Page 128 of Puck Your Feelings

I clear my throat. The mic crackles.

"Hi, Dad." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "I know you're watching. You'd never miss my game, even if it's just a scrimmage."

The paper crinkles in my grip. I look down at the carefully crafted words. The diplomatic phrasing. The polished assertiveness. The most creative way to sayfuck off.

My eyes burn.

Then I fold it back up and shove it in my pocket.

Fuck that.

"Because you love me." The words crack halfway through, my voice breaking like I'm fifteen again. "I know you do."

Silence. Complete, suffocating silence. I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, as sweat slides down my spine despite the ice rink's chill.

"Listen, Dad. As you can see, I'm doing quite alright. We're even winning—" I pause, turn to look at my teammates scattered across the ice. "Are we winning?"

"We're winning," Groover confirms.

"You're winning," Wall corrects, looking distinctly unhappy about it.

A laugh bubbles up in my chest—inappropriate, slightly hysterical—but I swallow it down.

"We're winning," I repeat into the mic, turning back to face the camera Mateo's pointing at me. "And I will do everything I can to continue to win. Here. With the Wolves."

My throat's closing up. I force the words through anyway.

"Because I'm happy here, and I'm here to stay. And Becker's staying too." I don't look at him. Can't look at him. Not yet, or I'll lose my nerve entirely. "And nothing bad's gonna happen to him as long as I'm around. That's how it's going to be, whatever your opinion is."

Breathe. I need to breathe.

"I know you love me, and I love you too." The admission costs me something. It feels like peeling back skin, exposing raw nerve. "But Dad?"

I turn, find Becker in the crowd of players. He's standing near center ice, completely still, eyes locked on mine. His expression's unreadable, but his hands are clenched at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from skating over.

"You're not the only person I love."

Back to the camera. My father.

"And you'll just have to find a way to live with it. I know you will. Somehow. Eventually."

I could say more, but I'm done explaining myself. Done defending my right to be happy.

"Well, folks." I clear my throat. "You're tuning in to Ice Cold Takes. Now back to regularly scheduled programming. Peace."

I lower the mic.

For exactly two seconds, nothing happens.

Then the entire rink explodes.

The team rushes me—Groover first, slamming into me with enough force to knock me back a step, followed by Petrov, then Ace, then Wall abandoning his net to join the pile. Someone's yelling, someone else is laughing, and I'm pretty sure that's Coach Martin shouting something about "best goddamn television I've ever seen."

Becker's there suddenly, pushing through the crowd, and his bright with something that might be tears.

"You absolute fucking idiot," he says, and then he's kissing me.

Right there. On the ice. In front of eight hundred thousand viewers and counting.