Page 112 of Puck Your Feelings

"—about the importance of defensive positioning in the neutral zone."

Jesus Christ. Even I'm boring myself.

I try again. "Actually, let's talk about something more interesting. Like how Gatorade's new flavor 'Frost GlacierCherry' is just watered-down cough syrup with food coloring. Big Sports Drink thinks we won't notice, but we do. We see you, Gatorade. We see you."

My Gatorade conspiracy theories usually kill. Wall once laughed so hard he shot protein shake out his nose. But today the words fall flat, like I'm reading someone else's script.

"Moving on to team news," I continue mechanically. "Training camp's winding down, last team scrimmage approaching. Should be a good test for our systems, see if all this conditioning pays off or if Coach Martin's just been torturing us for fun."

I pause, subconsciously waiting for Kane to jump in with some stats about our preseason record against Boston over the last five years, or a comment about Coach's sadistic training methods.

But there's just silence.

Because Kane's not here.

Because Kane dumped me.

Because Kane's an emotionally constipated asshole who'd rather listen to his controlling daddy issues than admit he has actual human feelings.

"Fuck," I mutter, forgetting the mic is still on. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

I hit pause, drag my hands down my face, and contemplate throwing my entire setup out the window. Instead, I take another deep breath and hit record again.

"Sorry about that, folks. Technical difficulties. By which I mean my brain is technically having difficulties functioning today."

I laugh, and it sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"So, uh, training camp's been... interesting. Lots of team building. Svetlana the figure skating demon nearly killed half the roster. Wall's still traumatized. Petrov's got a bruise on his face from Wall's elbow. Good times."

I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling. But I can't seem to stop.

"Anyway, Coach says our defensive pairings are looking solid. Me and K—" I catch myself. "Me and my defensive partner have been working on our chemistry. Had some ups and downs."

Understatement of the fucking century.

"Down to the final week now. Roster should be set by Friday, though there's not much suspense there. Maybe one or two changes might sneak in, but the core's pretty locked."

I trail off, staring at the wall. There's a greasy stain that kind of looks like a dick if you squint.

"You know what?" I say suddenly. "I'm gonna keep this one short. Got a lot going on today. Make sure you like and subscribe, and I'll be back with more... whatever this is... soon. Peace out."

I hit stop and immediately drop my head onto the desk with a bang that will probably leave a bruise.

That was the most pathetic podcast episode in the history of audio content. I should delete it and try again when I'm not actively wanting to die. Or at least record something where I don't sound like I'm being held at gunpoint.

I hit play and listen back, cringing through all 12 minutes and 37 seconds of pure auditory torture.

I should definitely not post this. It's a sad, lifeless husk of what my podcast usually is. Without Kane to play off of, without his deadpan humor and surprising insights, it's just me talking to myself. And apparently, I'm really boring when I'm heartbroken.

I hit upload anyway.

Because I'm a professional. Or something.

While it processes, I flop back onto Wall's bed, staring at the underside of Petrov's bunk. There's a sock stuck to the frame. I don't want to know how it got there.

My phone pings with the notification that the upload is complete. I pull it up, expecting maybe a handful of early views from my most dedicated listeners.

Instead, I see 1,547 people already watching.