Page 43 of Puck Struck
The name alone makes bile rise and shoot up the back of my throat.
Three years ago, he was just another client. Older. Wealthy. Powerful. He booked me through the agency for what was supposed to be a one-time arrangement. I was going to accompany him to a fundraiser, nothing more.
But he became obsessed and started booking me directly. Then he began showing up at hockey events and following me home.
I remember the expensive suits he'd buy me. The way he'd parade me around at events like a trophy. The possessive grip on my arm that left bruises. The way his smile never reached his eyes.
And most of all, the restraining order I filed when he wouldn't take no for an answer.
When I tried to cut him off, his obsession changed into something a lot more dangerous.
"No one walks away from me, Connor."
I’ll never forget those chilling words he left on my voicemail the night before a junior league playoff game. Then he'd slashed my tires, left threatening notes on my windshield, and started rumors with scouts.
The restraining order was a last resort, but it was the only way I could exist without constantly having to look over my shoulder. I filed it under my real name, not Cam Foster, the name I'd created to separate myself from Connor, from the desperate kid who'd done what he had to just to survive.
And fuck, I wish all the time that I’d had other options and made different choices.
I thought I was free when I got drafted and moved across the country. I changed my number and deleted all my old social media accounts. I buried Connor…and James.
But the bastard found me anyway.
And now he's threatening Logan.
I climb out of bed, my heart rate spiking, and grab my sketchpad. But today, the pictures aren’t my normal happy, silly ones. Instead, my hand movements are jerky, the lines jagged, and the dinosaur I try to draw becomes something darker, more ominous.
I rip out the page, crumple it into a tight ball, and start over.
The next attempt isn't any better. The pencil tip snaps because of how hard I dig it into the page.
"Fuck," I whisper, pressing the heels of my palms into my burning eyes.
I can't drag Logan into this. I won't.
But the memory of his kiss still burns across my lips. And the way he looked at me, not at the golden boy, not at the rookie, but atme,still makes chills skitter up and down my arms. It was like he saw something worth holding onto.
I haven’t felt that in a damn long time.
I grab my phone and send a text to the account James’s last message came from.
Leave him out of this. He has nothing to do with us.
Three gray dots appear immediately. Christ, was he holding the phone just in case I’d finally reply?
Us? So you admit there's still an us. Meet me tonight. The bar at the Colombia Hotel at 8pm. Come alone or I start leaking things to the press.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, grinding myback teeth as I debate how to respond. I could forget what I just sent. Block him. Change my number again. Tell someone.
But who? The team? The press would have a field day. The police? They'd ask questions I can't answer.
Logan?
The thought makes my stomach twist. Logan with his perfect, untarnished reputation and straight-laced life. Family who loves him, teammates who respect him.
No. I can't.
And again, I’m about to make a bad fucking choice because there are no alternatives. Not for me.
