Page 91 of Puck Struck
"It's not your fault, and you know that won’t fly." I say the words to calm him but I’m spinning out of control. Jameshas completely invaded my life. The fucker knows where I live. He's been watching us, documenting us, and now he's making contact directly. He’s got fucking balls, that’s for sure. And I want to cut them off and stuff them down his damn throat so he chokes on them.
"Okay, so what do we do? Just let him keep calling the shots?" Cam asks.
I think about Ethan at home with a fever. About Tessa trying so hard to hold everything together. About the transplant timeline getting moved up and my career ending either way.
And I think about the fact that I'm falling in love with a man whose past is threatening to destroy everything I've built.
I know what to do. I know how to take back the control slipping through my fingers…at least where James is concerned.
"We end this," I say through clenched teeth. "Today. Whatever he wants, whatever game he's playing, we have to stop it.”
"Logan, just let me?—"
"Stop,” I cut him off. “I'm done watching you carry this alone. Let’s get a time and place, and then we finish it. We finishhim.”
"Together?"
The word hangs between us, loaded with more meaning than just the James situation. Together through all of his threats. Together through whatever comes next. Together through everything I'm too scared to say out loud.
And yeah, I’m fucking petrified about all of it.
"Yeah.” I nod, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat. “Together."
But even as I say it, I can't shake the feeling that “together” might not be enough to protect everything I love from falling apart.
TWENTY-FOUR
cam
The coffee shopJames picked is busy enough that nobody will bother us, but quiet enough that I can hear the blood rush between my ears as my temples pound. My eyes sweep the room for the third time in five fucking minutes…mapping exits, counting strangers, looking for anything that might give us an edge if things go sideways. My hands keep shaking, so I wrap them around my coffee cup. The porcelain is hot, the coffee untouched because my stomach's too twisted to handle caffeine right now.
Logan sits across from me, jaw clenched so tight I seriously think it might crack from the pressure. His phone is underneath a napkin, running a recording app. The wire Mike gave us itches the skin on my chest. I hope that the microphone hidden under my collar picks up everything we need to nail the bastard. We've gone over the plan a dozen times, but I still feel like I might hurl all over the table at any given second.
"He's ten minutes late," Logan mutters, dropping his eyes to his watch.
"Maybe he's not coming." But I don’t believe that. He’lldefinitely be here. He’s persistent as fuck. I know that from personal experience.
"Assholes like him live for this shit. He’d never give up the chance to gloat and feel like he’s got some power over us. He’ll be here."
I take a sip of coffee and immediately regret it when acid burns the back of my throat on the way down. "What if this doesn't work? What if the recording isn't enough?"
"Stop worrying." Logan's eyes drop down to his buzzing phone for a long minute and then lock onto mine. "If we come up empty, we'll figure something else out. In the meantime, just trust me, okay?"
Two days ago, I was convinced Logan was better off without my toxic shit dragging him down. Now he's here, risking his reputation and his family's safety, all because he won't let me face this alone.
"There," Logan says, his voice dropping. His eyes flicker over my shoulder and toward the doorway.
My skin prickles before I cast a glance over my shoulder. James walks in like he owns the fucking place, scanning the room until his eyes lock onto our table. Perfect suit, crisp white shirt, hair styled like he's heading to a board meeting instead of a blackmail showdown. The sight of him makes my stomach churn. Bile rises in my throat.
He walks slowly and purposefully with that predatory smile I remember too well, the one that always made me feel like meat on display.
"Connor," he says, pulling out the chair next to mine instead of across from us. My old name stings like a slap. "And Logan. So nice to finally meet you officially."
Logan doesn't respond. He just stares tight-lipped at James with the kind of icy fury that probably makes rookies shit themselves on the ice when they face-off with him.
"You know," James continues in a conversational tone, like we're all asshole buddies just catching up, "I've been following your career, Logan. Very impressive. Fourteen years in the NHL, stellar stats, respected veteran. You've built quite a reputation for yourself."
"Cut the shit," Logan snaps. "What do you want?"
