Page 31 of Puck Struck
He lets out a dry laugh. “Entitled little prick. You’ve got a decent slapshot. Don’t trip on your ego, brah.”
Then he walks out the door without a look back. I’m left alone in the dark, cold room, surrounded by the sound of my own ragged breathing.
My fists clench. I want to chase the fucker down and slam his head against his locker. But I force myself to leave the room, squinting under the overhead lights of the hallway.
Coasted… pressure… cutthroat.
I shake it off, I can handle locker-room politics. I can fight back. And I will. Always.
Once I’m home, I lie on my bed with my sketchpad, drawing doodles of dinosaurs. A few rogue lines and the Logan-osaurus comes to life on the page with lots of teeth andsharp lines. My traitorous hand makes quick work of the Cam-ceratops. This time, the dinos aren’t playing. They're facing off like they're about to rip each other to pieces.
It’s darn close to accurate most of the time. Except for today. Logan was legit worried about me after the stick broke. He was almost protective of me. It was nice. I haven’t felt that in…well, shit, it was in another life.
I stare at the sketch and shade in the figures, the television blaring in the background. I like to have it on but I don’t really watch. It’s just comforting to have some noise. Keeps the dark thoughts at bay. When I was young, I spent a lot of time home alone, especially at night. The television was kind of like a security blanket. It made me feel safe, kept me company, made me feel less alone.
Unfortunately, it’s not working as effectively for me now.
My phone pings on the coffee table. I grab it, my throat tight as I swipe to view the notification.
Can you believe how close I can get to you, Connor? Are you scared? You should be.
Someone knows my secret and wants me off the ice.
And that someone’s ready to strike again.
I throw the phone at the wall. It leaves a deep dent in the freshly painted sheetrock.
Whoever the fuck is watching me…if they think they’re scaring me, that I’m going to back down to their bullshit threats, then they have no idea how hard I can fight.
And how I won’t lose.
ELEVEN
logan
Tessa’s voicedrifts into the kitchen, cheerful in that forced, I’m-not-worried way she’s perfected since Ethan’s diagnosis. “Bloodwork came back. No red flags.”
I glance up from my mug of coffee, still halfway lost in the steam. “Okay…” I feel like there’s more to say that she just isn’t, like there’s a shoe over my head that’s about to drop. Hard.
She sets the printed test results on the counter, but her eyes are on me. “The plan is to keep monitoring him, though. Just in case.”
My fingers curl around my coffee mug, the heat barely sinking into skin that’s been numb for weeks. Months. Maybe longer.
“That’s good,” I finally say, even though I don’t trust it. Good news never stays that way. It’s just a delay in the inevitable.
“It’s not what I want to hear, but it’s better than the alternative.”
My stomach tightens. It always does when we talk about Ethan like he’s a medical file and not the reason I’m still holding my shit together. “Right.”
She leans against the counter across from me, arms folded. “So. You look like hell.”
“Thanks, sis. You really know how to pump up a guy’s ego.”
Tessa rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Did something happen with anyone on the team? Who’s the reason for all this?” she asks, waving her hand around me.
My eyebrows fly upward. “All what?”
“Someone has you in a twist,” she says with a knowing grin. “Because this particular level of tortured brooding only shows up when you’re spiraling.”
