Page 111 of Puck Your Feelings

My stomach twists at the thought of Kane explaining to everyone why I wasn't worth the trouble. Why I was an inconvenience for his precious hockey legacy.

"We had a thing. Now we don't. The end." I unzip my bag and pull out a t-shirt that might work as pajamas. "Now I'd like to go to sleep and pretend this day never happened."

Petrov and Wall exchange a look that says they're not buying my bullshit for a second.

"Fine," Wall says. "But this conversation isn't over."

"It absolutely is," I mutter, arranging my duffel as a makeshift pillow on the floor.

Wall tosses me a spare blanket. "We'll talk in the morning."

"Or never. Never works too."

I curl up on the hard floor, pulling the blanket over my head like it might shield me from the disaster that is my love life. My phone buzzes again.

Wall:Attention. This is an emergency. Operation Fix Becker's Broken Heart now is progress.

Groover:What happened?

Mateo:Are you okay? Is Kane okay?

Washington:Everyone calm down. Becker, do you need anything?

Jesus Christ. It's like being emotionally eviscerated with an audience.

Becker:I NEED EVERYONE TO FUCK OFF AND LET ME SLEEP

I silence my phone and shove it under my makeshift pillow, closing my eyes against the burn of tears I refuse to acknowledge.

Kane's voice echoes in my head:"My career. Without complications."

Fuck him. Fuck his perfect hockey lineage and his robot brain and his abs.

And fuck me for believing, even for a minute, that I was something more than a complication.

***

THE CABIN DOOR slams with the finality of a coffin lid the next morning, Wall's parting "Don't mope yourself to death" still hanging in the air like a bad smell. I flip off the empty roombecause it makes me feel marginally better, then collapse back onto the bottom bunk that isn't mine.

Fuck breakfast. Fuck the dining hall. Fuck seeing Kane's stupid perfect face across the room pretending I don't exist.

Except now, I have nothing to do with myself.

"Well, this is pathetic," I announce to nobody.

Content. That’s what I can do. Content.

I grab whatever recording setup I managed to stuff into my hastily-packed duffel.

"Ice Cold Takes, broadcasting at you from rock bottom," I mutter, setting up my microphone on Wall's desk. "Today's topic: How to Tell If Your Heart's Been Ripped Out By Someone Who Can't Even Express Normal Human Emotions. Spoiler alert: it fucking hurts."

I take a deep breath. Turn on the mic. Force a smile because listeners can hear that shit even if they can't see it.

"What's up, hockey degenerates? It's your boy Becker, back with another episode of Ice Cold Takes!"

My voice sounds wrong. Too high, too forced. Like I'm doing a bad impression of myself.

"Today we're talking about—" About what? Kane? How he fucked me and then fucked me over? How I still don't understand what happened? How I'm hiding in my teammates' cabin because I can't bear to look at him?