Page 13 of Puck Struck
Cam frowns. “I was just?—”
“You were just listening to a private conversation that wasn’t meant for you.”
Something in Cam shifts. His expression tightens.
“I didn’t ask for details. I just said it sounded like you cared. For a few seconds, it was nice to believe you’re not a complete dickhead to everyone on the planet.”
The silence between us turns razor sharp and is damn close to slicing deep into places where he should not be digging.
Cam swings his legs out of bed and grabs his hoodie from the floor. “God forbid anyone sees a human under all that steel plating.”
I swallow hard, not answering. Mainly because I don’t know how. It’s way too much to unpack and I don’t want a shoulder to cry on or a fucking hug. I just want Ethan to be healthy. I’ll do anything to make it so. I made that promise years ago and I intend to keep it, however I can.
Cam scoffs, rolls his eyes, and disappears into the bathroom. I sink back down on my bed, my shoulder screaming, the silence screaming louder.
Scrubbing a hand down the front of my face, I let out a shuddering sigh. I could have handled that better. I should’ve let the comment go. Cam didn’t mean any harm by it.
I clutch the edge of the comforter in my fist. But letting people close is how you lose the things that matter.
And Christ, I’ve lost too much already.
An hour later, we’re in the arena and on the ice for our morning practice skate. I clench my fingers tight around my stick, glaring at Cam as he tears up the ice.
It’s like trying to outskate a fucking hurricane. He’s impossible to keep up with, even at my best. And my shoulder feels like someone poured lighter fluid on it and flicked a match. He slams past me during a drill, too subtle to call out, but there. Definitely there.
Cocky bastard.
But he’s pissed, too. I shut him down hard in the room and he’s giving it back to me in spades…and with a fucking smile on his face to boot.
My blades carve into the ice, shooting me down the rink, but each move pulls sharp pain down my arm. I watch Camthrough the burn, skating fast and hot like he owns the place. The rest of the team falls into line behind him like I’m not even there. They’re eating it up, his speed and bravado, his ability to make it look like hockey’s a game and not the life-or-death struggle that it is. Especially when the rookie's doing everything he can to knock me off my throne.
That part he does with brutal efficiency.
My teeth clench around the mouth guard as Cam circles back and shoots me a smirk before kicking into gear again. He wants a response. Wants to get in my head.
And I make the mistake of giving it to him.
“Need to be the center of attention that badly?” My voice slices through the rink, sharp enough that a few guys glance over. I catch Carter shaking his head like I’m some moody teenager and not the longest-serving player on this damn team.
Cam pulls up next to me, grin plastered wide across his face. “Not trying to be the center,” he says, all breathless ease. “I just don’t disappear.”
The words stab harder than I want to admit. My jaw locks up. My stick cracks against the ice. He’s too close, too confident, making me feel every bit of my fucking age.
And a whole host of other things I don’t want to admit.
I hate that I give him the satisfaction of going cold, locking him out with an icy glare.
Cam shrugs it off like it’s a game, tossing a wink as he glides past, and I should let it go. But the tension in my shoulder and the smug set of his mouth make that impossible.
He’s clearly trying to get me back for what happened between us earlier. And the fact that he doesn’t get angry, that he just keeps getting more and more in my face, aggravates the fuck out of me.
On the bench, Tate leans over, padding his goalie glovesagainst his thighs. “So,” he says with a wide grin, “are you two gonna kiss or kill each other?”
I want to slam my stick against the wall. Instead, I grip it until my knuckles turn white. “Real funny,” I mutter, wondering if he knows how close to the truth he is.
But Cam’s already halfway across the ice, slanting a glance at me over his shoulder. He lifts a hand in an obnoxious wave that makes my blood boil. It’s not a threat. That’s the worst part. He doesn’t think I’m worth worrying about. Just a washed-up obstacle in his shiny, new way.
I force myself not to react, but inside, everything's coming apart. He’s gotten to me, and I know it. The last thing I want is to give the rest of the team more ammo. To give him more ammo.
