Page 6 of Puck Struck
Approval. Recognition. Accolades.
It’s what I worked so hard for, what I sacrificed so much for.
My shoulders slump as I drop onto the leather couch. I lean my head back against the cushion and stare up at the ceiling. Narrowing my eyes, I see a faint crack above the doorway tothe kitchen. I’ve been meaning to fix it since I moved in but I guess part of me likes it there.
It’s a reminder of everything I left behind to become Cam Foster, NHL superstar.
My sketchpad is open on the coffee table in front of me. I flip through messy stick figures in different skating positions, random quotes I’ve written down to get me through tough times, and a series of silly dinosaur cartoons.
I rip off the cap of a pen with my teeth and gnaw it to hell while I doodle another stegosaurus. Nothing is coming out right, least of all the joy I’m supposed to feel from winning the game.
Logan’s glare keeps cutting into me, worse than any hit I’ve ever taken on the ice. The first time I saw him play was when I was thirteen and we couldn’t afford the cable bill. But there he was, on the TV at a diner where I bussed tables on weekends. Larger than life. Already breaking records. The news ran a story on him, how he got scouted out of nowhere.
It gave me hope…that maybe I could be that guy. And I needed to cling to whatever shreds of hope I could back then.
I pick up my pen again and turn to a fresh page, sketching loose lines with quick movements of my hand. I don’t focus on the subject, don’t think at all, but when I finally stop drawing, I know immediately who it is.
A player on the ice.
Helmet down.
Shoulders slumped.
Stick dragging behind him.
It’s Logan Shaw.
I grit my teeth and toss the sketchpad onto the table. New messages flood the team group chat. Everyone’s on fire about some article predicting we’ll sweep the season. Tate sends a meme with my face on a king’s body, and I want to hate it, butI can’t. It’s what I said I wanted. It’s what I traded everything for.
My phone pings with a new message from Coach Enver.
Tomorrow morning. Shaw and Foster. Mandatory meeting.
The screen explodes with eyeball emojis. Everyone reacts like the suspense is going to kill them. I guess that’s a good thing, them wanting to know more. It means they give a shit, even if it’s just for the gossip. I tell myself it’s better than nothing. Then Tate sends a gif of me getting thrown off a rollercoaster, and all the old doubts rush in.
Maybe they care, but not the way I need them to.
When I finally reply, it’s another classic dickhead comment. Another attention-grabber to distract everyone from the reasons behind the shield of my cocky attitude.
Can’t wait for grumpy grandpa to show me how to cross-check in cursive.
They laugh like it’s the funniest damn thing they’ve ever heard, and I sit there, phone in my hand, exhaling hard.
The screen goes dark, and my eyes float up toward the ceiling again. If peopleonlyseethe confident, unstoppable "golden boy," theywon’t dig deep enoughto find the kid who spent nights counting cracks in the plaster while huddling under a pile of blankets because the heat had been turned off again, wondering if he'd ever get the chance to make it out of his hellish life, to become someone great.
“But you did. You earned it,” I whisper to the empty room. “You belong here.”
Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll start to feel true.
THREE
logan
I thought getting punchedin the mouth by a Renegades center last season was the real low point of my hockey experience. Turns out, it’s walking into a room where everyone thinks I’m yesterday’s news…and the rookie I can't stand is today's headline.
I clench my jaw and ignore the tightness in my shoulder as I enter the film room. Carter and Coach Enver are already waiting, talking over plays from night’s game. I don’t interrupt. And I sure as shit don’t need to see Cam’s victorious shot again. The last thing I need is another reminder that I’m supposed to give a shit about rookies like Cam. I tug the sleeve of my hoodie down to cover the ACE bandage. No one needs to see it.
My mood drops to a new low when I see Cam stroll in a few minutes later with a fucking green smoothie, acting like he owns the damn place. The kid can’t even bother to be on time. And that smoothie is like a silent “screw you” for dragging him out of bed this early.
