Page 29 of Puck Struck
I’m not sure I know how to stop it. Not sure if I even want to try.
And that is most definitelynotpart of my plan.
TEN
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Practice is supposedto be sharp, clean, and fast-paced. But today, I feel like something’s off before I even hear the first whistle. Like there’s an ominous cloud hanging out over my head, hovering close, taunting me.
Coach Enver stands at the blue line, stopwatch in hand, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.
“Line one on the ice. Zone entry with speed. Move that puck,” Coach bellows.
I glance around as Larson and Tate finish their drill and skate off to the side. Coach points at me, Keating, and Colby. “Foster, Keating, Colby, nextrush. Let’s go!”
Great. Keating. My gut twists at the sound of his name. He’s been a pain in my ass since day one, showing up in my path more than anyone else. I’ve managed to avoid him since we got back from Arizona, but he’s still pissed at me for the comments I shot at him during the gala. Keating likes to have the upper hand, always. He knows he’s nothing without that pedestal, and he doesn’t appreciate that it’s always me kicking him off of it.
We line up at center ice. Coach’s whistle shatters my eardrums. I explode forward, flexing my quads with each slash of the ice, feeling every muscle fiber scream. The puck’s on my stick. I drive through the neutral zone, watching Colby dart toward the far slot. I feed him a clean pass, then loop wide, ready for the give-and-go. My blade channels the cold smoothness of the ice and it feels good. I let out a breath.
Colby snaps the puck back across the ice to me. I catch it on the heel of my stick. I shift left and load a backhand shot. Then everything goes wrong. My stick buckles under the shot, the blade giving way with a sharp crack. The puck skitters on the ice and goes wide. I stumble and crash into the boards so hard the glass rattles. So does my brain.
The whistle sounds. Coach calls a time out on the drill and skates over. Carter grabs my stick. Logan is already there, skates kicking up snow as he closes the gap between us.
“You’re off your game today,” he mutters.
“You watching me that close?”
“I watch everyone.”
I smirk. “That’s funny. Because I only ever catch your eyes on me.”
He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t deny it, either. And the tingles dancing over my sweat-pebbled skin know it’s the truth.
I pick up the stick, fingers tracing over the precise split down the blade’s center. It’s not a jagged tear from normal wear. It’s a clean cut, too neat, too even to have happened by freak accident.
“I taped this up myself earlier,” I say to him, my voice low.
Coach’s brow furrows as he approaches. “What the hell happened, Foster?”
I shrug, not about to play into my suspicions. Yet. “Stick failure. It’s done.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Pick out another one and get back in line. Move!”
I skate back to the bench, hands shaking as I grab my taped-up backup from the rack. Logan trails behind. “Let me see it,” he says.
I hold out the broken blade. He tilts his head, frowning. “That’s not normal.”
“I know.” My jaw clenches. “Someone messed with it.”
He eyes me. There’s something in his gaze. Is it worry? Loyalty? But he doesn’t say anything before heading back out to the ice. My heart flipped at his concern and then took a nosedive at his avoidance.
Pretty typical for my interactions with him.
I take position again on the ice. Coach blows the whistle, and we’re off. Our line darts forward, practicing crisp breakouts. I chip the puck to Keating, who rim-breaks it behind the net and dishes to Colby at the point. I swoop in and slam the puck low off the boards then crash hard to the side of the net, my eyes on the rebound.
Looking up, I catch Logan watching. Again. His lips twitch like he wants to say something, but Coach yells, “Forecheck, boys!” and we’re back on the boards, battling in tight cycles. The resin smell of the ice stings my nostrils. Sweat drizzles down my spine as I pivot and shield the puck from Keating, whose elbows flare out just enough to let me know he’s out for blood.
“Eyes up, Foster,” Coach yells from the bench.
