Page 55 of Puck Struck
"None of your goddamn business."
"See, that's where you're wrong." Keating steps closer. "This team was fine before you showed up. We had a system. Then you waltz in with your highlight-reel goals and media attention, and suddenly everything's about the fucking rookie sensation."
"That's not my fault?—"
"And now," he continues, "you've dragged Shaw into whatever mess you're hiding. Which means it's not just about you anymore. It's about the team."
"You don't care about the team," I snap. "You care about your ice time and being in the spotlight."
His sinister smirk rattles me to my core. "I care about respect. Something you haven't earned."
Before I can respond, the conference room door down the hallway opens. Carter pokes his head out and narrows his eyes when he sees us.
"Everything okay here?" he asks, looking between us with apprehension since we probably look like we’re about to throw down. “Because you’re about a minute away from being late to the meeting.”
"Just talking strategy," Keating says smoothly. "Foster has some interesting ideas about team hierarchy."
Carter doesn't look convinced. "Great. We can talk about them later. But right now, Enver wants us inside.”
Keating heads for the door. Carter moves back inside and at the threshold, Keating pauses to glance back at me. "Think about what I said, rookie. People don’t always come back after their reputations are slaughtered by scandals,” he mutters.
When I get inside, I drop into a chair near the door. Carter turns to me. "What was that about?"
I shake my head. "Nothing important."
"Didn't look like nothing." He gives me a long look and rubs the back of his neck. "Look, I don't know what's going on between you and Keating, or you and Shaw, for that matter, but keep it off the ice. We're too close to the playoffs for any drama."
"There's no drama," I bite out.
Carter gives me a look that screams bullshit. "Whatever you say. Just keep it out of here."
I sit quietly, avoiding conversation with the guys. I don't see Logan come in, but I feel him the second he enters the room.
I lift my head, catching his gaze. He looks exhausted, dark circles staining the skin under his eyes. His movements are stiffer than usual. I hear his familiar ring tone and watch him check his phone, frown, then slide it into his pocket.
Coach walks in with a clipboard in hand. He calls us to attention. "Afternoon, gentlemen. Thanks for coming in." He stands at the front of the room, his expression grim. "I'll keep this brief. Management's concerned about our public image heading into the playoff push. We've got sponsors breathing down our necks and new contract negotiations on the horizon."
He glances around the room. "Which means tightening up off the ice. No scandals. No social media firestorms. Nothing that could distract from our performance or damage the brand."
My heart free falls into my stomach. Beside me, Tate leans over. "Someone's in trouble," he whispers.
But Coach doesn't single anyone out. Instead, he launches into new media protocols, mandatory charity appearances, and approved talking points for interviews.
It's routine stuff, but the timing is too fucking coincidental. Did someone tip him off? Has James already made contact with management? He wants to take me down and this is his perfect opportunity.
After the meeting, the team heads to the weight room for a light workout. I wait until most of the guys have left before approaching Logan.
"Hey," I murmur. "You good?"
He glances around, making sure no one's within earshot. "Fine."
"Doesn’t look like you slept."
"Rough night." His voice is low, tense, and it sends the hairs on the back of my neck into a frenzy.
“Sorry.” I swallow hard. "Still three o'clock?"
He nods. "Don't be late."
