Page 4 of Puck Struck
Tate's holding court for the team and the press, doing a reenactment of my play.
“And then Foster, this arrogant bastard, he just snatches it outta nowhere, right?" he says, spinning around and fake-sniping a glove into the laundry bin.
Laughter explodes around me.
I roll my eyes, smirking. "See, you guys just needed some fresh young blood to resurrect your record from the grave.”
Another round of howls follows.
Someone shoves a beer into my hand.
I raise it like a king accepting a crown.
The perfect golden boy moment.
And then I catch Carter Van Kleef watching me from across the room, that captain's heavy gaze taking in more than I'm ready to show.
He’s not laughing.
Not smiling.
Just...watching.
I slam the beer back harder than necessary, the foam stinging my throat.
Fake it.
Own it.
Laugh louder than the part of you that wants to apologize for being such a dick.
The guys snicker, clapping me on the back as the throng of press vultures invades the locker room. They surround me, microphones are stuck in my face, questions peppering me from all sides.
“Cam, how does it feel to be the top contender for rookie of the year?” one guy asks.
“Topcontender?” I ask, stroking my chin. “Wait, don’t you meanonly?”
“Hey, hey,” Ryan Keating yells out from across the room, slamming his fist on his locker. “Be careful or your ego won’t be able to fit into your helmet, brah.” He follows up the comment with a sharp laugh, but he’s clearly anything but amused.
My eyes narrow slightly at him. “I’d be more worried about your shots than mine,brah. We play the same position, yeah?” I give him an exaggerated wink and that brings on more jeers from the peanut gallery. Not from everyone, though.
Carter furrows his brow at me, his disapproval damn evident.
It takes a second for me to shrug it off and flash a smile at another young woman with a microphone. “Seriously, though, it was a team effort.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Team effort? Really, is that how you’d have called that final play of the game? Sure looked like you were chasing glory out there.” With a cock of her head, her lips curl into a toothy grin.
“Oh, shit!” Masterson says, clapping his hands. “She fucking called you out, Foster.”
My pulse explodes against the side of my neck, a fresh drizzle of sweat slipping down my back. “I don’t have to chase glory,” I say with a tight smile. “It findsme, and that’s been pretty apparent since the start of the season.”
A low grunt from behind me hits my ears and the flashes are going off again as Logan walks into the locker room, helmet in hand.
“Logan, you were so close to making the game-winning shot tonight. What happened?”
His expression darkens, his blue eyes sliding over to me. There’s disgust and disdain in the depths of his gaze and I can feel my blood icing in my veins with each second that ticks past.
He finally looks at the person who asked the question, jaw clenched. “I stumbled and lost control of the puck. Luckily,” he says, venom lacing his words. “There were other guys who were close by and in position to take the shot.”
