Page 110 of Puck Struck
Twenty-four hours to figure out how to fight back against a man who has the power to take a wrecking ball to everything I've built.
Because fuck him. There’s no way I’m running away, even if it costs me everything. Including Logan.
And it just might.
TWENTY-NINE
logan
When my name is announced,I leap onto the ice for the game one of the playoffs against the New York Renegades, I’m greeted by deafening applause and cheers. The sounds echo in the massive space and a wide smile stretches my lips as I skate around the boards, waving my stick at the crowd with my good arm for a few seconds before taking my position at the blue line.
Fifteen-thousand people are on their feet, screaming my name, holding signs that say things like "Thank You, Logan" and "Raptors Legend." I should be fueled by the energy flowing through the crowd. I should be excited, lit up by the welcome.
But fuck, all I feel is the grinding goddamn pain in my shoulder and the dull, hollow ache in my chest where my heart used to be.
My final game. My final game.
The words loop through my mind. Fourteen years of professional hockey, and it all comes down to the next sixty minutes. Win or lose, the second that final buzzer sounds, I'mdone.
"You ready for this, Shaw?" Carter asks, circling me on the ice.
"As ready as I'll ever be." I flex my fingers, testing the grip strength. My shoulder bites back in protest, but I swallow the groan. "How’s the team doing?”
"Focused. Everyone knows what this means." He pauses, his blue eyes narrowing. "You sure you can do this? Your shoulder?—"
"My shoulder's fine." The lie comes easily now. I've been telling it so long, I almost believe it myself. "One more game. That's all I need. I’ve got this."
I know Carter well enough to see the suspicion etched into his expression. But he doesn’t call me out on my bullshit. He just nods. "Alright. Let's make it count."
So many thoughts pop between my ears as I stretch. This is the last time I’ll take the ice with the group of guys who have become another family to me. I’ll never tape my stick before a game again, never feel that pre-game buzz of adrenaline mixed with terror.
My mind trips back to the text I’d gotten from Tessa just before heading through the tunnel one last time.
Watching at home with Ethan. He's wearing your jersey. Go get 'em, big brother. We love you!
I smile. Some things are worth sacrificing for.
Cam is his normal showy self, flashing wide smiles at the spectators as they call his name. Except the emotion on his lips don’t reach his eyes as they normally do. And his shoulders are the slightest bit tense.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, a harsh reminder that I’m entirely to blame for that.
I haven't talked to him since that night in my office. Haven't even looked at him directly during practice. My words destroyed him, and then I left him to burn with the wreckagewithout so much as an explanation.
Maybe it's better this way. A clean break. Less mess for both of us.
I adjust my helmet and let out a shuddering breath.
But fuck, I miss him. So much.
I grit my teeth and prepare myself for the face-off. I can salvage at least one thing tonight.
The puck drops at center ice. I win the face-off cleanly, sending it back to the defense, and the game starts.
For the first period, like magic, everything clicks. My passes are clean, my positioning is perfect, and the pain in my shoulder is manageable. The Raptors take an early lead on a power play goal, and for a few minutes, I let myself believe this might actually be the perfect ending to my career.
I let that blissful thought power me into the second period. It’s almost too good to be true.
Almost.
