Page 110 of Puck Your Feelings

Becker

THE DOOR TO Wall and Petrov's cabin might actually splinter under my knuckles if I keep pounding like this, but it's the middle of the night and my give-a-fuck meter broke somewhere between Kane's "I don't think we should do this" and me spending a Sunday walking aimlessly through Colorado woods.

stumbling out of our cabin with half my shit crammed into a duffel bag.

My fist connects with the wood again. And again. And—

"Jesus fucking Christ, I'm coming!" Wall's muffled voice carries through the door. "If someone's not actively dying, they're about to be."

The door swings open to reveal Wall in boxers and a faded Wolves t-shirt, one eye squinted shut like he can't commit to being fully awake. He takes one look at me—duffle bag slung over my shoulder, eyes probably red-rimmed from definitely not crying, expression probably screamingemotional damage—and his face shifts from annoyed to concerned faster than a line change.

"Can I crash here for a while." It's not even a question. More like a desperate announcement. Before Wall can respond, I add, "I'll sleep on the floor."

Without waiting for permission, I shoulder past him into the cabin like I'm being chased by my feelings. Which, honestly, I am.

The cabin is dark except for a small lamp by Petrov's bunk, where he’s propped up on one elbow, blinking at me with sleep-heavy eyes.

"Are you okay?" Wall asks, shutting the door behind me.

"Yep. Fine. Dandy. Never better." I drop my duffel with a thud that probably wakes up half the camp. "Just peachy."

Petrov leans toward Wall, not bothering to lower his voice. "I don't think he's okay."

"I can hear you, you know?"

"What happened?" Wall asks, crossing to the mini-fridge and pulling out a bottle of water, which he tosses at me.

I catch it one-handed. "Nothing. Just temporarily unhoused." I twist the cap off and chug half the bottle in one go, like it might wash away the image of Kane's face when he said I was acomplication.

Wall's eyes narrow. "Wait. Did Kane throw you out?"

Petrov sits up fully now, leaning toward Wall and stage-whispering loud enough for the entire state of Colorado to hear: "I think they broke up."

"I can still hear you!" I throw my hands up, sloshing water over the rim of the bottle. "And we didn't break up because we weren't…anything."

Except we were. We fucking were, and Kane knows it, and I know it, and my heart feels like it's been put through a hockey skate sharpener.

I collapse into the only chair in the room, a rickety wooden thing that creaks ominously under my weight. My head's already pounding like I've been on a three-day bender, which would honestly be preferable to whatever emotional clusterfuck this is.

Wall and Petrov position themselves directly in front of me, folding their arms across their chests in perfect unison and tilting their heads like they share a single brain cell between them. It would be funny if I wasn't busy having an existential crisis.

"Something like that," I admit, rolling my eyes. "But I don't want to talk about it." Wall opens his mouth, and I raise a finger. "We'renottalking about it."

"Fine," Wall says, in a tone that suggests he has absolutely zero intention of respecting my boundaries.

He pulls out his phone and starts typing, thumbs flying across the screen. Five seconds later, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

New group chat created: Crisis.

The chat already has eight members—Wall, Petrov, Groover, Mateo, Ace, Washington, Coach, and me.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I look up at Wall, who has the audacity to look pleased with himself. "This is a shitty thing to do."

"Don't worry," he says, still typing. "We'll do another one with Kane and without you."

"That's worse!" I throw a pillow at his head, which he dodges with goalie reflexes. "That's literally worse in every possible way!"

"You're welcome," Wall says, dropping onto his bunk. "Now, are you going to tell us what happened, or are we going to have to drag it out of Kane tomorrow?"