Page 10 of Puck Struck
“I’ve dealt with worse,” I say in a low voice. And I have. Way worse. It taught me how to survive. Maybe he needs to learn that lesson, too.
Guys like Keating look for any advantage, any way to elevate themselves over everyone around them. I’ve seen him tear down the other two rookies on the team, Jaren and Colby, plenty just because he’s an insufferable asshole. I catch the gazes of both of them on the other end of the table and they hold up their beers and nod at me.
I make conversation with the guys, never revealing too much, always keeping things on the surface level because I don’t need anyone digging too deep into my head. I’ve buried my past, locked it up and thrown away the key, and I don’t intend to rehash it. For anyone.
It’s only when we pay the check and head out that I realize Logan never bothered to show up.
The elevator ride to my floor is a slow crawl. I swipe the key card and push open the door. Then I stop short once I’m inside.
Logan Shaw stands shirtless in the center of the room, his back turned like I don’t even exist. And he’s folding socks. For real.
I lick my lips without realizing it as my eyes track the way his muscles tense and tighten with every movement. Still, he doesn’t bother to look up or say hello.
Shitty attitude. Annnnnd, we’re back to one.
“Didn’t know you were planning to move in,” I say, dropping my bag onto the bed by the window. “Hope you don’t snore.”
He barely glances over his shoulder. “Hope you don’t breathe.”
Every cell in my body wants to scream, “Fuck you, Logan Shaw.” Instead, I smirk and unpack my gear, each piece of equipment a reminder of why I’m here. I’ve come too far to let this guy rattle me.
I’m here. I’m not small. And I’m not quiet.
Logan’s meticulous, like he’s expecting a white glove army inspection. Meanwhile, I’m spreading out like a wildcat marking its territory…phone charger, headphones, energy bars. I make a lot of noise, and I won’t be ignored. I’m loud on purpose, ripping open a protein bar and chewing with my mouth wide even though I just finished eating dinner.
I toss the wrapper toward the trash. It misses. Logan looks up, his expression twisting with disgust.
“You done?” he asks, annoyance creeping into his voice.
“Just getting started, actually,” I say, tearing into another bar. I fucking love how it needles him.
I stare at him for a long minute. I don’t know if he realizes it or not but he doesn’t acknowledge me at all. My mind flashes back to my past, a childhood with a father who said he’d rather have a daughter if I couldn’t play hockey like a man. Every insult was an incentive for me to be the best, and I fought tooth and nail for every fucking thing I’ve earned, despite it going against what my dickhead father wanted. Maybe that’s why I like poking the bear, because said bear is the son my old man wanted me to be. Reliable. Respected. Resentfullynot me.
I prop my feet on the end of the bed, hands behind my head like I own the place. Logan keeps folding, ignoring me, ignoring us.
It feels like home.
I grab my sketchpad and begin to draw. It’s something I do to get me through the restless nights when my mind is stuck in overdrive, which unfortunately, happens pretty darn often.
Quick lines shoot out of my hand and pretty soon I’m looking down at a dinosaur wearing oversized skates and a helmet way too small for him. It doesn’t make sense but that’s okay. It’s safe, a ritual from my past when I’d draw silly pictures like these to get my mind off of the horrors of my childhood.
Logan shifts, glancing at me. I catch his movement out of the corner of my eye but don’t look up. Can’t tell if he’s watching out of curiosity or irritation, but it’s attention and that’s enough to spur me on. The only sound in the room is the scratching of my pen until his voice cuts through the stillness.
“You gonna draw all night?”
“Thought you were asleep,” I say, my voice light.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. “I can’t sleep with the lights on, Van Gogh. So if you could finish soon, I’d appreciate it.”
I toss the sketchpad on the nightstand and get up, stretching out the knots in my muscles. I’m aware of his eyes on me, the curiosity, the challenge, so I make a big show of pulling off my T-shirt and shorts and tossing them on the floor, deliberately taking my time. It’s over the top. It’s juvenile. And it’s going to get under his skin.
“Taking a shower,” I announce. “Try not to miss me.”
“The fucking light,” he says, but there’s an edge in his voice that makes me grin.
I flip the switch off, walk into the bathroom, and closethe door. I rake a hand through my hair and settle my hands against the sides of the sink.
“Nobody can take this away from you,” I whisper to my reflection. “Nobody can touch you. You’re safe.”
