Page 99 of Puck Struck
I think about calling Coach Enver tonight, just to get it over with. But it's the middle of the night, and the conversation that ends my career can wait until morning.
My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Patel.
Please call my office first thing tomorrow. We need to discuss the pre-surgical timeline and requirements.
I stare at the message, feeling the walls closing in. Twenty-four hours ago, my biggest concern was whether Cam and I were ready to take things to the next level. Now I'm looking atthe end of everything I've worked for, the pressure of saving my nephew's life, and a media circus I'm not prepared for.
I toss the phone onto the counter and drop my head into my hands.
Everything's spinning out of control, and I don't know how the fuck to stop it.
TWENTY-SIX
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I wakeup in my own bed with the taste of Logan still on my lips. But there’s a hollow ache in my chest that has everything to do with what happened between us. The morning light peeks in through my blinds. It’s bright, but not bright enough to eclipse the darkness hanging over my current reality.
Ethan's sick. Really sick. Logan's career is over in two weeks, maybe three.
How the hell can I lie here thinking about how perfect it felt to be held by him and to make love to him, about how relieved I was when he looked at me like I was something precious instead of something broken.
I’m a selfish fucking bastard.
I roll out of bed with a heavy sigh and stumble to the bathroom. I flip on the light and narrow my eyes at my reflection in the mirror. A subtle bruise from Logan’s demanding mouth, light purple against my skin, stares back at me. Running my fingers over it, my mind trips back to the way he kissed me there, desperate and hungry like he was trying to memorize the taste of me.
Like he knew it might be the last time.
The thought jolts me.
Fuck.
Maybe it was the last time. Maybe Logan's going to wake up and realize that I'm just another problem in his already fucked-up life. Another one he doesn't need with everything else plaguing him.
I splash cold water on my face and try to get my shit together. Logan's got enough on his plate without me acting like some clingy asshole who can't handle a little distance.
But I already feel it. And it sucks because all I want is to be close to him.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I walk back to the bedroom and grab it. A text from Tate appears on the screen.
Morning skate at 10. You better not be hungover, golden boy.
Right. Hockey. The thing that's supposed to matter most in my life. The thing that brought Logan and me together in the first place.
I shower quickly, trying not to think about Logan's hands on my skin, his hot breath against my neck, and how scared he looked when the doctor said two weeks until the transplant.
Two fucking weeks. Like it was a death sentence.
Although, we all know without Logan, that’s exactly what it would be.
The drive to the rink is torture. Just more time for my mind to torment me. Every red light gives me more time to think, to spiral, to imagine all the ways this whole thing could go wrong. Logan's going to retire early. The team's going to fall apart without him. Management's going to blame me for distracting their veteran leader during a crucial part of the season.
Maybe they'll be right.
And who the fuck knows what Keating might have up his sleeve.
Just because James is out of the picture doesn’t mean Keating will back down. My skin crawls at that realization.
The parking lot is more crowded than usual for a morning skate. I see news vans parked near the entrance, reporters with cameras and microphones lurking around like vultures ready to pounce on unassuming prey.
