Page 68 of Puck Struck
Logan appears in the slot, stick blade on the ice, ready for the pass. I slide it between the defender's legs, right onto Logan's tape.
He fires and misses. The puck ricochets off the crossbar, bouncing into the corner of the ice.
"Fuck," Logan mutters.
Thirty seconds later, the puck comes to me behind the net. I fake a wrap-around, draw the goalie out, then find Logan in position. This time, he doesn't miss.
The arena explodes as the red light flashes. Tie game, 2-2.
Logan crashes into me, his arms wrapping around my shoulders, his face inches from mine. "That was fucking beautiful," he shouts over the roar of the crowd.
The embrace lasts half a second too long and feels too much like something else entirely. I pull away with a racing heart and skate back to the bench.
In the short break before overtime, Coach Enver lays out our strategy. "Quick shifts, high energy. First goal wins. Logan, Cam, you're starting."
I glance at Logan, find him already watching me, his eyes intense. "Let's end this," he says.
We take our positions for the opening face-off. The Pittsburgh center across from Logan is talking shit, trying to get in his head. Logan ignores him, his eyes fixed on the referee's hand, waiting for the puck to drop.
I scan the crowd once more. The man with Keating's father is gone. Relief floods me, followed immediately by a new wave of anxiety. Where did he go? And why was he watching me so closely?
The referee's whistle jolts me from my thoughts. The puck drops. Logan wins it and sends it to Carter, who chips it forward. I'm already moving, anticipating the play, my feet flying over the ice.
I catch the puck and tear through the defense. I fake a shot, drawing the goalie out, then pull the puck to my backhand.
The defenseman's stick slashes across my wrists. Fuck. Pain flares. It’s hot and sharp. The puck skitters away, and I crash into the boards.
"That should've been a call," Logan growls when he skates over to check on me.
Three minutes into overtime, we finally get our break. Pittsburgh turns the puck over at their blue line. Loganpounces on it and sends a perfect pass to me in the neutral zone.
Everything slows down. The roar of the crowd fades to white noise. The ice stretches out before me, totally open. Just me, the puck, and the goal.
My skates slash at the ice. The Pittsburgh goalie backs in, his eyes locked on me. He drops into a butterfly stance as I get closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan trailing the play. It’s gonna be tight. The defenseman is closing in on me and I don’t have time to make a pass.
So I take the shot. It sails into the top corner of the net, just over the goalie's glove.
The red light flashes. The arena erupts. Game fucking over.
My teammates crash into me. Logan is right in the center of it all, his arm slung around my shoulders, his smile wide and genuine for once.
The celebration continues in the locker room. Coach Enver heaps on the praise, highlighting our chemistry and our fight. The media swarms, cameras flashing, microphones thrust into our faces.
Throughout the celebration and the interviews, Logan stays by my side. It makes me feel protected. Secure. Shit, it feels so much better than the win.
When the last reporter finally leaves, he catches my eye.
"My place," he murmurs. "We need to talk."
I nod, stomach twisting. Back to reality.
As I zip up my bag, Keating stops next to me. "Congratulations, rookie. Enjoy it while it lasts."
I narrow my eyes, goosebumps pebbling my skin. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that fortunes change damn quick in this league." His smile looks like it was carved out of ice. "By the way, my dad wanted to meet you. Shame you were so busy after the game."
"Another time," I say, trying for disinterest and hoping it lands right.
