Page 38 of Puck Struck
You’re running out of time. Say goodbye to your fairy tale, Connor.
Attached is a screenshot of the Rising Stars promotional flyer. There’s a red X slashed across my face.
I grip the phone tight, a red haze coloring my vision.
Logan steps forward. “What is it?”
I close the message. “Nothing.”
But I know he doesn’t believe me.
Not anymore.
I can lie to the press. I can lie to the team. But I can’t lie to him forever. And when the truth comes out…which it will…it’s going to destroy everything.
THIRTEEN
logan
I can’t sleep.
I lie in bed, one arm thrown over my eyes, the other aching like hell. The pain in my shoulder is a dull throb that shoots down to my fingertips, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in my chest every time I think about Cam’s face last night. I’ve taken hits to the ribs, face, and back that hurt less.
He said it was better that I hadn’t kissed him.
That was total bullshit. I could see it in the way his lips parted, the way he stopped breathing when I got close, the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes afterward. Like he wanted me close and hated that he did.
Fuck me, I wanted it too.
I still do.
But I kept my distance, far enough from temptation. Because I know that once I let myself fall for Cam, the crash will come hard and fast.
He’s chaos wrapped in sunshine and glitter. He’s reckless, with an addictive charm that hides scars so deep, I can feel them like phantom bruises on my skin. He hides behind his bright smiles and pretends like nothing touches him, like hefloats above all the noise, but I see how hard he works just to keep that façade in place. He’s at risk for being sucked into something dark and deep, I’m sure of it.
And not knowing what is fucking killing me.
I get to the training facility by six the next morning. The lights still flicker on as I enter the physical therapy wing, empty except for the soft hum of the whirlpool tanks and the thump of my sneakers on the tile floor.
“Morning, Shaw,” Jimmy, the head athletic trainer, says as I drop onto the padded table.
“Morning.”
He starts rolling my shoulder, gently at first, then deeper. I grimace, biting back the pain.
“That tight, huh?”
“Tighter than a duck’s ass.”
Jimmy chuckles. “So... bad.”
He grabs the resistance bands and loops one around my wrist. “Three sets. Slow, controlled. You know the drill.”
“I’m not new to this,” I grumble.
“No, you’re just stubborn.”
With a deep sigh, I go through the motions doing sets of lateral raises and pulldowns to help stabilize the torn muscles in my shoulder. The pain isn’t sharp. It’s deep, throbbing, and nagging. Like something that never fully healed and never will.
