Page 113 of Puck Your Feelings

Comments start flooding in:

Where's Kane?

That was... different. You okay, man?

Where's Kane?

I miss the robot teaching segments

did something happen?

This feels like when my parents got divorced and tried to pretend everything was fine

Where's Kane?

The numbers keep climbing.

Two months ago, I would've lost my shit over this kind of engagement. I would've been texting screenshots to the team group chat, bragging about how my little podcast was finally taking off. I would've been planning merchandise, sponsorship pitches, maybe even a live show.

Now I'm just staring at the numbers climbing higher and higher, feeling absolutely nothing.

No, that's not right. I'm feeling something, and that something is the crushing realization that I don't actually give a shit about how many people listen to me talk about hockey. I never did. What I cared about was having fun with Kane, making him laugh, watching him slowly let his personality peek through that perfect, professional facade.

I cared about him. Just him.

And now he's gone, and I'm left with a successful podcast I can't even enjoy.

My phone buzzes with a private text:

Groover: That was the saddest thing I've ever heard, and I once watched Petrov try to explain American holidays to his grandmother.

I sigh.

Me: Thanks for the support, asshole.

CHAPTER 30

Kane

THE ICE HAS always been my sanctuary—the one place where everything makes sense. Where rules are clear, positions defined, success measurable. Five a.m. at the rink with nobody else around has been my ritual since I was six years old, but today the scrape of my blades against fresh ice sounds hollow, like it's echoing through an empty chest.

Mine, specifically.

I push harder into my edges, carving deep crescents as I circle the rink. Came in early specifically to avoid the locker room confrontation that would inevitably happen if I showed up with everyone else. I can already picture it: Becker's eyes refusing to meet mine, the awkward dance of two people trying to occupy the same space without acknowledging each other's existence, the rest of the team pretending not to notice while noticing everything.

Fuck that noise. I'll take the 4a.m. alarm instead.

"This was the right call," I mutter to myself as I cut a tight turn around the faceoff circle. "It's better for both of us."

The words hang in the frigid air, unconvincing even to my own ears. I pick up speed, trying to outrun the thoughts chasing me around the rink.

I'm halfway through my fifteenth lap when I hear the doors finally open, voices spilling into the previously silent arena.

I slow my pace and drift toward the bench, hoping to blend into the boards like some kind of chameleon. Coach Martin is already there, clipboard in hand, looking like he's planning to torture us in new and innovative ways. At least that'll be a distraction.

The guys filter onto the ice one by one, Wall complaining about the early hour, Groover and Ace already passing a puck between them. My eyes betray me, instantly seeking out the one person I'm trying to avoid.

And there he is.