Page 39 of Puck Struck
Jimmy doesn’t comment at my facial expressions as I do the exercises. He just tapes me up once I’m finished and says, “You know, you can keep carrying this shit alone, but eventually, it’s gonna drop. You’re not indestructible.”
“Sure feels like I am.”
“Yeah?” He gives me a look. “Tell that to your shoulder.”
By the time I hit the ice for practice, my shoulder’s already screaming.
I pop a couple of Advil in the locker room before warm-ups,biting down the urge to groan when I roll it in its socket. It’ll relieve the pain temporarily, but career-ending pain never goes away for too long. It’s like a reminder that I’m on a clock, and I can only hit snooze for so long.
The rest of the team filters out onto the rink, blades cutting clean lines into the ice. I spot Cam immediately at the far boards, shooting the shit with Tate and Colby, tossing the puck back and forth between his blade and Colby’s like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I furrow my brow.
I see it.
The twitch in his shoulders.
The way his eyes flick toward the stands.
The way he glances down at his phone in between drills like he’s waiting for something, or someone, to find him.
He’s not his normal dickhead self today. He’s on edge and distracted.
“Shaw! Foster! Pair up,” Coach yells. “Breakout drill, two-on-two.”
Of course.
Cam skates over and tosses the puck between us. “Try not to hold me back, old man.”
“You gonna pass this time?” I say, circling him like a shark, kicking up snow as I do.
“Only if you’re fast enough to keep up.”
I bite down hard on my mouth guard and drop into a crouch as Coach blows the whistle.
Cam explodes forward, fast as hell, weaving between cones and slicing through defenders. I push harder, shoulder burning, trying to stay in sync. We reach the crease, Cam pivots, fakes left, then drops the puck back to me?—
Only I’m late.
Half a second too slow.
The puck grazes the heel of my blade and glides away.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
Cam spins, eyebrows raised. “That was yours.”
“I had it,” I say.
He doesn’t press. But the look he gives me says everything.
The second time around, we click. Pass, pass, fake, shoot. It’s fluid. No words needed. Just instinct.
Even Coach nods from the bench.
“You two finally learning to play nice?” Carter calls from the sideline.
Cam grins. “Don’t get used to it.”
