Page 106 of Puck Struck
"Do you?" I stand up fast, the room spinning slightly. The whiskey hit me harder than I thought. "Do you know that reporters have been hounding me in the press, questioning my 'personal relationships' and whether they've affected my decision-making about my decision to retire? According to my agent, they're all digging, Cam. Looking for any angle, any story that'll make this more interesting when all I care about is saving my nephew."
Color drips from his face, panic flashing in his eyes. But I'm too far gone to care, too desperate and overwhelmed to bite back the words that tumble off my tongue.
"That's what I'm trying to tell you," he says, his voice shaking. "There are things they might find, things about my past that could hurt you?—"
"I don't care about your past." The words explode out of me like a dam bursting. "I care about my family. I care about saving my nephew's life. I care about keeping my career from completely imploding before I can secure my family's future."
Each word spewed feels like I'm throwing axes, but I can't stop. The stress, the crushing fear that I'm losing control of everything—it's all too much to handle.
"Logan, please?—"
"No." I move toward him, and he takes a step backward. Good. Maybe he finally gets it. "Please understand that I'm drowning here. That every single aspect of my life is falling apart at the same time, and I can't handle one more thing. Notone more issue, not one more complication, not one more person who needs me to fix their problems."
The outburst stings my own ears.
One more complication.
Shit. I didn’t mean that. And as soon as I say it, I want to take it back. Cam's face crumbles, and I watch all the light die in his eyes. All the hope crushed in a hot fucking second. Because of me and my downward spiral.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and his voice is so small, so broken, that all I want to do is hug him close and take back the hurtful comments. God, I amsuchan asshole. "I'm so fucking sorry, Logan. I never wanted to be a burden."
Burden. Complication. The words echo in my head. How the fuck could I have said that to him?
"Cam, I didn't mean?—"
"Yes, you did." He opens the door and turns to leave, but not before I see his eyes shine with tears. "And you're right. You've got enough to deal with without adding my shit to the pile."
"That's not what I meant."
He meets my eyes, and I see the truth glaring back at me. The hurt, the resignation, the acceptance that he's not worth fighting for. That I’m not different than anyone else in his life. "It's okay, Logan. I get it. I do."
"Cam—"
"Take care of yourself. Take care of your family. That's what matters."
He walks down the hall, and I know I should follow him. I know I should explain, apologize, pull back the words that just destroyed everything between us. I know it’s impossible to erase the scars I just caused him. They won’t be visible on his skin, but they will brand his heart and soul.
But my feet won't move. My voice won't work.
Because part of me, the scared, overwhelmed, drowning part, is relieved.
One less complication to deal with.
And I feel more like shit now than I did when he was standing in front of me.
I hear muffled voices by the front door. Then the door closes.
He's gone.
I sink back into my chair, the whiskey glass empty in my hand, and stare at the door he just walked through.
What the fuck did I just do?
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.I grab it, a lump lodging in the back of my throat.
Looks like you could use a friend. Coffee tomorrow? We should discuss Cam Foster's future with the team. - William Keating
I stare at the message, an icy hand gripping my heart. Keating's father. Why the hell is he texting me about Cam?
