Page 33 of Puck Struck
My mind is plagued by splintered memories as I weave in and out of traffic on my way to the arena. The sound of screeching tires and crushing metal. The noxious smell of burning rubber and thick smoke. The scrape of glass shards against my skin.
I suffered a shoulder injury, one that’s taunted me since the accident, one that serves as a daily reminder of what I lost, what we all lost. It torments me every day, my own karma, I guess.
How the hell can I just forget all of that and find my own happiness? Deep down, I know that’s the reason I walked away from Cam on the balcony. I don’t deserve to feel whole, and Cam doesn’t deserve to be pulled into my spiral, as Tessa calls it.
The arena is frigid. But it’s my home away from everything I keep bottled up.
Cam’s already out there on the ice, stretching near the boards, his earbuds in. He looks up when I step out, and for asecond, something shifts in his expression. But it’s gone too fast for me to read.
I nod toward him. “You ready for these drills Coach wants us to run?”
He shrugs, peeling off his warm-up jacket. “Always.”
There’s tension in his movements. They’re tight and coiled, like he didn’t sleep either. I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
We run drills for a while. Passing, shooting, defensive recovery. He’s quick. I’m clean. I can feel the eyes of coaches, players, and staff on us. Watching. Always watching.
We’re completely in sync when we’re not trying so hard to hate each other.
Coach calls a break and hurries over, clipboard in hand.
“You two,” he says, tapping his pen on the board. “Whatever’s happening between you, keep it up. Team’s tighter, faster, and more fluid. I feel positive about our direction.”
Cam arches a brow. “You saying we’re good for each other?”
Coach chuckles. “I’m saying the team hasn’t lost a game since I paired you two up for this mentorship program. Don’t screw it up. We’re so close, boys.”
He walks off. Cam turns to me, smug.
“You hear that? We’re a match made in playoff heaven.”
“Try not to let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he says, smirking. “But I’m already insufferable, so how much worse can it make me?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not a question with a good answer.”
He laughs, and it’s real. Not polished. Not practiced. For a second, it makes my chest ache.
We finish the last round of drills just as Ryan Keating saunters onto the ice, late as usual.
Cam stiffens the second he sees him.
Keating skates by, slapping Cam’s stick hard enough to make it thrum.
“Hope you’re not using that thing tomorrow. Would hate for it to splinter under pressure,” he says with a wicked grin.
Cam clenches his gloved hands around the stick, his voice low and tight. “You mess with my gear again and I’ll shove a skate blade so far up your ass, you’ll taste steel for a week.”
Ryan doesn’t flinch. He just sneers and skates off like it’s a joke. But there’s only rage in Cam’s normally laughing eyes.
After practice, I catch up to him in the locker room. “Did you catch him doing something?”
“Nah.” Cam yanks off his pads with more force than necessary. “Just Keating being Keating.”
“It didn’t sound like he was messing around.”
