Page 123 of Puck Your Feelings

It takes me a moment to realize I'm crying. Actually crying. Tears rolling down my face and onto Becker's as we kiss like we're trying to make up for tn years apart.

Becker's hands come up to cup my face, his thumbs wiping at my cheeks even as we keep kissing. "You're such a disaster," he murmurs against my mouth.

"Upgrade," I manage, my voice cracking on the word. Another kiss. "All the way up."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes are doing that soft thing that makes my chest hurt in an entirely different way than it's been hurting for the past seventy-two hours.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "All the way up."

We shift without discussion, some unspoken agreement that sitting two feet apart is no longer acceptable. Becker's arm comes around my shoulders, tugging me against his side. I let him, tucking my head against his chest and trying not to thinkabout how pathetic I must look right now—tear-streaked face, running nose, the works.

His heartbeat thuds against my ear. Steady. Reliable. The complete opposite of everything in feel right now.

The sun's fully up now, orange light spilling across the gym floor and turning the scuff marks into abstract art.

I breathe him in. And again. And again.

The relief is so profound it's almost painful, like blood rushing back into a limb that's been asleep too long.

And then, he asks, "What are you going to do about your father?" dropping my mood like a stone through ice.

Right. My father. The man whose opinion has dictated every major decision I've made since I was six years old. Who I've been trying to please for eighteen years. Who just threatened to destroy the man currently holding me and turned out to have all the actual power of a wet paper bag.

"I have no idea."

I have a dozen contingency plans for neutral zone breakouts and defensive coverage schemes, but absolutely zero idea how to handle the fact that my father is a manipulative asshole.

Where do you even start with that? Family therapy? Cutting him off completely? Awkward phone calls where we both pretend nothing happened?

I turn my head to look at Becker and find him already watching me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Not his usual shit-eating grin or his sarcastic smirk. This is something else. Something that looks suspiciously like mischief.

"What?" I ask, wary.

The smile widens. "Good thing I'm never out of ideas."

CHAPTER 33

Becker

WALKING INTO THE dining hall with Kane feels like entering a gladiatorial arena, except instead of lions, I'm facing two dozens hockey players with too much time on their hands and a collective IQ that drops by half when gossip's involved.

The second we step through the door—side by side, subtlety be damned—every single conversation dies mid-sentence.

Twenty something pairs of eyes lock onto us with the intensity of snipers acquiring targets.

"Oh, fuck me," I mutter under my breath.

Kane's hand brushes mine. "Pretty sure that's what got us into this situation."

I bark out a laugh that echoes way too loud in the sudden silence, and that's when all hell breaks loose.

"Finally!" Wall bellows from across the room, arms thrown up like he just won a game.

Groover slams his palm on the table. "Knew it! Called it!"

"You did not call shit," Ace argues.

"They're giving me whiplash," Petrov announces, rubbing his temples. "Up, down, together, apart. Is like soap opera but with more violence."