Page 21 of Puck Struck
Shit. I swallow a frustrated sigh. I shouldn’t want to peel anything back.
Tate settles back against the seat and closes his eyes. “Just thought you might wanna know. He’s not acompleteegotistical asshat.”
It’s not long before Tate’s breathing evens and he starts to snore a little. Now I’m definitely not sleeping.
Carter glances over from his seat across the aisle. “How’s the shoulder?”
My eyes flick to him, heart sinking into my lap.
He knows. He’s always known.
“Fine,” I lie.
“You’re full of shit.”
I shrug with the good one. “Still scored yesterday, didn’t I?”
He doesn’t smile. Just watches me for a second longer than I like.
“You push too hard, Shaw, and you’ll break. No one’s going to thank you when you do.”
Before I can respond, he turns back to his tablet. That’s Carter. Drops the truth like a grenade and walks away from the blast.
We land in Phoenix just after eight. The desert air hits my skin like dry fire. My body temperature spikes but no sweat follows. Weird fucking phenomenon, this dry heat. After a short bus ride, we pile into the back entrance of the hotel in a whirlwind of chaos. Tate argues with some of the guys about dinner spots, Keating talks loudly into his phone, the rookies, Jaren and Colby, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline from yesterday’s win. I notice them hang with Cam as they head for the elevators, kind of looking like groupies with all thatstarry-eyed adoration for him even though they share the same ice.
I hang back, waiting to get my room key from Coach Enver.
Cam leaves the rookies and walks past me with his duffel slung low on one shoulder, dark blond hair curling at the ends, jaw tight.
Our eyes catch.
Just for a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me to feel the heat of it.
He breaks his gaze first.
I let out a breath. Good.
Because I don’t know what the hell he’d see if he didn’t.
Coach walks over to me and hands me a keycard. “Same setup as last time,” he says. “Things working out okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. I don’t actually want to smother him with his pillow anymore.
But I reserve that last statement.
“This is really good for camaraderie, Logan.” Coach claps a hand on my good shoulder. Thank fuck. “You’re setting an example for the team, showing them how good sportsmanship and team morale is crucial to winning championships. I’m proud of you.”
He grinds my shoulder and I force a smile, imagining the pain he’d be causing me right now if he chose the wrong shoulder.
“And it seems to be working on Cam’s side, too. Him passing you the puck yesterday when he had a clean shot. You must be rubbing off on him. Well done.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Why the fuck is it that my own coach doesn’t see what Cam and Carter do? Has he completely disregarded me at this point and written me off?
Ignoring the dinner planning, I stalk over to the elevator and stab the Up button. By the time I get upstairs, Cam’salready there. But this time, instead of my gut churning at the sight of him, my pulse high-fives the side of my throat, slamming hard, over and over.
Cam’s flopped across one of the queen beds with his hoodie pulled halfway over his face and music playing from his phone. His sketchpad is in front of him.
I head to the other bed without a word, pull off my hoodie, and start unpacking.
