Page 111 of Puck Struck
In the middle of the second period, one of the Renegades defensemen pummels me into the boards in his quest for the puck. Burning pain shoots down my entire left arm. I choke back the yell knotted in the back of my throat.
Come on, Logan. You’ve got this. Get back in the game.
My little impromptu pep talk keeps me upright, but the stick falls from my grip. My heart stutters in my chest for a terrifying second when I realize I can’t feel my fingers.
"You okay?" Cam skates up next to me, his voice laced with concern, even after I kicked him out of my life. I turn to look at him, my gut twisting at the look on his face. I don’t fucking deserve his attention after what I did, after using what he trusted me with against him.
He’s better off without me. And giving him even an inch wouldn’t be fair to him.
"Fine," I grunt, flexing my hand until the feeling returns. "Just caught me off guard. I’m good."
He watches me in silence for a second, but the play is already moving away from us. He follows me back to the bench and I realize in those seconds how much I miss us. We were so good together, on the ice, off the ice.
The feeling doesn't last long. He moves to the opposite side of the bench to watch the next string of guys work the puck down the ice. My heart dips in my chest, the loss of him almost as painful as my fucking shoulder.
By the third period, we're down by two goals, and I’m fighting a silent battle against my body to keep up with my teammates. Every shot I make is pure agony. Every check feels like someone's driving a knife between my joints. I don’t know how much longer I can fake my way through this game on pure adrenaline and stubbornness before it all shuts down permanently.
"Shaw!" Coach Enver calls over to me. "You're up!"
I hop over the boards for what I know will be my final shift. My legacy. The game is on the line. It’ll take a miracle to tie it up, and I have one last chance to make an impact, to end my career on a high note. On my terms, just like I said.
The puck comes flying at me. I take off in the direction of the Renegades goal, my skate blades slashing the ice in a frenzy. There’s an opening that’ll give me a clear path to the net.
I can do this. It’s mine.
I wind up for a slap shot, the puck perfectly positioned to sail cleanly into the net. With a low growl, I let it fly with everything in me.
The second my stick makes contact with the puck, something in my shoulder pops. And the fucking pain that followssends me crumpling down to the ice on my knees as the puck sails past the outside of the net.
"Logan." Cam's voice cuts through the sound of blood rushing between my temples. He swings around me and lands on his knees, his glove on my back. "What happened?"
"I'm fine," I try to speak, but the pain is so intense, it comes out as more of a gasp.
The trainers skate toward us. In about thirty seconds, my final game is going to become a medical emergency on live television.
"Help me up," I hiss at Cam.
"Logan, you're hurt. Let the trainers?—"
"Help me up," I say again, grabbing his arm with my good hand. "Please."
He hesitates for a second, then supports my weight as I struggle to my feet. My arm throbs, hanging dead at my side. I grit my teeth, blinking back the tears that sting my eyes. A flaming hot poker could have been driven into my shoulder and it’d probably feel the exact same way as it does right now.
The crowd erupts in applause when I make it off the ice. They probably think I’m just shaking off a hard hit. They have no idea they just watched the end of everything I've worked for.
I make it to the bench without using Cam as a crutch, but barely. Coach takes one look at me and shakes his head.
"You're done," he says. "Get that looked at."
"There's still five minutes left—" Like I could last another fucking second out there.
"You're done, Shaw." His voice is firm, sympathy pooling in his gaze. "You've given us everything. That's enough."
I wave off the trainers and sink onto the bench for the final five minutes, watching my teammates battle to tie the game. I can’tleave. Not yet.
My heart soars when Cam sets up a beautiful play, but it just misses the net and we can’t recover the puck. I look up at the clock. Three, two, one. When the final buzzer blares out, we've lost four to two.
Season over. Career over.
