Page 107 of Puck Struck
He sends another text before I can respond to the first one, my jaw dropping as I scan it.
Amazing what comes to light when people start digging into personal histories. Some secrets are worth protecting, don't you think?
The implication is clear. He knows something about Cam. Something that could hurt him. Something that could hurt us both.
I delete the messages but he will hunt me down. He obviously has the means and the motive.
I pour another whiskey and try to convince myself I did the right thing. That Cam is better off without my chaos. That I can handle Keating and whatever he thinks he knows about Cam's past. I’ll call off whatever witch hunt he’s planning.
But as I sit alone in my office, all I can think about is the look in Cam's eyes when I called him a complication.
Like I'd just confirmed every fear he'd ever had about not being worth loving.
I reach for my phone to call him, to apologize, to explain that I'm falling apart and I lashed out at him. Again. But I stop myself because I know that I can’t give him what he needs. Not right now.
Maybe it's better this way. Maybe Cam deserves someone who isn't drowning in their own disasters.
Maybe I just saved us both a lot of pain.
But as I drain the whiskey from my glass and stagger upstairs to bed, all I feel is the crushing loss and all I just gave up…a chance for happiness with an incredible man I’ve fallen in love with.
And like a brick to my chest, I’m hit with the crushing realization that I've just made the biggest mistake of my life.
TWENTY-EIGHT
cam
I can’t fucking sleep.Every time I close my eyes, I see Logan's face, the echo of his disgust-laced voice when he called me a complication. One more thing he can't handle. One more burden in his already fucked-up life.
So I lie on my couch and stare at the wall watching shadows move across the room as cars pass outside. My apartment feels smaller than usual, like the walls are closing in. Like I’m being crushed, the life slowly and tormentingly being sucked out of me. I’ve never felt so empty, so rejected.
My phone is on the coffee table next to me. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing from Logan.
Good. That's what I said I wanted, right? Space. Distance. One less problem for him to deal with.
But fuck, it hurt like hell hearing him say it. His taut jaw, clenched fists, pained voice. I can’t forget any of it, the image is branded into my memory. And each time his words loop through my mind, I ache like he drove a machete into my chest and slashed the shit out of my heart until it was dead and shredded.
Maybe Keating was right all along. Maybe I'm poison. Ialready know I fucking destroy everything I touch. What made me think things would be different this time?
When morning finally comes, my body aches like it’s been dragged on the ground under a Mack truck. I pull myself off the couch and get dressed in a fog. I need to get the hell out of here, to escape the toxic thoughts that plagued me for most of the night.
I scrub a hand down the front of my face, my eyes bleary and burning. Maybe if I get some ice time alone, maybe if I push my body hard enough, I can quiet the fucking voices in my head. I head to the arena and manage to make it inside without being noticed.
The hallways are mostly empty, just a few staff members getting ready for the day. I'm on my way toward the locker room when someone calls my name.
"Foster."
My spine stiffens at the nerve-grating voice. When I turn around, my stomach roils at the sight of Ryan Keating standing near the executive offices. But he's not alone. His father is with him. I remember seeing him at one of our games, the same one where he watched me too closely for my liking. He’s tall, dressed in an expensive suit, with dark hair and a menacing expression zeroed in on me.
My breath hitches. I’ve never even spoken to the guy before, but he way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl like there are poisonous snakes slithering around my limbs.
“What do you want, Keating?” I say, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.
"We need to talk," Keating says, nodding toward an empty conference room. "My father wants a word."
My eyes flicker to the older guy, my fingers balling up tight at my sides.
The older man steps forward, extending his hand like we'remeeting at a fucking cocktail party. "William Keating. I represent several players in the league, including my son."
