Page 125 of Puck Your Feelings

I’m more nerve-wracked than that time Iaccidentallyset off the fire alarm at 3 AM and the entire building evacuated to watch me explain to the fire department that no, there wasn't a fire, just a regrettable Tinder date I needed to evacuate via alternative methods.

This is different. This isn't just me being an idiot on the internet for entertainment purposes. This is—

"You're doing that thing again," Groover says, skating past me during warm-ups.

"What thing?" I ask, even though I know exactly what thing.

"That thing where you look like you're about to shit yourself." He circles back. "You good?"

"Peachy," I lie.

Groover studies me for another second, then shrugs. "If you say so. Try not to fall on your face when the cameras are rolling."

"No promises," I mutter as he skates off.

The rink is chaos incarnate—the good kind, the kind that happens before big games when everyone's energy is crackling like live wires.

Except this isn’t a big game. This is a scrimmage. Lat one of the camp.

Equipment scattered across benches, players stretching, taping sticks, chirping each other with the easy rhythm of guys who've spent way too much time living in each other's pockets.

Mateo's up in the broadcast booth—well, "booth" is generous. It's more like a folding table with our streaming setup, but he's treating it like he's directing an Oscar-winning film. He's wearing Groover's jersey, backward, and I can see him fiddling with camera angles while talking into his headset.

Coach Martin's up there with him, already mic'd up for commentary. I can hear snippets of their sound check drifting across the ice.

"—test, test, can you hear me?" Coach's voice booms through the speakers.

"Too loud, Coach," Mateo says, adjusting something. "We're going for 'professional sports commentary,' not 'angry dad at a Little League game.'"

"I'll show you angry dad—"

"And we're live in ten!" Mateo announces.

My stomach does another Olympic-worthy flip.

Kane skates up beside me, silent. I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His jaw's tight, and he's gripping his stick so hard it might break.

"You're going to snap that in half," I point out.

He loosens his grip fractionally. "I'm fine."

"Liar."

His mouth twitches. "Takes one to know one."

Fair point.

Wall glides past, tapping his goalie stick against the ice. "You two planning to stand there making eyes at each other all day, or are we actually playing hockey?"

"Fuck off, Wall," I reply automatically.

"Love you too."

Petrov's attempting to get the team hyped, shouting something in Russian that I'm pretty sure translates to either "Let's do this," or "I need vodka." Ace is stretching in a way that looks physically impossible, and Groover's doing his pre-game ritual of tapping every single post three times because he's secretly more superstitious than a Victorian ghost hunter.

The viewer count on the stream is climbing. Two hundred thousand. Three hundred. Four.

Fuck.