Page 79 of Puck Struck
Back at the hotel, I try to nap but end up tossing and turning instead, my mind racing. I keep replaying Cam’s words from last night.
This was a mistake. We got caught up in the moment.
Like what happened between us was just some adrenaline-fueled error in judgment.
Maybe it was. Maybe I'm the one who made it into something more.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mike.
Any update on that situation you mentioned?
Mike's been a solid resource, even without all the details. And I can’t give them to him now. But once I get back, he needs to have the whole story, especially if it can get us better protection.
Situation's complicated. Target keeps changing timeline.
His response comes quickly.Remember what I said about recording conversations? And documentation?
Yeah. Working on it.
Let me know if you need backup. I know people in Oakland PD.
I drop the phone next to me, my gut churning. Having official backup would be smart, but involving the police means exposing Cam's past in ways he might not be ready for.
It also means surrendering control of the situation. I've spent my whole life maintaining precise control over my game, my home, and my emotions. It's how I survived after my father walked out, after my mother and Tyler died.
Control is safety. Control is survival.
And James threatens that control from every angle.
I force myself to rest before the game, knowing I'll need every ounce of energy tonight. When I finally doze off, I dream of Cam walking away, over and over, each time a little faster, until he's just a blur disappearing into darkness.
The St. Louis arena pulses with energy, a sea of blue jerseys taunting us from the stands, the fans eager for a divisionrival showdown. We start our warm-up laps, the familiar ritual usually centering me, but tonight my focus is fractured.
My shoulder is on fire after the trainer's aggressive pre-game treatment. Each motion sends a jolt of pain through my upper body, but I force myself to push through it. I've gotten good at hiding pain. Too good, maybe. No one sees the way I favor my right side, the small adjustments I make to my skating stance to compensate.
Cam skates close by. There's a tension in his shoulders I now recognize. Between drills, I catch him checking his phone, his expression darkening before he tucks it away back by the bench.
In the locker room, Coach Enver gives his pre-game speech and pep talk, emphasizing the importance of a clean road trip sweep. "Two down, one to go," he says. "Let's finish strong."
We take the ice for the first period, and immediately I can feel the disconnect between the guys. Passes that should connect miss by inches. Plays that usually flow naturally feel forced. And the chemistry that's been building between me and Cam fizzles.
St. Louis capitalizes on our disjointed playing, scoring twice in the first ten minutes. Coach calls a timeout, his face flushed with anger.
"What the hell is this? Get your heads in the game," he growls. "Shaw, Foster, you're playing like strangers out there. And the rest of you, focus. Let’s win this."
He waves the guys back out to the ice but holds up a hand for me and Cam to stay.
I glance at Cam, who's staring at his skates. There's sweat beading on his forehead, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his stick.
"Get it together," Coach continues through clenched teeth. "Whatever's going on, deal with it after the game. Right now, I need my top line to show up."
Unfortunately, the damage is already done. The first period ends with us down 2-0, the guys tense with frustration as we file into the locker room.
Coach doesn't bother with another speech. There’s no need. We all know what’s at stake. He points at the whiteboard where he's drawn some plays for the next period. I'm wrapping tape around my stick when I notice Cam slip away from the meeting and move toward the hallway with his phone in hand. His face, which was pink a few seconds ago, has lost all color.
I sneak away to follow him, staying just far enough back to overhear his conversation. He ducks into an empty corridor, pressing the phone to his ear.
"I told you to leave him out of this," he hisses, his back to me. "That wasn't part of the deal."
