Page 67 of Puck Struck
I grin despite myself. "Just warming up."
The next shift is more of the same. Tight checking, barely any opportunities, massive bodies colliding like wrecking balls. I take a hard hit along the boards, the wind knocked out of my lungs. Logan is on me in a hot second, shoving the Pittsburgh defender away, his eyes flashing with a protectiveness that shouldn't make my heart jump.
But fuck, it does.
"You good?" he asks, helping me up.
"I've had worse," I rasp.
By the end of the first period, the score is still deadlocked at zero. Coach Enver makes a few adjustments to the lines, tweaks our zone entries, but keeps Logan and me together.
"Keep working the cycle," he tells us. "They'll eventually crack."
The second period starts with another chaotic charge of activity. Pittsburgh scores on their first shift, a deflection off a point shot that Tate has no chance to defend against.
Logan and I take off down the ice. I intercept a weak attempt from Pittsburgh to send the puck down the ice andthen pass it to Logan. He fires it and the buzzer sounds. The arena erupts, my brain rattling from the cheers reverberating between my ears.
As we skate back to the bench, Logan bumps his glove against mine. "Nice pass."
"Nice finish."
For a moment, everything feels right. The crowd, the game, the rush of competition. No James, no blackmail, no secrets. Just hockey.
The feeling lasts until halfway through the period, when I catch a glimpse of a familiar face in the stands behind our bench. It’s not James I see, but Ryan Keating's father, William Keating. He’s a well-known hockey agent, notorious for his cut-throat tactics and the way he's completely manipulated his son's career.
William watches me with an intensity that makes my gut clench. There’s a guy next to him whom I don’t recognize. He’s tall, well-dressed, with dark hair going silver at the temples.
He watches me, too. And it’s fucking eerie.
I try to focus on the game, but I can’t shake the unease hovering over me. I miss a pass, fumble a breakout, and earn a glare from Coach Enver.
"Get your head in the game, Foster," he barks from the bench.
At the next commercial break, I lean over to Logan. "Who's the guy sitting with Keating's dad?"
Logan glances up at the stands, his expression darkening. "Don't know. Why?"
"He keeps staring at me."
Logan's eyes narrow as he turns to look closer. The man is still there, still watching, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Fuck him," Logan says, voice tight. "Focus on the game."
But the damage is done. My concentration is shot, my timing off by half-seconds that feel like hours. I push harder, my muscles tense and screaming as I try desperately to make up for it, taking chances I shouldn't.
Late in the second period, I jump a pass that isn't there. The resulting turnover sends Pittsburgh on a two-on-one rush the other way. They score, putting us down 2-1 heading into the third.
Coach Enver doesn't hold back in the intermission.
"Foster, what the hell was that? You're chasing ghosts out there." He points at the whiteboard, where he's mapped out the play. "Stay in your lane. Stick to the fucking system."
I nod, cheeks burning. "Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again."
The third period is a battle of wills. Pittsburgh clings to their lead, making us fight for every inch of ice. With five minutes left, Coach Enver calls us to the bench. "Shaw, Foster, you're up. I need a goal."
I catch Keating's expression tense as we hop over the boards, but I push it from my mind. Fuck him. It’s only about the game now.
Logan wins the face-off and sends the puck back to the defense. I drive myself forward. Masterson passes it to me, and I catch it, searching for space. The Pittsburgh defenseman closes on me fast. Too fast.
