Page 74 of Puck Struck
A lump forms in my throat. "Thanks."
"And whatever this is," he continues, gesturing between us, "it's not just..."
"Not just what?" I prompt.
"Not just sex," he says before turning on the water, his focus on the frying pan in his hand.
My heart does a dance in my chest, my mind trying to wrap tight around the implications of his words. "Okay."
"Okay," he echoes.
"I should probably head out," I say, pushing my chair back, the sharp squeak of the legs scraping against the floor making me cringe. "Got packing to do for the game. But first…"
I walk over to the counter where Ethan left my rookie card. I sign it with a flourish, adding a little sketch of a dinosaur with a hockey stick. “Make sure he gets this.” I pat it with my fingers and Logan nods, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
He walks me to the door. The morning sun casts long shadows across the porch as we stand there, awkward silence hanging over us.
Jesus, I can’t take it. I don’t know how to be this guy. I always keep shit simple and this is anything but. I need to leave. Now.
"I'll see you at the airport tomorrow?"
He nods. "Seven AM sharp."
I shift my weight, searching for words that don't come easy. "Thanks for, uh, letting me stay."
He grins. "Best brownies you ever had, right?"
"The brownies were definitely memorable."
His gaze drops to my lips, and for a moment, I think he might kiss me again. But he doesn't, just reaches out to squeeze my shoulder briefly.
"Drive safe, Foster."
The Detroit ice shimmers under the arena lights, the crowd wild with anticipation. We're up 3-1 late in the third period, and the energy on our bench is electric.
"Foster, Shaw, you're up," Coach Enver calls out. We hop over the boards, our skate blades cutting into the fresh ice.
Logan wins the face-off and chips it to me as I skate along the boards. I catch it, twist away from the Detroit defenseman, and find an open spot. The chemistry crackling between us has always been there on some level, but since that night at his house, it's like a livewire lassoing us.
I can feel him on the ice without looking. I know exactly where he'll be before he gets there. We communicate without words, just with glances and body language. It’s crazy and I’ve never felt anything like it in my life or been so in sync with another person, on or off the ice. And while it’s exhilarating, it makes me nervous at the same time.
Detroit forces a turnover in the neutral zone. One of theirforward darts toward Tate. Logan backchecks hard, and I’m able to sneak in and snatch the loose puck. Three short passes later, I fire it past the Detroit goalie, the red goal light flashing. Game over, Raptors taking the win.
The loud boos from Detroit fans can’t keep the smile from spreading across my face. We’re one step closer to the playoffs.
Logan crashes into me, his gloved hands clutching my shoulders, his face inches from mine. "That was an amazing shot."
I catch Keating watching us with narrowed eyes as we skate back to the bench. He's been quiet since our confrontation in the locker room, but I can feel his hateful gaze following me, calculating, waiting. Always. Another thing that makes me very fucking nervous.
After the game, we head back to the hotel. Carter suggests grabbing a victory beer in the hotel bar, and most of the guys cheer in response.
"You coming?" Tate asks as we ride the elevator up to drop off our bags.
"Maybe later," I say, not missing the way his gaze flicks between me and Logan, who's standing quietly in the corner of the elevator.
The guys exit on their floors, until it's just me and Logan left, on our way to the top floor where our rooms are. On this trip, Coach decided we’d have our own rooms. I guess he’s happy with the way we’re gelling.
The silence in the elevator is heavy with unspoken words.
