Page 118 of Puck Struck
"Dr. Raja can see you tomorrow morning. We'll do additional imaging, assess the risks, and make a final determination." She closes the file folder. "Logan, I know this isn't what you want to hear, but we have to consider every variable for everyone’s safety."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. And again.
"I'm sorry," I mutter, pulling it out. "Let me just..."
The screen is filled with notifications. Incoming news alerts, missed calls, text messages. The first headline makes my stomach drop into my Nikes.
NHL Rookie Stabbed in Team Facility Parking Garage
What the?—?
My hand trembles as I click on the article. There's a photo of an ambulance, police cars, the Oakland Raptors practice facility in the background. And then I see the name.
Cameron Foster.
"Logan?" Dr. Patel's voice sounds far away, an echo that barely registers. "What's wrong?"
My pulse pounds, jumping into my throat, choking me. I can't speak. Can't breathe. The words on the screen blur together, swimming as I try to process what I'm reading.
Oakland Raptors rookie Cameron Foster was rushed to Oakland General Hospital after being stabbed multiple times in the team facility parking garage this morning. Foster, 22, was reportedly attacked by an unidentified assailant who was subdued byteammate Ryan Keating until security arrived. Foster's condition is listed as critical...
Critical.
My phone rings. Mike's name flashes on the screen.
"Logan." The urgency in Mike's voice causes another rush of panic to crash over me. "Jesus Christ, are you seeing this?"
"I'm reading it now," I croak out, my eyes glued to the news article, silently willing it to rewrite itself and confirm that Cam is safe. "Mike, what the hell happened?"
"My contact at Oakland PD filled me in. The attacker is James Harmon.”
"Fuck, I thought we handled that." I scrape a hand down the front of my face.
"Apparently not. The guy went completely off the rails. He apparently ambushed Foster in the parking garage with a fucking knife." Mike's voice is tight. "Logan, it's bad. Really bad. They're saying significant blood loss, possible internal bleeding. He’s in surgery now."
The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. I lean forward with my head in my hands, bile rising in the back of my throat.
"Logan." Dr. Patel shoves her chair back and springs up, around her desk in seconds with a hand on my back. "What's happening?"
"I have to go," I say, standing up too fast. I grab onto the desk for a second. The room spins, but I force myself to stay upright. "My…I just…I have to get to the hospital."
"It looks like you’re in shock. You shouldn't drive."
"I'm fine." But I'm not fine. I'm the furthest thing from fucking fine. Cam is in surgery, fighting for his life, and the last thing I said to him was that he was a complication I couldn't handle.
I somehow make it out of the office andinto my truck, my hand shaking as I start the engine. Seconds stretch into hours. My head spins with what-if scenarios that make my blood ice in my veins during the ride to the hospital. I park my truck in front of the Emergency Room entrance and run inside.
The place is pure chaos. Reporters gather in hordes, cameras and microphones ready to capture every moment of this disaster. I keep my head down and push through the revolving glass doors. I run to the information desk, breathless, my temples throbbing.
"I need to know about Cameron Foster," I rasp at the nurse. "He was brought in this morning."
"Are you family?"
"I'm..." I stop. What am I to Cam? His mentor? His teammate? The asshole who broke his heart? "I'm Logan Shaw. I'm with the Oakland Raptors."
She lifts an eyebrow and types something into her computer. "He's in surgery. That's all I can tell you right now."
"How long has he been in surgery?"
