Page 24 of Puck Struck
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Jaren mumbles, nodding at our common enemy.
My spine stiffens when Keating struts over like a goddamn peacock, a dark glimmer in his eyes. “Oh yeah. Theotherwinger.”
The guys snicker and down the rest of their drinks. I remember the death look Keating shot me when I called himout at dinner the other night. The asshole is bitter and territorial. He’s never met a rookie he didn’t love to torment, but he’s got a special brand of contempt for me. And maybe I’ve earned it.
He throws a lazy glance our way, then zeroes in on Jaren’s name tag, like he can’t even be bothered to remember who the kid is.
“You boys enjoying your big moment?” he asks with a smile. “Don’t get used to it. The league may say they love you now, but they only give a damn about stats. If you can’t keep your numbers up, you’re finished. And you guys were done before you even started.”
“Speaking of numbers, how are yours doing lately, Keating?” I ask, mirroring his fake-ass smirk.
Keating’s eyes narrow. He steps closer. “Careful, Foster. You might be the media’s flavor of the month, but I’ve seen what happens when pretty faces rot.”
Tate makes a move like he’s about to step between us. I shake my head.
“I’m not worried about my face,” I say coolly. “It’s my shot they can’t stop talking about.”
His jaw clenches, but I stalk away from the group before he can reply. I’ve already given him too much of my time. Fucking dick. He deserves to take a puck to the teeth, without his mouth guard in.
There’s a glass doorway nearby that leads to a balcony. I push through the doors, even though the stifling heat persists outside. I don’t care that I can chew on the air because it’s so thick. I just need space to think. I only get about three minutes of staring off into the starry night sky before the door opens. I jerk my head around, my breath hitching when I see Logan step onto the balcony next to me.
I loosen my tie because it’s so damn tight that it’s chokingthe life out of me. But I mess up the knot and the whole thing comes apart. “Shit,” I mutter, trying to fix it and failing miserably.
Logan reaches for it, and I freeze. “Let me help you,” he says, his voice low as he reties it, his fingers brushing my collarbone, my neck.
The touch is electric. It ignites the sparks deep inside of me. I don’t want to admit how much I need it. How much I need him.
His hand lingers there for a second, closer than he’s ever been. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been in close proximity to him plenty, most times, I’m in a towel and nothing else. But this is new. This is raw.
I break the silence. “If you kiss me, I’m going to let you.”
His eyes meet mine. “Then I shouldn’t.” His voice wavers, barely, but I hear it, and it’s a body slam that can bring me to my knees. But I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He pulls away, and it singes more than it should. More than I want it to.
Why didn’t I just keep my damn mouth shut?
My phone buzzes, and I grab it, using it as an excuse to step back, to breathe my own air. A new message notification appears on the screen.
Looking good, Connor.
My throat tightens and I grip the phone hard, the urge to hurl it over the side grabbing hold.
Fuck. My blood runs cold, and I click to shut off the phone, hoping Logan doesn’t see how panicked I am and question why. The pressure is suffocating, his rejection and the text all crashing down at once.
“Cam—” Logan starts to say, but I cut him off.
“We should get back,” I say, not looking at him. I can’t. “Big crowd to impress.”
I walk back inside before he can say anything else. My heart stutters in my chest and I ball my fingers into tight fists. It fucking hurts, I won’t lie. But nothing hurts more than the fear of being exposed. Being found out.
I reenter the event, blood rushing between my ears, muffling the chaos of cameras and voices around me. I have to keep playing my part, pretending like nothing happened.
Logan returns to the ballroom. He watches me from across the room, his gaze like a laser, piercing through the crowd, sizzling my skin.
But I can’t let him in. Not now. Not ever.
I dive into conversation with a sponsor, words flowing like nothing’s wrong, like I’m not falling apart inside. We talk about an organization I work with back in Oakland called Play It Forward. It serves underprivileged kids in the city who want to learn to play sports but don’t have the means to buy equipment or pay for instruction. I’d heard about it from Carter and Larson, and once I signed with the Raptors, decided to check it out since organizations like that would have really helped me out as a kid growing up in my shithole town with no hopes for a future in hockey.
