Page 17 of Puck Struck
My blades cut through the ice, one assist already under my belt, my lungs burning in as I charge forward. The Raptors are up 3–2, but the Wildcats are swarming, the relentless fuckers.
And Logan?
Logan’s running on fumes.
I try to avoid looking at him, but dammit, fighting the pull is almost impossible. I should despise the fucking grouch but like me, there are deeper layers to him. Layers I still want to peel back, even though he’s exposed himself as more of a threat to me than anything else.
The tight way Logan’s holding his stick, favoring his left side. The fraction of a second delay in his pivots. Tiny bits of time, but in this league,those minute delays can be deadly.
He’s hurting. That much is obvious. And no one’s saying a thing.
But I can’t focus on him. We have a game to win.
The puck rattles off the boards. Jaren knocks it free, then I snap it up mid-stride and rocket toward the offensive zone. Logan shadows me and I feel his presence before I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He’s gritty and efficient in his movements, but just a half-step slower than usual.
I fire a shot low, but it rebounds. A scramble in front of the net follows.
Logan crashes the crease then jabs at the loose puck. He flinches, and the second defender buries him into the post.
A collective gasp works its way through the crowd.
I turn back, skating hard.
Get the fuck up, Shaw.
He does, slowly. His jaw is tight, his eyes unreadable. The guy could be bleeding out and still play.
But I see it.
The shake in his left glove when he regrips his stick.
The grimace he tries to mask with a snarl.
Am I seriously the only one watching right now?
With two minutes left on the clock, Colorado pulls their goalie to add another player to the ice.
There’s an empty net calling out to me.
The Wildcats barrel toward us. Blue jerseys swarm the fucking ice in an attempt to tie the score. Carter blocks a shot with his shin, Colby loses his stick. I intercept a pass and bolt for center ice, ready to take the win?—
And for some reason, I pick that second to glance over my shoulder.
Logan’s open, barely inside the zone.
He wants it. He needs this one.
I thread the puck to him. Logan takes it, grinds through the pain, and snaps a wrist shot from the blue line.
The horn blares, the goal light flashing red.
The Raptors bench explodes. The guys go nuts.
But I don’t join them. I don’t cheer. Neither does Logan.
I watch him skate back to the bench with that same dead-calm face, teeth gritted like he just won a war no one else saw.
He’s breaking himself to stay in the game, and no one’s stopping him.
