Page 3 of Puck Struck
Nobody knows the truth.
And nobody ever will.
A loud clacking sound on the floor jerks me from my pity party for one.
I slowly look up, rage melting the ice in my veins at the sight of Cam Foster’s cocky smirk. His big blue eyes crinkle in the corners and I have the sudden urge to gouge them out with my fingers.
“Hey, good game tonight. Next time, just pass me the puck instead of trying to be the hero, Captain Crunch.”
Then the little bastard has the nerve to wink at me before he walks away.
I clench my fingers into a tight fist, imagining how I’d shatter that perfectly chiseled jaw.
God, I fucking hate that kid. So much.
But even I know he only said what everyone else was thinking.
That my shelf life is damn close to expiration.
Then it’s out with the old…and in with Cam Foster.
TWO
cam
Winning should feel betterthan this.
And yet…
My mind trips back to Logan sitting hunched over on the floor a few minutes ago, his pained expression, the defeat in his deep-set eyes.
I don’t know what burns worse…the taste of victory or the sharp, sour twist of guilt that follows.
I won.
I stole the shot, stole the game, stole the goddamn night.
And part of me wants to chase Logan down and give it back.
Maybe I was just lashing out for all of the times since I joined the team that he’s completely disregarded me. I’ve had more than enough of that in my life and I don’t deserve that shit, least of all from that geriatric hockey player.
Or maybe it’s because he’s exposing my deepest fear…that I really don’t belong here and if I don’t keep smiling for the cameras, someone’s going to pull the rug out from under me and I’ll spiral back into my past life.
“Here comes the rookie golden boy now,” Tate, our goalie, calls out to me as he strips out of his uniform.
I walk inside the locker room and take a deep breath. If it’s bright and shiny enough, nobody will be able to see what lies beneath. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself. “You called?”
"Jesus, Foster, you cocky little shit. Save some miracles for the playoffs, huh?"
I flash the kind of grin they all expect, the too-big, too-damn-proud one. Then I let myself soak in the moment.
This is what I worked for.
This is why I never quit.
This is survival.
Victory buzzes like static in the air in the form of shouts, jokes, the slap of towels and the clang of helmets hitting the bench.
