’s trying to send.

“Wanted to get in an early skate. See you at the airfield. Try not to miss me.”

That dick.

I crush it in my fist, picturing his grin, the cocky tilt of his eyebrows as his voice reads the words. But before I can convince myself to chuck the paper in the trash, I flatten it out again, smoothing the wrinkles. I set it on the nightstand, perfectly aligned with the edge.

One stupid note, and he’s in my head.

I pound my fist on the top of the dresser. Not like this is the first time. Not like he’s ever really left.

I brew a pot of coffee with the cheap hotel machine because I don’t feel like seeing or talking to anyone down in the lobby. The strong smell cuts through the stubborn cologne scent that reminds me of him. Fuck, it lingers forever, clinging to everything until it’s all I can breathe.

Screw it. I take my mug to the bathroom to escape him, but the steam can’t fill the space, can’t crowd out the reminder of Cam’s little smirk and the way he walked onto the ice yesterday like he owned it. Like he owned me.

And he did. He could have made that game-winning shot but he gave it to me. Out of fucking pity. He saw through me, saw through all the things I’ve been trying to hide, what nobody else has seen. What nobody else has cared enough to look for. But Cam, my arch-enemy, did.

Every time I think I’ve got a read on Cam Foster, he shocks the shit out of me. Just like that first night we roomed together, then again last night on the bus ride back to the hotel. He gives a glimpse of his vulnerability, something I didn’t think the cocky asshole had so much as a shred of.

But we all have secrets, don’t we? Maybe Cam’s are just buried really fucking deep.

I drink my coffee while I fold the towels he left in a heap, my fingers smoothing out every crease until they’re perfect rectangles. Then I pack my gear bag. Jersey, socks, tape, everything precise, everything in its place.

It’s not OCD. It’s survival.

If everything has a place, nothing falls apart.

I learned to live that way a long time ago…

about the time when my mother decided that being the sole caregiver for her son and daughter was just too much effort and walked out on our life together.

It hadn’t been easy when my father walked out a few years earlier, but I thought she was getting better, pulling herself out of depression.

Turns out, she’d been fooling me and Tessa.

Luckily, I was old enough at that point to be Tessa’s guardian.

I suspect my mother waited until that time for just that reason.

And after she took off, it was up to me to keep things as stable as possible for my younger sister.

Jesus, she was only twelve and completely abandoned by the woman who was supposed to love her more than life.

I shove my toiletries into the bag next to my skates, biting back the memories of last night, how I ended up here in the first place.

Maybe there’s more to Cam Foster than I imagined. His cryptic questions and half-answers over the past couple of days tell me there might be more to him than meets the eye. Although, I’ve got a feeling that he doesn’t like that. Maybe that’s why he hides behind the glitz and glamour.

All of it adds up to the fact that I want to know more. I really hate admitting that. And dammit, I hate like hell that I feel a spark of something that confuses me and entices me at the same time, but I do.

I lace up my sneakers, knotting them tighter as each thought punctures my brain.

The hotel room is spotless by the time I’m done. No sign I was ever here. The only thing left is the ghost of Cam’s presence, seeping in through the cracks in my armor, knocking me off balance.

I look at his note one more time.

Try not to miss me.

There’s no try about it. I’m not missing him. But fuck my life, I crave him.

With a deep breath, I grab my bag and walk out the door to board the team bus to our waiting charter at the airfield. The only things that stay behind are a crumpled scrap of paper and the echo of his taunting voice.

The pain starts mid-flight on our way to Arizona for our game against the Scorpions.

It’s not a stab. Nothing sharp or sudden. Just a slow, spreading dull ache that slithers up from deep in the joint then settles into my shoulder like it’s taken up residence. Like it fucking owns me.

I stretch my arm out discreetly, rotating it just enough to crack something back into place without drawing attention to myself. Doesn’t help, though. It hasn’t helped in weeks, and that panics me because it means one thing. Surgery.

And if I give in to the pain, if I get the diagnosis and the corrective surgery, it might take me out of the game for good.

The loud thrum of the Raptors’ charter keeps me awake. I grip the armrests on either side of me, pissed as hell I can’t escape my thoughts with a little shut eye. Reality will be back to bite me as soon as we step off the plane, so a little reprieve would be welcome.

A quick glance around me confirms that a few of the guys are dozing.

Lucky bastards. Some are watching game footage.

Across the aisle, Carter’s got one earbud in and a half-eaten protein bar in his hand.

He stares at his iPad screen, nodding like he’s dissecting a hostage negotiation instead of a power play.

His boyfriend, Jack Larson, is asleep in the seat next to him.

Behind me, two rows back, I can feel Cam’s presence like heat on my neck. Haven’t looked yet and I won’t. But he’s there. Probably awake. And I know he saw what happened on the ice last night.

He saw the way I winced, the way I hesitated .

But he passed the puck anyway. Threw the old dog a bone. The pity fucking pass. Dammit, that scene has replayed over and over in my mind since it happened.

But the shocker was that he didn’t make a single comment about it.

I didn’t see one of his famous smirks, didn’t get scalded by a sarcastic, cocky-ass comment he’s so famous for cracking.

He didn’t say a damn thing. And somehow, that silence has been louder than anything that could have come out of his mouth.

“Hey, Grandpa,” Tate murmurs beside me, kicking my foot lightly with his own. “Need help filling out your AARP forms before we land?”

I snort. “Keep talking and I’ll lace your skates together tomorrow before the game.”

“Violence against the young and agile. Noted.”

He smirks, folds his arms behind his head, and grins like he’s in on a joke no one else is. But there’s respect underneath his words, behind all the shit-talk.

The younger guys don’t give it out easy.

They wait. They watch.

They only hand it over when you’ve bled enough to earn it.

“You having fun babysitting the rookie?” Tate says in a low voice.

