Page 115 of Puck Your Feelings

I watch Becker at the far end of the rink, taking shots on an empty net, each one harder than the last. His form is off, his timing rushed. He's playing angry, and Becker never plays angry—it's one of the things that makes him so good. He plays joyful, creative, free. The Becker on the ice right now is none of those things.

And that's entirely my fault.

CHAPTER 31

Becker

I'VE HAD ONE hell of a day, and all I want is to face-plant onto the floor and not think about Kane's stupid face for at least five consecutive minutes. Is that too much to ask from the universe?

I swing open the door to Wall and Petrov's cabin, already shrugging off my hoodie, when I freeze mid-motion.

"What the actual fuck?"

Twenty-two gigantic hockey players and one Mateo are crammed into the tiny space like the world's most intimidating can of sardines. Ace is perched on one of the desks. Washington's leaning against the far wall. Petrov's sitting cross-legged on the top bunk. And Mateo is standing next to Groover with his arms folded, looking way too serious for someone wearing a shirt that says "Anthropologically Speaking, You're All Idiots."

"Surprise," Groover says flatly.

I take a step backward. "Nope. Whatever this is, I'm out."

I pivot to leave, but Wall materializes in the doorway, all six-foot-four of him blocking my escape like the world's most judgmental bouncer.

"Sit your ass down," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is happening."

"This is an intervention," Groover adds helpfully from somewhere in the sea of hockey players.

"An intervention for what, exactly?" I ask, even though I already know. "I don't have a problem."

Snooze snorts from where he's wedged between Hammer and the mini-fridge. "Yeah, and I don't have a collection of ceramic frogs."

Everyone turns to stare at him.

"What? They're cute. My niece gets me one every Christmas."

"Focus, people," Washington says, using his Dad Voice™. "Becker, sit."

I reluctantly perch on the half-empty bottom bunk, ready to bolt if Wall so much as blinks. "This is ridiculous. I don't need an intervention. I'm fine."

"You're about as fine as that time Petrov tried to cut his own hair," Wall says.

Petrov's hand flies to his head. "That was two years ago! Let it go!"

"Never," Wall and I say in unison.

"The point is," Groover interrupts, stepping forward, "you're being an idiot."

"Wow. Thanks for that insightful analysis. Problem solved. Can I go now?"

Mateo rolls his eyes. "You've been moping around for three days like someone ran over your puppy, except the puppy is your love life, and you're the one driving the car."

"I don't mope," I protest. "I brood. Moodily. There's a difference."

"You've been listening to Taylor Swift's 'All Too Well' on repeat," Ace points out. "The ten-minute version."

"How do you—"

"The cabin walls are thin, and you sing along. Badly."

I cross my arms. "It's a masterpiece of storytelling, and I won't apologize for appreciating art."