Page 9 of Puck Struck
I hate him. “It’s called focusing. You should try it.”
He picks up a pair of dumbbells, matching my pace. “On being a hardass? Nah, I’ll leave that to you. Life is too short to walk around with a pole implanted up your ass.”
It’s banter, but it’s charged like live wires that electrify my insides. I up the intensity, and so does he. “I’m serious, Foster. Are you this annoying to everyone, or do I get special treatment?”
“Special’s about right,” he says with a laugh, effortlessly keeping up. “You always this intense, or is it just when you hate someone?”
I grip the weights harder, feeling my resolve slip. “I don’t hate you,” I manage to push the lie through my clenched teeth.
“Could’ve fooled me, Cap.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.
My hands ball into fists. It takes everything not to launch one at him. “Can’t hate what I don’t think about,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, trying not to show how much he’s already crept under my skin. But it’s weak. So fucking weak.
Cam stops his set, moves closer, like he’s looking to start a real fight. Or something worse. “Could’ve fooled me on that too,” he says, low and confident, and the sizzle of his stare singes my bare skin.
I grab heavier weights, the tension in the gym cranked up as high as it’ll go. It feels like the air might snap in half, it’s so taut. My shoulder screams, my head screams louder. Everything is a mess.
“Or maybe,” Cam adds, leaning in, “you just like pretending you do. Either way can be fun.”
My throat constricts like there’s an invisible hand squeezing the life out of me. And as I gasp for air, my eyes glued to his knowing smirk, my body humming from the commanding way he gets right in my space and owns it, I realize that I’m allergic to him…and so very addicted all at once.
FOUR
cam
A sharp bitein the Colorado air reminds me of my childhood home in upstate New York. Not the very few good parts, like the frozen pond I loved to ice skate on or the fresh scent of the pine trees, but the ones where I’d feel the brutal slap of winter through the cracked windows in the dilapidated house where our heat got cut off three days before Christmas.
But those thoughts don’t stop me from breathing it in. I guess that’s progress.
My duffel bag slams against my back as I rush to meet the guys in the hotel restaurant, thoughts of Logan Shaw lingering like a splinter festering under my skin after he shut me down on the plane ride out here. I figured I’d try to ease into the roommate thing by striking up a conversation with him, but he dumped his bag on the seat next to him and dropped his sunglasses onto his nose like a total douche canoe.
Part of me can’t believe Coach is making us share a room. I mean, he must see how fucking crotchety Logan is. Isn’t he worried that the guy may try to smother me in my sleep? I can’t say that thought hasn’t crossed my mind once, twice, or ten times.
It’s hard to believe he was once the guy I wanted to be. Now, he’s just in my way, another rival who’d love to see me fall flat on my face. And yeah, he may be hot as fuck, but his attitude drops his looks from a hard ten down to a one.
While I was on a call with my agent about some sports drink company who wants to sign me, the team grabbed tables in the restaurant. I spot them when I walk inside, and they’re already diving into burgers and beers.
“There’s the rookie,” Keating calls, pointing at an empty chair with his half-eaten burger. “Thought you got traded back to your crib.”
“Nah,” I shoot back, collapsing into the seat. “But I’m missing my bedtime for this.”
The guys are loud and work their way through enough chicken wings to feed a small country in record time.
“So who were you on that call with?” Tate asks before taking a big bite of his burger.
“It was my agent,” I say, picking at a corner of the beer bottle label. “He wanted to run a deal past me.”
“Kid’s been out here for less than a season and already racking up endorsement deals,” Keating says with more venom than admiration in his tone. “I didn’t realize you were an influencer in your spare time, brah.”
He tries to smile but I get his meaning loud and clear. He spits out a jab disguised as a joke and I’m supposed to ignore that shit?
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’ve been dealing with guys like him since junior hockey, since the days of wearing second-hand pads and duct-taped gloves and knowing the only way out of my hell was to be louder, faster, and better.
So I look at him, paste on a fake fucking smile of my own and say, “Nobody likes stale shit, Keating. It doesn’t have goodflavor. It’s past its prime. But everyone loves what’s new and shiny. And they pay a shit ton for it.”
Keating’s smile fades and he gets up from the table then stalks away.
“I love the confidence at Keating’s expense, ya cocky fucking asshole.” Tate downs the rest of his beer and then chuckles. “But be careful, cause Keating’s got bite. He ain’t all bark.”
