Page 13 of Puck Your Feelings

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HOUR FIVE BRINGS a rest stop, and I've never been more grateful to escape a confined space in my life.

I practically launch myself off the bus, ignoring Wall's comment about "letting the angry birds fly free," and head straight for the convenience store attached to the gas station. I need sugar, caffeine, and possibly a lobotomy.

The store is the standard road trip variety—overpriced snacks, questionable hot dogs rotating under heat lamps, and a coffee situation that looks like it might require a hazmat team. I grab a Red Bull, a bag of sour gummies, and beef jerky that probably expired in 2019 but smells fine enough.

I'm at the counter when Kane walks in.

He surveys the store with the same calculated assessment he probably uses for defensive zone coverage, then heads straight for the cooler. He emerges with a protein shake, a banana and what looks like a box of chicken salad.

"Seriously?" I ask, eyeing his choices when he gets in line behind me. "It's a bus ride, not a cross-country expedition."

"Proper fuel is important regardless of duration."

The cashier—a woman in her fifties with a name tag that says DARLENE—is watching us with growing recognition. Her eyes widen. "Oh my god. You're the hockey guys!"

I freeze. Kane goes very still.

"The robot and the podcaster!" Darlene continues, pulling out her phone. "My boyfriend is going to die. Can I get a picture?"

I plaster on my media smile. "Sure thing."

For a second, Kane looks like he's about to decline, but he quickly schools his features.

That’s right. That’s your life now.

"Of course," he says, and his smile is so perfectly crafted it probably took years to develop.

We pose on opposite sides of Darlene while another customer takes the photo.

"This is amazing," she gushes, already typing on her phone. "Are you guys friends in real life or is it like a rivalry thing?"

"We're teammates," Kane says smoothly.

"Barely," I add, because I can't help myself.

Kane's smile doesn't slip, but I feel him shift slightly away from me. "We're working on team chemistry."

"It's a process," I agree.

"Well, you're both adorable," Darlene announces, which is possibly the most surreal thing anyone's said to me this week. "Good luck with the season!"

We pay for our stuff—Kane's healthy choices versus my gas station roulette—and head back to the bus in silence. We’re halfway there when my phone starts buzzing.

Twitter notifications. Instagram. Facebook. My podcast platform.

Darlene's picture is already live and spreading like wildfire through hockey social media.

"Fuck," I mutter, stopping to check the damage.

Kane pauses beside me. "What?"

I show him my phone, where the picture of us smiling awkwardly on either side of Darlene has been retweeted eight hundred times in three minutes.

"That was fast," Kane observes.

"That's the internet." I scroll through the comments, which range from supportive to absolutely unhinged. One person has already created a ship name. "They're calling us 'Beckane.'"