Page 11 of Puck Struck
My heart thrums in my chest and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Safe. Safe.Safe.
I twist the shower handle. Pretty soon, steam pours out of the glass enclosure, fogging up the large mirror. I take in a deep breath as I step under the hot spray. I wash my hair once, then twice, because I can and because I worked my ass off for the opportunity to do it after not having hot water for so long. For a few fleeting minutes, I let myself sink into the illusion that nothing outside this room matters.
I’ve convinced myself for the past few years that I can hide forever. But it doesn’t stop me from worrying about when the other shoe will drop.
Because for as protected as I am, I know that life has a nasty way of rearing its ugly head. And I have to be prepared.
“You conditioning or filming a hair commercial in there?” Logan’s voice booms, followed by a thud against the door.
It jolts me from my thoughts. I shut off the water and wrap a towel low around my waist, ready to face him by pasting on my most infuriating grin. When I open the door, steam billows out like we’re caught in some kind of theatrical production.
“If you wanted to see me all wet and soaped up, you could have just walked in.”
Logan’s face floods a deep red color but his jaw tightens. “Don’t flatter yourself. I needed a tissue.”
“Aw, that’s cute. Do you usually nut into a tissue when you’re rooming with teammates?”
His eyes narrow and I can almost smell the smoke pouring out of his ears.
And this is why he’s definitely going to smother me in my sleep.
He pushes past me, grabs a tissue, and makes a big show of blowing his nose. When he shoves me the second time, my skin tingles at his touch. I watch as he gets into bed and smashes his pillow with his fists, no doubt imagining that it’s my head.
I pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, leaving my hair damp and messy. It’s calculated chaos, like the rest of me. Logan’s restless movements tell me he’s not as cool as he wants to be. I take that as a win.
I flop back onto my bed, one earbud in, letting the music lull me into something that looks like relaxation. It’s weird. Quiet. Almost peaceful.
Out of nowhere, I ask, “You ever think about what you’d be doing if it wasn’t hockey?”
He takes a moment, long enough that I wonder if he’ll answer. “No,” he finally says. “You?”
“Pop star for sure.” The lie slips out easily. But it’s a connection, and a civil one at that. Not that he responds.
The hours slip by in the dark, the memories of where I’ve been creeping in to remind me that the past is never as far away as you want it to be.
Logan stirs, mumbling something I can’t quite make out, and I wonder, for just a moment, what it would be like to know. To know him and what he dreams about.
But dreams don’t come easy. And they’re not always happy.
Not for guys like me.
Just when the silence starts to feel bearable, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I grab it and see a direct message notification from Instagram that lightsup the screen.
Still playing pretend, Connor?
My stomach drops, the name like a sledgehammer to my chest.
No, please, no…
FIVE
logan
I openmy 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.