“I’m doing my job as his mentor,” I say tightly. “Trying not to put him through a wall.”

“He really put Keating in his place the other night at dinner.” Tate winks, elbowing me. “I know it was past your bedtime, though, Pops.”

I look at him, brows furrowed. “How so?” I ask, ignoring his asshole comment about my bedtime.

Tate shrugs. “You know Keating is threatened by Cam. Thinks he’s gonna lose his spot to the kid, which he might because he’s been playing like shit this season.

He made a few cracks and Cam took off after him, knocked him off the pedestal he wants everyone to think he sits on.

Told him to stop tearing people down because of his own insecurities.

Or whatever. You know, Keating is all over the newbies.

He’s like the fucking hazing king. And Cam stood up for them and called his ass out. It was brilliant, bro. ”

Interesting. I’ve never known Cam to look out for anyone but himself…at least until the game yesterday. But this adds a new dimension to him. It’s another layer to peel back.

Shit. I swallow a frustrated sigh. I shouldn’t want to peel anything back.

Tate settles back against the seat and closes his eyes. “Just thought you might wanna know. He’s not a complete egotistical asshat.”

It’s not long before Tate’s breathing evens and he starts to snore a little. Now I’m definitely not sleeping.

Carter glances over from his seat across the aisle. “How’s the shoulder?”

My eyes flick to him, heart sinking into my lap.

He knows. He’s always known.

“Fine,” I lie.

“You’re full of shit.”

I shrug with the good one. “Still scored yesterday, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t smile. Just watches me for a second longer than I like.

“You push too hard, Shaw, and you’ll break. No one’s going to thank you when you do.”

Before I can respond, he turns back to his tablet. That’s Carter. Drops the truth like a grenade and walks away from the blast.

We land in Phoenix just after eight. The desert air hits my skin like dry fire.

My body temperature spikes but no sweat follows.

Weird fucking phenomenon, this dry heat.

After a short bus ride, we pile into the back entrance of the hotel in a whirlwind of chaos.

Tate argues with some of the guys about dinner spots, Keating talks loudly into his phone, the rookies, Jaren and Colby, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline from yesterday’s win.

I notice them hang with Cam as they head for the elevators, kind of looking like groupies with all that starry-eyed adoration for him even though they share the same ice.

I hang back, waiting to get my room key from Coach Enver.

Cam leaves the rookies and walks past me with his duffel slung low on one shoulder, dark blond hair curling at the ends, jaw tight.

Our eyes catch.

Just for a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me to feel the heat of it.

He breaks his gaze first.

I let out a breath. Good.

Because I don’t know what the hell he’d see if he didn’t.

Coach walks over to me and hands me a keycard. “Same setup as last time,” he says. “Things working out okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. I don’t actually want to smother him with his pillow anymore.

But I reserve that last statement.

“This is really good for camaraderie, Logan.” Coach claps a hand on my good shoulder. Thank fuck. “You’re setting an example for the team, showing them how good sportsmanship and team morale is crucial to winning championships. I’m proud of you.”

He grinds my shoulder and I force a smile, imagining the pain he’d be causing me right now if he chose the wrong shoulder.

“And it seems to be working on Cam’s side, too. Him passing you the puck yesterday when he had a clean shot. You must be rubbing off on him. Well done.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Why the fuck is it that my own coach doesn’t see what Cam and Carter do? Has he completely disregarded me at this point and written me off?

Ignoring the dinner planning, I stalk over to the elevator and stab the Up button. By the time I get upstairs, Cam’s already there. But this time, instead of my gut churning at the sight of him, my pulse high-fives the side of my throat, slamming hard, over and over.

Cam’s flopped across one of the queen beds with his hoodie pulled halfway over his face and music playing from his phone. His sketchpad is in front of him.

I head to the other bed without a word, pull off my hoodie, and start unpacking.

His voice cuts through the quiet. “I can help you tape your shoulder if you want.”

I freeze, my fingers on the zipper of my bag. After a deep breath, I glance over. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t sound smug. Doesn’t sound like he’s gloating.

That makes it so much worse.

Pity pass. Pity fucking pass!

“Don’t play medic, Foster.”

Cam pushes up onto his elbows, brows raised. “I’m not playing anything.”

“Yeah? Then what the hell would you call last night?” I turn to face him now, the ache in my arm drowned out by the burn behind my ribs. “You passed me the puck when you had a clean shot. Why?”

Cam blinks, shock seeping into his features. Seconds pass and they stretch into hours before he finally answers. And then, with maddening calm, he says, “Because it mattered more to you.”

He’s not wrong. But the truth of it impales my pride.

I tear my gaze away from him.

Terse silence falls over us for a second too long.

Then he asks, in a softer voice, “You ever think about what you’d do after the glory days are over?”

I shake my head. “No. ”

Lie.

Because sometimes, I do.

I think about what happens when the game is done with me. When I’m not useful anymore. When there’s nothing but deafening quiet, no rink, and no fanfare.

But I don’t have any idea what’d happen next. It scares the shit out of me, too.

Cam stretches, his hoodie falling off his head. “You’re a hard guy to like, you know that?”

A shudder rattles my insides. “Good.”

“But you’re harder to hate,” he mutters, “and that pisses me off more.”

I don’t respond to that because how could I? Part of me is glad he said it, but the bigger part of me wants to tell him to get the hell out now before it gets any harder. Because I don’t know how I’d handle that. If I could handle it.

I wait until he’s in the bathroom, singing again, loud and off-key, before I sink onto the edge of my bed and reach for the bottle of painkillers in my bag.

Just two. I swallow them dry. No big deal.

But as I close the cap, I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room and all I can think is…

You used to be a machine, Shaw. Now you're just a man trying not to fall apart in front of the wrong person.