Page 2 of Puck Struck
The Renegades scramble for the puck, ready to counter. Ready to take the win.
And then?—
Cam fucking Foster shows up to save the fucking game.
Golden boy. Twenty-two-year-old rookie phenom. Little shit with too much talent and not enough patience.
He darts into the chaos, scoops the loose puck, dangles once…twice…before popping the goddamn thing top shelf.
The shot is clean. Effortless perfection. Like he wasbornwith a goddamn hockey stick in his hand and a puck in his mouth.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The Raptors win and the crowd explodes.
But once again, it’s not my name they’re screaming.
Cam slams into the glass, his arms shooting up into a victory sign, grinning like he just won the goddamn Stanley Cup. The Raptors rush at him. Everyone is cheering and smiling, basking in the win he just snagged for us.
Nobody looks at me.
I’m still standing at the top of the crease, stick lowered, lungs burning, shoulder scorching. Panic sets in as I watch the kid soak up the glory that should’ve been mine.
Because without that goal, my value to the team shrinksjust a little bit more. A few more games like this and it’ll shrivel up like a dick hitting cold water. I’m already in danger of losing endorsement deals because all the companies want fresh-faced kids pimping their products, not old-ass centers who are way past their prime.
And without hockey, I don’t know who the hell I’d even be. It’s all I know, what I’ve known for the past fourteen years being in the NHL, and now more than ever, I need it. My family needs it. And dammit, I’m not ready to let it go.
Coach claps Cam on the helmet as he skates back to the bench. I hang back, turned slightly away so I don’t have to see that perpetual gloating expression that makes me want to pummel his ass into the ice.
“Tough break out there, Shaw,” Coach Enver says, clasping my bad shoulder.
I swallow a wince. “Yeah.”
He levels me with a stare that says everything that his mouth doesn’t need to. Blood rushes between my ears. I need to get the fuck out of here, away from the silent threat hanging in the air between us before it wraps tight around my neck and pulls.
I turn away and Cam catches my eye.
For half a second, something flickers there. Could be triumph or pity. I can’t tell. And it doesn’t matter anyway.
I tear my gaze away first.
Because whatever it was? It tasted like defeat. My goddamn stomach is roiling from it, and I’ve swallowed enough of that shit this season already.
Cam Foster is the Raptors’ hero.
And me?
I realize for the first time in my career, I’m the one being left behind.
I hang back after all the guys head back to the locker room,the sound of the cheers still reverberating between my temples.
“Cam! Cam! Cam!”
I clutch the sides of my head and swallow hard as I duck around a column to get away from the press. My jersey clings to my sweat-slicked skin, my insides plunged into a deep freeze as I sink to my knees and drop my head into my hand.
Ethan looks up to me. And Tessa needs my help.
I can’t let them down. I have to find a way to pull myself out of this damn rut, have to find a way to compete with these younger guys. I’m Logan fucking Shaw, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got two championship rings and a hell of a career record.
Rubbing a hand over my shoulder, I realize that all of my success is hanging by a thread.
