Page 37 of Puck Struck
Logan’s stare weighs heavy on me.
I feel the burn of his questions. They singe my soul from across the bar.
The moderator saves me, moving on to the next question. But my hands are clammy. My heart beats hard in my chest.
I wipe my hands on the front of my jeans and excuse myself the second the friendly interrogation is over. Then I slip out the back door into the alley, sucking in the cool night air.
But I’m not alone for long.
Logan steps out a few minutes later, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“So what?”
He walks closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to invade my airspace.
“You’ve been jumpy since practice. Since that whole thing with Keating.”
“You think this is about him?”
“I think it’s about something,” he says, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Something bigger, maybe.”
I look away. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“Itdoesn’t worry me. You do.”
My hands ball into tight fists. “Why do you care so much?”
He doesn’t blink. “Because I can see the cracks. And I’ve been where you are.”
“You’ve never been where I am.” I swallow hard and pacein front of the door, the heels of my Air Jordans digging into the uneven blacktop.
“Then tell me where you are.”
I open my mouth, but I can’t let the words out. I can’t tell him about Connor. About the cheap hotel rooms, the suits, the loneliness, the desperation. About what I did to survive. About how none of it was enough to make me feel whole.
So instead, I deflect.
“You almost kissed me,” I say.
“I remember. We established this.”
“And you walked away.”
His jaw tightens. “You said you’d let me kiss you. Not that I should.”
I nod, swallowing the growing lump in my throat. “Good. Because right now? You really shouldn’t.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out and my heart stutters to a screeching stop.
Another fucking message.
