Page 14 of Puck Struck
But the burn in my shoulder is nothing compared to the one in my pride. I know it, and the little shit knows it, too.
I head back onto the ice, my focus scattered like the ice chips flying off Cam’s skates. It should be easier. It should be automatic. Instead, I’m messing up drills I could do in my sleep. Drills I used to own.
“Great effort, Shaw,” Cam calls out as I trip over my feet. “Keep it up, and I might not show you up at the game again.” His voice is clear over the scrape of skates and the thud of pucks against glass.
Damn him.
His laugh follows me like a bad dream, one I can’t wake up from. I fight to stay professional, to put up the walls that used to protect me. To keep it from hurting, from sticking. But it’s all getting through, all clawing under my skin.
And the war rages in my mind.
I want him.
I want to kill him.
But I want him…
I finally drop onto the bench, stripping off my helmet. I need to get a grip before I lose it for real. Before this cocky rookie plants himself so firmly in my brain that I can’t see past him anymore.
Before we hit the locker room, he skates over, that same aggravating confidence radiating off him. “Hey, Shaw,” he says, way too smug. “Thought you were gonna keep me on my toes, but I didn’t even have to try.”
My grip tightens around the stick, stomach twisting itself into knots. “Fuck off,” I spit out, not giving him the satisfaction of anything else.
He doesn’t listen. Of course, he doesn’t. He flashes a grin that somehow amps up the heat I’m trying not to feel. It’s a wonder the ice around us doesn’t melt. “Keep it up,” he calls, backing away. “It’s cute how hard you’re trying.”
And that’s it. That’s the final straw.
I watch him walk off, casually cocky, so self-assured it twists my insides. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth, from refusing to let out everything boiling my blood. If I give in, I’ll lose more than my spot. More than my pride. I’ll lose every piece of myself that I have left.
And dammit, if he doesn’t make me want to anyway.
The locker room’s nearly empty by the time I stagger back. Almost as empty as the gnawing pit in my chest. Almost as quiet as the sound of my damn shoulder finally shutting the hell up. The burn from everything else? That’s another story.
Most of the guys have taken one of the buses back to the hotel by now. The place is silent except for the hum of the air vents and the echo of my toxic thoughts, relentless as a bad pop song stuck on repeat. Every second with Cam is tattooed on my brain. The heat in his words. The knowing looks that lit me up more than I want to admit.
And then there’s the truth that I can’t avoid. He knows howto get under my skin, because I’m letting him. Nothing fazes him, not even me telling him to mind his own fucking business. It’s like he’s immune to my hostility, like he feeds off of it, for Christ’s sake.
I pull my bag out of the locker and drop it on the bench with a thud. My shoulder’s gone from blistering to numb, but the rest of me is still reeling, adrenaline and frustration twisting through my veins. I need to get a grip. I need to hold onto something that doesn’t look and sound and feel likehim.
Like I conjured him up from the fiery haze in my head, Cam comes striding in from the showers, wearing nothing but a towel and a grin. Nothing weighs him down. Not like the tsunami of his words still tearing me up inside because I’m caught hard between anger and desire.
“Waiting for me?”
I turn my back, throwing my gear into the locker with more force than necessary. I can’t take any more of this shit. Not today, not when everything’s so close to unraveling. Not when he’s making me want things I swore I’d never want again.
It should be over by now. It should be the end of him, of us, of this fucking day that’s barely just begun. But Cam’s like a damn dog with a bone, except it’s my sanity he’s chewing on.
He walks past, purposefully close, and the edge of his towel drops next to me. It’s too close. Too calculated. The kind of move that would be all fun and games if I wasn’t so raw, if he wasn’t so wrecking-ball ready to destroy me.
He leans down to grab it, slow and deliberate, and I force myself not to flinch, not to react. It’s a wonder I don’t crack and shatter like glass, holding this still, this tight.
His voice is a low rumble, meant only for me. “Still think I’m just some punk rookie?”
I force out a laugh, bitter and jagged. “I think you wantattention. You just don’t care who bleeds to get it.” My own words cut me as I say them.
He flinches. Actually flinches, and I see something dent that smooth, self-assured surface.
“You say I don’t know anything about you, but you don’t know a damn thing about me, either.” His voice isn’t soft, but it’s not the loud, obnoxious one I’m used to. It’s worse, because I believe it.
