Page 58 of Puck Struck
"No." He sets the bottle down on the granite countertop with a thud. "It's about James."
"What about him?"
"He sent me something after you left last night." Logan pulls out his phone, scrolls through it, then holds it out to me.
The text contains one sentence.
You shouldn't have done that, Shaw. Now we both have something to lose.
Attached is a new photo of us kissing in the empty rink.
Cold dread pools in my stomach.
"He's trying to drag me into this." Logan's voice is deadly calm, but I can see the rage building behind his eyes.
"Logan, I?—"
"Don't apologize," he cuts me off. "This isn't your fault."
"But—"
"It's not your fault," he repeats, fiercer this time. "It's his. And he's going to regret it."
The cold determination in his voice sends a chill skittering down my spine. "What are you going to do?"
"First, I'm going to tell you everything." He pushes away from the counter. "So there are no more surprises."
"Everything?" I echo.
"About Ethan. About my shoulder. About why I can't let this go." He meets my gaze, his thick eyebrows knitted together. "Because if we're doing this, if we're taking on James together, I need you to understand what's at stake."
Together. The word shouldn't make my heart skip like that, especially not under these circumstances.
"Okay," I say. "I'm listening."
He takes a deep breath, and for the first time since I've known him, Logan Shaw looks vulnerable.
"My shoulder's been torn since last season. The rotatorcuff, ligaments…it’s all a fucking mess," he says, sweeping a hand through his hair. "The car accident fucked it up and then I just kept playing, not getting the proper treatment. I need surgery. But if I get it, I'm done. No more hockey, not professionally. I’ve gone to my own doctors to keep records private."
"Why haven't you said anything?"
"Because I can't afford to be sidelined. " His voice hardens. "Not with Ethan's medical bills. Not with his condition. I'm all they've got. And besides that, I’ve worked too damn hard to go out because of this injury. If I retire, it’s gonna be on my terms. But it gets harder and harder to play through the pain. And without hockey, I don’t know who I’d be. I think that’s why I had such a hard time dealing with you,” he says gruffly. “You reminded me of the guy I used to be years ago and I felt it slipping away even faster. Everyone sees it, everyone knows my career is hanging by a thread. Management, fans, the team.”
The admission sits heavy between us.
"Jesus, that’s a lot to carry around. And it’s why you're still playing through the pain," I say slowly.
He nods once, a sharp motion.
"Now James is threatening your career," I shake my head. "Fuck."
"Yeah." Logan's jaw clenches. "Fuck is right."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, almost choking when I see the text notification. This time, it’s a text from an unknown number.
Meet me tonight at the old pier at 7. Come alone or everyone sees everything. Last chance, Connor. No more games. Time to come back to New York with me.
I stare at the screen, my mouth falling open. One look at Logan and my decision is made.
