Page 46 of Puck Struck
"Am I?" He taps his phone screen. "One call to the press. One email to the right blogger. That's all it takes to end your little fairy tale."
"You think I care about that?" I meet his gaze, fury eclipsing the fear. "Go ahead. Tell them. I'm not that scared kid anymore, James. I don't need hockey to survive."
It's a blatant lie, but I sell it with everything I have.
His expression darkens. "Maybe not. But what about your teammates? Do you think the Raptors would keep you around once they know? There would be a lot of backlash on the organization. And do you think Logan would look at you the same way?"
The words hit their target with devastating accuracy. He’s a fucking asshole marksman as well as a psychopath.
James slides a business card across the table. "You have a choice. Come with me willingly, or I send everything I have to every sports outlet in the country." He stands, straightening his jacket. "Make the right one this time, Connor. And do it fast.” He flashes a nasty smile. “Everything is riding on it."
He drops cash on the table and walks out, leaving me frozen in the booth, my heart hammering a hole in my chest.
Everything. And everyone.
By the time I make it to morning practice the next day, my mind has sped through no less than a hundred scenarios. None of them end well for me.
The locker room is loud when I walk in. Tate and Colby argue about some new reality show, Carter reviews plays with Masterson, and equipment guys work their way around with tape and jerseys.
Logan sits in the corner, meticulously wrapping his stick. He doesn't look up when the other guys greet me, but I feel the pull. The memory of his lips on mine makes my skinflush hot.
"Earth to Foster," Tate calls, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "You with us, brah?"
I blink. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Didn't sleep?" His eyebrows waggle. "Or couldn't sleep?"
If only he knew the reason was fear, not lust, for keeping my eyes open all night.
"Something like that," I mutter, opening my locker.
As I strip off my shirt, I catch Logan eyeing me in the mirror. His gaze is neutral, almost cold, but I see the heat flickering in the depths of his blue eyes. The question that hangs.
Why did you leave me after that kiss?
I want to go to him. Explain. But the words stick in my throat like tar.
If you knew what I was, you'd never look at me that way again.
So I keep quiet.
Practice is brutal. Coach runs us through drills that make my lungs burn and legs scream. I push harder than I need to, trying to drown out the dread pulsing through me. I ignore Logan’s curious gaze as we run through our plays, counting down the minutes before I can get the hell out of here.
Keating corners me after practice, just outside the physical therapy room. His smile is sharp and knowing, and it takes everything in my not to smack it off.
“You were sloppy today,” he says.
“Fuck off,” I grunt, edging around him.
"Funny thing about secrets. They don’t stay secret forever.”
My heart stutters to a stop, mind tripping back to him whispering with the mystery man. “What the hell are you talking about?
“Got an interesting call this morning," he says, leaning against the wall and preventing me from a quick escape.
"Not in the mood, Keating."
"Oh, I think you will be." His voice drops. "This guy says he knows you. Says he's got quite the story to tell."
