Page 41 of Puck Struck
“Go,” she says. “You need a break.”
“I was gonna stay?—”
She gives me a look. “Logan. You’ve been angry and restless for days. Go. Do something that doesn’t make you feel like the world is closing in.”
I want to argue.
But I don’t.
Because she knows as well as I do where I really want to be.
The rink is mostly empty by the time I get back there. The event’s over, most of the kids and volunteers gone. But the hum of the Zamboni echoes across the empty sheet of ice. It’s dark and peaceful.
I scan the space and spot Cam sitting on the bench, arms draped over the back, head tilted like he’s listening to something far away.
“You planning on a sleepover or something?”
He jerks his head toward me, surprised. His face relaxes into a smile when he sees me. “Nah, too cold for me.”
I chuckle.
He stands, stretching his arms over his head. “I thought everyone left.”
“Carter said they needed help cleaning up.”
He rolls his eyes. “Bullshit. They didn’t need anyone. Everything was done by the time I got here.”
I don’t answer. Fucking Carter. Does everyone see what’s happening between me and Cam?
He gets up and walks past me toward the far end of the rink.
“I used to hate ice rinks,” he says, his voice echoing. “I thought they smelled like real pain feels. Like crushing pressure.”
“Then why’d you choose hockey as a profession?”
“Because it’s the only place I’ve ever felt like I mattered.”
The way he says it is so honest and raw. I want to dig deeper but his tone begs me not to.
“That night outside the bar.” I follow behind him. “Why did you tell me it was better that I didn’t kiss you at the gala?”
He stops and turns, his green eyes darkening. “Because things would get too complicated.”
I close the space between us, the scent of his cologne teasing my nostrils. “What if I said that I didn’t care about making things complicated? What if I said I just wanted to kiss you, fuck the consequences?”
The heat in his stare warms me despite the frigid air around us. “Then don’t let me stop you again.”
And this time, I don’t.
I grab his face and crush my lips against his, fierce, demanding, and voracious.
The kiss is rough and clumsy and so perfect. I dip my tongue into his mouth and it coils with his—hot, hungry, and intense. His fingers dig into my arms like he doesn’t want to let go. We stumble backward into the boards, the cool glass hard against my back. My hands are everywhere—his waist, his jaw, his hair.
He moans into my mouth, and it undoes me.
We break apart only when we’re breathless. He’s flushed, his lips red, his eyes half-hooded.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I wanted that for so long.”
