Page 30 of Puck Struck
I’m paired with Logan against Keating and Jaren for the next drill. We skate into the mass of guys angling for position. The puck drops. Logan and I pass in a quick triangle, drawing Jaren out of position. Logan slides into the open slot, and I pop a perfect bounce pass to him. He roofs it off the post for a goal.
Again, my heart floats up in my chest. A real, honest-to-goodness smile from the Ice King. And I had something to do with it.
Keating skates past, his jaw clenched. “Cheap goal.”
I smirk. “Don’t worry. We’re not close to even yet.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Keating says, grinding on his mouth guard.
I shrug and skate away from him, tired of breathing in his toxic air. By the time we hit the next drill, my focus is split in two directions. One is half laser-locked on the plays, the other is on Logan. He corners a puck, then pins a defenseman to the wall and flicks it back to me. We move so smoothly together that I almost forget I’m supposed to be angry with him for what happened…or rather, didn’t happen...on that balcony the other night.
“Nice touch,” I pant, circling back for another shift.
He nods, piercing eyes heating my insides. “You’re not too bad, Foster.”
My heart gives a goofy lurch. Not too bad? For a rookie? For me? I just grin and skate hard toward the blue line, snag the puck, and whip a wrist shot to the top of the net just as the whistle blows.
Logan whips around. “Fucking show-off.”
“Jealous?” I say, stopping inches away.
He grins. “Of the guy who nearly face-planted into the boards?”
Before he can answer, Coach blows his whistle. “Cut the small talk and change lines.”
Coach claps his hands, signaling the end of practice station one. My lungs burn. My legs feel like Jell-O. But Logan’s voice drifts through the chaos each time he glides past.
When practice finally ends, we head to the locker room, our jerseys drenched, hair matted to our heads. The locker room smells like sweat and victory. I love it. Better than any Yankee Candle scent.
Carter sinks onto the bench next to me with a towel draped over his shoulders. “That broken stick of yours wasn’t an accident,” he murmurs.
I shrug, fiddling with the cracked blade on my new stick. “Maybe I’ve got a secret fan club.”
“Just be careful. I’m going to make sure we keep a tighter eye on things.”
I nod. “Thanks.” He doesn’t give any indication as to who he thinks might have tampered with my stick, but I have a pretty fucking good idea.
Logan walks over, peeling off his gloves. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I finish taping my shaft. “You ready for the weekend? Big home game.” That’s right, keep it simple and neat and organized when my feelings for him are anything but.
He smiles. “Yep. But hey, let me know if you need anything.” He pauses for a second, almost as if he wants to say more but then thinks it’d be better not to. He’s gone before I can even press.
I finish getting dressed, throw my bag over my shoulder, and head toward the equipment room to drop off my stick. The corridor is dark, a half-burned-out fluorescent light flickering overhead. I push through the door to the room and find Keating already messing with the stick rack. His back is to me.
I glare at his back. “Touch my gear again and I’ll show you what real pain looks like.”
He straightens, slowly twisting toward me. A sly smile lifts his lips. He’s calm, and I want to beat his smug ass face with my stick. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t, asshole.” I hold up the shattered blade for him to see. “You think this is funny?”
He steps toward me, creeping closer and closer until our noses practically touch. “You think I’d risk fucking up my own drills to mess with your stick?”
“You’ve been trying to screw with me since I got here.”
He shrugs, a knowing glitter in his beady eyes. “Maybe I just don’t like pretty boys who coast in and think they’ve earned their spot just because the press kisses their asses.”
My heart thuds. He just hit the nerve. “Pretty boy? Coasted? You don’t know a damn thing about me or what I went through to get here.”
