Page 8 of Puck Struck
I close the distance between us and back him against the wall outside the locker room. “You don’t need to know anything. We’re teammates. That’s all. We’re never going to be friends. So stop trying to figure me out. I don’t give a shit about you, Foster. Just stay out of my way.”
But the kid doesn’t look shocked or hurt or upset that I just basically told him to fuck off. He just smiles. And fuck me if my heart doesn’t jump just a little bit when he flashes those perfect cover boy teeth at me.
I dig my fingers into my palms, my fists itching to crack him in his gorgeous jaw, just to erase that smile from his lips. I don’t like how my pulse speeds up when his green eyes focus on mine, trying so hard to see what lies behind my carefully guarded glare.
He never will. Nobody will.
In the locker room, I try to rearrange my thoughts and mygear before my brain explodes. Cam’s empty water bottle stares at me like a fucking challenge, and if I had more time alone in here, I’d seriously consider pissing in it.
The metallic clang of locker doors echoes as I yank mine open and stare at what’s inside. My focus zooms in on the rolls of tape, perfectly aligned like I used to do with my army figures when I was a kid. Control. That’s what this is. My life in neat fucking rows.
If I don’t keep things this tight, then what? Shit falls apart and then I’ll have nothing. I’m already a little too close to that reality now that this hotshot rookie who thinks he can breeze in and disrupt everything I've built here has taken up residence.
I ignore the sting in my shoulder as I strip off my hoodie and start wrapping the bandage tighter. Maybe too tight, but who’s here to tell me not to? It’s a mess under there, but the trainer doesn’t know. Doc doesn’t know. Nobody knows. And there’s no way I’m letting a rookie or an injury knock me off my game.
This mentoring bullshit. I can’t. I need to think. Regroup. Figure out how to pull it off without strangling him in his sleep.
I take a few deep breath to center myself. I never believed in that Zen bullshit but maybe it can work. I’ll try anything to get a grip what I can. To grip some semblance of control.
Coach and Carter want me to babysit him, do joint interviews, and fucking room together. Maybe I should also teach him how to sign his name with a little heart on every contract.
God, what a nightmare.
Practice is hell. I can’t get in the zone. Every movement makes my shoulder scream, and the more I try to ignore it, the louder it gets. Fortunately, Cam stays far away from me and Coach doesn’t throw us together for those promised one-on-one drills. I guess he’s giving me a little reprieve before the shit storm really hits.
I duck out of the rink early, but I’m a few seconds too late because Carter appears in my path. He doesn’t wait for me to say anything, either. He knows better.
“This isn’t about you liking him,” Carter says, his voice cutting through my toxic mental fog. “It’s about the team needing you to lead.”
“It’s also about me not getting a choice,” I snap back, tired of this speech.
“You don’t want to be replaced?” he shoots back, eyebrow lifting. “Start acting like a legacy, not a liability.”
His words are caustic and cutting and feel like a knife twisting into my gut. A familiar fear bubbles up. It’s one I thought I had under wraps. Being seen as weak. Or worse, being seen as unnecessary.
He just voiced them both in less than a minute. Completely exposed me.
“You’ve got to give them a reason to believe in you, Logan. Right now, they’re starting to wonder,” Carter adds before walking off, leaving me reeling with the deafening echo of my worst insecurities pounding between my temples.
It feels like my entire reputation, my entire identity with this team, is tied up in how I handle this kid. Like none of my past accomplishments mean a damn thing now that he’s here. Nobody needed to teach me humility. I didn’t come from much but I worked my ass off and got where I am because of that. I was grateful to get a chance to be an NHL star and I spent every waking second studying and learning and practicing so I couldbe the best. Cam’s on everyone’s radar because of his talent, and the longer he’s in the picture, the more the picture becomes his.
It’s not fucking fair. So many other, harder-working kids deserve this opportunity. I’d be happy to mentor them because at least they’d be gritty and hungry. Cam is just plain greedy.
I fist the sides of my hair. I need to find a way to get a handle on this situation before it gets a handle on me. I need control, but all I feel is chaos swarming. Lifting some weights might make me feel better.
Thinking about swinging one into Cam’s head will definitely make me feel better.
When I finally head to the gym, Carter’s words and Cam’s cocky grin swirl in my head like a storm I can’t take cover from. The idea that I might lose everything makes me feel something I absolutely hate…desperation.
The weight room reeks of sweat and Cam’s off-key singing assaults my ears. I’m not sure which is worse.
I walk in on him shirtless, doing pull-ups and belting out the wrong words to some godawful song. There’s enough ego in this room to bench press the moon, and it grinds my already shredded nerves.
Why the hell can’t I escape this guy? And why does he have to be shirtless?
“You’re too loud,” I snap, grabbing a set of weights to distract myself from staring at his sculpted pecs.
“You’re too grumpy,” Cam shoots back, dropping to the floor and giving me that insufferable grin. “But we already established that.”
