Page 26 of Puck Your Feelings

I start scrolling through the comments, reading them aloud because I'm a glutton for punishment. “HockeyFan47says ‘Are we just going to ignore the sexual tension?’ with three fire emojis." I keep scrolling. "PuckBunny23says 'Kane looking at Becker like he wants to eat him' with the eyes emoji."

Kane's jaw tightens. "They're reading too much into it."

"Obviously." I'm definitely not blushing. My face is just warm from the training.

We both go back to our meals, and my phone buzzes again.

Wall:You two are the worst liars I've ever met.

I flip him off without looking up from my plate.

CHAPTER 6

Kane

THE AFTERNOON SCRIMMAGE is where you separate the players who just survived morning conditioning from the ones who can actually still play hockey after their legs have been turned into overcooked spaghetti.

I'm in the second category, thank you. Years of my father's brutal training regimens mean my body treats exhaustion like a minor inconvenience rather than a death sentence.

Coach splits us into two teams—blue versus black. I'm blue, paired with Becker on defense. Groover's on the opposite team, which means he's going to come at us hard.

The puck drops, and it's immediately chaos.

Petrov's flying down the wing like his skates are on fire. Wall's in net, looking bored until the first shot comes his way and he casually gloves it like he's catching a beach ball. The sound of sticks clacking, skates cutting ice, bodies colliding—it's the best kind of noise.

Becker and I settle into our positions. He's got this thing he does where he talks constantly during play, a running commentary that should be distracting but somehow isn't.

"Groover's setting up left side—yeah, there he goes—Ace is trailer—got him—"

I shift to cover Ace without Becker having to tell me. Our sticks meet the puck at the same time, deflecting the pass.

"Nice," Becker says, already transitioning up ice.

We do it again two minutes later. Petrov tries to thread a pass through the middle, and I'm already moving to intercept because I can feel Becker pinching up, closing the gap. The play breaks down before it starts.

"Okay, that was borderline telepathic," Becker pants during a whistle. "You psychic or just lucky?"

"I'm paying attention."

"To what?"

"You." The word comes out before I can filter it. "Your positioning. The way you shift weight before you commit."

He stares at me for a second, and there's something in his expression I can't read. "That's either really professional or really creepy."

"It's hockey."

"Sure. Hockey. That's what we're calling it."

Before I can figure out what that means, the whistle blows and we're back in it.

Ten minutes later, everything goes sideways.

Becker's carrying the puck up the right side, and I'm trailing, ready to support. Coby—big winger, more muscle thanbrain—comes in for the check. It's borderline late, borderline high, and definitely harder than it needs to be in a practice scrimmage.

Becker goes into the boards with a sick crack that makes my stomach drop.

I'm skating toward them before my brain catches up to my body.