Page 101 of Puck Struck
"You guys are important to me, so I want to be straight with you. My nephew needs a liver transplant," Logan continues. His voice is heavy with worry, the muscles in his neck taut. My heart hurts just looking at him. "He’s on a donor list but we haven’t had any luck securing a liver yet and his time is running out. In our family, I'm the only donor match. The surgery is scheduled for two weeks from now, which means my season ends after the weekend. The recovery for this kind of surgery could take months, and there are a lot of risks involved with it. I don’t know how it will affect me or my play, so I think it’s better for everyone if I step down now."
"Fuck," someone whispers.
"I know this isn't ideal timing. I know it puts pressure oneveryone to step up. But this is my family we're talking about. I'd make the same choice a hundred times over."
He looks around the room, meeting each guy's eyes. When his gaze lands on me, his eyes are guarded and completely impenetrable. I shudder. It’s exactly the way he used to look at me before we slept together. Before he opened up to me.
A shiver slices through me.
Before I dragged him into my nightmare.
Why did he just shut down like that? What the hell could have happened in the past few hours since we were together?
"Any questions?"
Silence. Then Carter stands up. "What do you need from us, Lo?"
"I need you to play like your lives depend on it. I need you to remember that hockey is a team sport, and one person leaving doesn't mean the season's over." Logan's jaw tightens, his hands now loose at his sides. "And I need you to keep the drama off the ice. Personal shit stays personal. We're professionals here."
My chest tightens, and I drop my eyes to the concrete floor.
We all head to the rink after Logan’s announcement. Practice is a total fucking disaster. Logan skates like he's trying to punish himself, taking hits he doesn't need to take, making plays that are too aggressive, too desperate. I try to find a rhythm, searching for the chemistry that we built up between us, but it's like skating with a ghost. He’s not there. Not really.
Every time I try to connect with him on a play, he's already onto the next move. Every time I try to catch his eye, he's focused somewhere else.
Coach Enver pulls us aside after the first hour.
"What the hell is going on out there?" he demands. "You two have been playing like you've never met before."
"Just getting back into the swing of things," Logan says,looking everywhere but at me. What the fuck? Why is he suddenly icing me out? "Long night at the hospital."
"Well, figure it out. We've got media watching practice, and you're making us look like amateurs. We have a playoff game to win before you leave, Shaw."
Media. Playoffs. Right. I glance toward the stands and see reporters with cameras and notepads, documenting every mistake, every missed connection.
Great. Just fucking great.
The rest of practice is more of the same. Logan skates like he's trying to escape something, I try to keep up and fail miserably. By the time we hit the showers, I'm exhausted and frustrated and no closer to understanding what's going on in his head…and why he won’t give me the time of day when last night…shit, last night was the most I’ve ever opened up to anyone. I’ve never let anyone see in that deep. The fact that he’s ignoring all of it really fucking stings.
I pace in front of his truck in the parking lot, ignoring the reporters who try to flag me down for comments. When Logan finally walks out of the facility, his phone is pressed to his ear and a scowl twists his expression.
"No, I'm not doing interviews today," he says in a sharp voice. Then he hangs up and shoves the phone in his pocket. I see him stiffen when our gazes meet.
My breath hitches for a second, something raw and desperate flickering in his eyes. Then the mask slides back into place and I’m cut off again.
"What do you want?"
I ball my hands into tight fists, trying to keep my growing anger in check. "Can we talk?"
"I'm busy."
"It'll just take a minute?—"
"I said I'm busy, Cam.” I recoil at his harsh tone, my jawdropping. “I've got meetings with management, calls with doctors, and about fifty reporters who want to dissect every decision I've made in the last twenty-four hours. So no, we can't talk."
"What about later? After you're done with all that?"
"Later I need to be with my family. You know, the people who actually matter right now."
