Page 23 of Puck Struck
He finally takes pity and steps in. “Here, lemme help you with that.”
I roll my eyes, but thank fuck. Tuxes and I go together like oil and water, and all I can think about is how much more comfortable I’d be in my gear, away from the cameras and prying eyes. The sinister messages I’ve gotten prove that someone is watching, and for once in my career, I really don’t want to be in the spotlight.
My reflection stares back at me when he’s finished, a tightly wound bundle of nerves wrapped up in a fancy and now correctly knotted bowtie. I fidget with the stiff collar of my tuxedo, trying not to let the night ahead of me fuck with my head.
We beat the Scorpions in a shootout, and instead ofenjoying a hot shower and a burger, I’m dressed in a penguin suit.
Some genius in NHL PR decided theYouth in Action Gala, the league’s big traveling charity event, should land smack in the middle of our road trip. Supposedly, it raises millions for youth hockey initiatives in underserved areas in the western United States. Great cause, bad timing.
I don’t know if the league scheduled this to make us look good or to see who’d crack first, but I’ve got my bowtie on straight and my game face locked in. Smile wide. Eyes sharp. Hair styled just messy enough to scream effortless.
No one can tell I’m unraveling on the inside.
Not even me, if I fake it hard enough.
I adjust the tie as I walk into the hallway of the venue with Tate, trying to ignore the feeling that this is the calm before the storm…the messages, the pressure, the fucking charade I’ve been living.
Logan walks toward us with Masterson, Carter, and Larson, then pauses when his gaze tangles with mine. For a moment, he just stands there, staring while the other guys head into the ballroom.
He looks dark and sleek in his tux and my knees wobble the tiniest bit. The look in his piercing eyes when he sees me is almost worth the night of worrying. Surprise flickers across his face, quickly replaced by something else, something borderline carnal, something that makes the air shift and pulse around us.
But I still can’t read him, his eyes are still too damn guarded, and uncertainty knots tighter in my gut. “If you’re going to undress me with your eyes, at least buy me a drink first.” The words come out more breathless than I mean them to.
Logan’s eyes rake over me, and I hate how much I like it.How much it burns my blood. “Try not to trip over your ego tonight, kid. You don’t want to crack that pretty face on the ground.” He holds the door of the ballroom open, like we’re something we’re not, like this is anything but what it is. “Ready?”
I don’t answer, just move past him, trying to look nonchalant, praying it’s enough to hide how rattled I am, how rattled he makes me. This is all a game, a performance, and no one plays it better than me.
But Logan makes me forget the rules, and that’s the dangerous part.
The gala is everything I expect it to be. Loud. Crowded. Fake. Photographers snap pictures as we walk in, the flashes blinding. I plaster on a smile, falling into old habits, but I can’t pretend my heart’s not racing.
We’re photographed together, arms nearly touching. I do all the talking, making nice with sponsors and the press, my practiced charm barely concealing the anxiety bubbling up right beneath it. Logan says nothing, but his presence is like gravity, pulling everyone in. Especially me.
Logan's hand hovers near my back. He doesn’t touch me, but I feel him there. His fingers brushing the air, the space between us like a live wire. He’s too close and too far away at the same time.
“Cameron Foster,” one of the sponsors, an older man with a booming voice, greets me. “The rising star himself. And Logan Shaw. The legend who’s just as fierce off the ice, I see.”
I laugh, hiding how much the word fierce gets to me. “Fierce as ever,” I say, avoiding Logan's eyes.
The amount of money in this room is staggering. It’s luxe and opulent with crystal chandeliers, floors draped in velvet carpet, and billionaires by the dozen in loafers that cost morethan my car. Smooth jazz music floats through the air and highball glasses clink.
“You seriously own cufflinks?” Jaren asks once he reappears with a drink, tipping his glass toward my wrist.
“They’re borrowed,” I smirk. “From the last guy who told me I didn’t belong here.”
Colby chuckles. “Dude, you always talk like you're being followed by a camera crew,” he says.
“Iam.In my mind,” I grin. “Music, lighting, full production budget.”
“You’re an imp,” Tate says, shaking his head. “You know that, right?”
“You only say that because I’m prettier than you.” I give an exaggerated wink and the guys laugh while Logan just watches me. I don’t even need to turn my head to feel the weight of his stare scorching my flesh. It bores a hole into my goddamn soul.
Tate grins. “You’re lucky you’re fast on the ice, or I’d tackle your ass just for that line.”
“Jealousy’s a disease,” I say, tossing back a sip of club soda from a glass I grab off a passing tray. “And I hope you both get well soon.”
Even Logan cracks a smile at that. “Smartass,” he mutters under his breath. Then Carter pulls him over to the bar for an introduction, and my heart immediately sinks into my fancy ass rented shoes.
