Page 5 of Puck Struck
“And how does it feel to be the oldest guy on the team getting shown up by the rookie?”
A low murmur goes through the locker room and I twist around to get a look at the guy who asked the question. He’s a short guy with glasses and a soul patch that looks nothing short of fucking stupid on his weaselly ass face.
Carter steps forward. “Hey, bud, this isn’t the place for mudslinging. You want to ask questions about the game, fine, but don’t get personal. No need for that.”
The guy’s lips twist into a condescending smirk as he looks back at Logan. “S’ok. No comment actually speaks volumes. Anyone with eyes can see the battle between these two on the ice. And I guess the silence confirmsthat.”
My jaw damn near hits the floor and the guy turns to walk out of the locker room like he didn’t just stir up a pot of shit.
I don’t dare look at Logan, mainly because what the asshat just said is true.
I idolized Logan growing up. I wanted to be a Stanley Cup-winning NHL player, just like Logan Shaw. And when I’d been drafted to the Oakland Raptors, when I finally got my chance to be seen, I wanted him to notice.
So maybe my attempts got a little out of control tonight.
Maybe it’s because the guy won’t give me the time of day.
And maybe I just need his approval.
Everyone’s approval.
But they don’t understand why. And I never let anyone close enough to find out the reason.
The press leaves, and the guys head back to the showers, talking in hushed tones. I slowly walk over to my locker and pull off my jersey. With a quick glance back at Logan, I bite my lip.
I should just let it go. I’ll only make things worse.
But then my lips are flapping before I can stop them.
“Hey, listen,” I say in a low voice. “I wasn’t trying to show you up out there. I was just trying to make sure?—”
“That it was your name the whole crowd screamed,” he says, not even bothering to look at me. “I know your type, Foster. Cocky rookie asshole who thinks he’s king of the fucking ice.” He wraps a towel around his waist, slowly turns toward me, and my breath hitches.
I don’t mean to stare. Fuck, I don’t even mean to look.
But it’s hard to pull my eyes away from the deep V of his hips and the black ink adorning his thick, muscular chest. White hot flames spit from his blue eyes, his bearded jaw tight as he steps toward me.
“You’re just getting your feet wet, newbie,” he growls inthat low, gravelly voice of his that I only just realized makes my body hum. “Be very careful unless you want to be thrown into the deep end, you fucking toddler.”
After a long, fiery look that I guess is meant to scare me, he twists around and walks toward the showers.
And the way my skin buzzes under the memory of his heated glare tells me in no uncertain terms that I’m not scared at all.
Nope. Shockingly, I’m fucking turned on.
I can’t drag my gaze away from his perfect ass and ripped back.
And it scares the hell out of me.
Because I don’t give in to those kinds of feelings.
They’re fucking dangerous and, more importantly, they can destroy lives.
I don’t see Logan again before I leave the arena, but I can’t get thoughts of him in that towel to stop looping through my mind. They plague me for my entire ride home.
I kick off my shoes and shrug off my jacket when I get into my apartment. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s been blowing up with notifications since the game ended. Texts from teammates, fan tags from reels and other social media posts, articles rolling in about the Raptors’ golden boy.
It should make me ecstatic.
