Page 64 of Puck Struck
"Thank you," Cam says suddenly. "For dinner. For letting me hang out with Ethan. I didn’t realize how much I needed to be around people."
"No big deal." But we both know it is.
"He's a great kid."
"Yeah." Pride swells in my chest. "He is."
We fall silent again, and it’s comfortable. Easy.
"We're going to beat this," I say. "James. The blackmail. All of it."
Cam is quiet for a long minute. "I don't remember the last time someone fought for me like this."
The simple honesty of it hits me harder than anything he could have said. I think of all the times he's mentioned being alone, of the glimpses of pain behind the cocky grin. Of a kid doing whatever it took to survive.
"Well, get used to it," I say gruffly. "I don't start fights I don't plan to win."
He turns his head to look at me, something like hope flickering in the depths of his eyes. "Game day tomorrow."
"Game day," I repeat. "One thing at a time."
And for the first time since seeing that photo of my house, I feel like maybe, just maybe, we might find a way through this.
One shift at a time. One day at a time.
That's how you win games.
That's how you survive.
EIGHTEEN
cam
Time doesn't flowthe way it's supposed to. Every second ticks past with the speed of a slug slithering over the ground, like it wants to stick around and watch me unravel. I've been staring at the wall in my apartment since sunrise, watching shadows creep across the crisp white paint. There's a nail pop near the vent that catches my eye. It’s a small, jagged black mark against the clean white that reminds me of my past choices and how they’ve come back to slice through my carefully crafted future.
And now, I've dragged the one person who actually gives a damn about me into my mess.
The sound of my phone buzzing jolts me from my spiral. I grab it, heart pounding, expecting to see another message from James. Instead, I find a text from Tate.
Game day, golden boy. Get your ass to morning skate.
Right. Hockey. The thing I'm supposed to care about most. The thing that has been my salvation and might now become my downfall.
I roll out of bed, my muscles aching like I've been run overby a truck. The face looking back at me in the mirror looks like shit, hollow eyes with dark circles that could rival a raccoon's. I splash cold water on my skin and try to push away the fear feasting on my gut.
Hockey first. Focus on what you can control.
That's what Logan said. One thing at a time.
The morning skate is optional, but I need to feel the ice under my blades, like I'm still in control of something. I throw on a hoodie and sweats, grab my gear bag, and head for the door. As I step into the hallway, my phone buzzes again.
Let me know when you get to the rink.
I let out a breath, my shoulders sagging. It’s just Logan. Checking up on me.
A simple text shouldn't make my chest tighten like this, but it does. I tap out a quick reply.
On my way.
