Page 38 of Puck Your Feelings

I've been avoiding him all day—not hard when he's been avoiding me right back—but eventually we're going to have to occupy the same space again, and I'm not ready for that conversation.

Hey Kane, funny story, I was totally awake when you jerked off last night. Yeah, no, I heard everything. The breathing, the little sounds you tried to suppress, the way you came so quietly I almost missed it. Anyway, want to grab dinner?

I'm going to die. Actually die. They'll find my body in this cabin, and the cause of death will be listed as "acute embarrassment" with a side of "why the fuck did you get hard listening to your straight roommate masturbate, you absolute dipshit."

The cabin's stuffy as hell—we've had it closed up all day, and the afternoon sun turned it into a sauna. I crank open the window by my desk, letting in the cool mountain air, and immediately feel like I can breathe again.

O hop into the shower to get the day’s practice off my body, and it does help a little. Hot water, good pressure, and twenty minutes of aggressively not thinking about Kane's hands or the sounds he made or the way I had to bite my pillow to keep quiet while I dealt with my own situation.

I'm not proud of it, for the record. Getting off to the sound of my teammate—who's probably straight, definitely not interested, and absolutely didn't know I was awake—is not my finest moment.

It's probably not my top ten worst moments either, but it's up there.

When I get out, the cabin's still empty, and I've got about an hour before dinner. Kane's probably putting in extra gym time, because of course he is.

I get dressed, eye my laptop sitting on my desk and immediately feel guilty.

I haven't posted anything since the last viral disaster, but my subscriber count's been climbing steadily. People want content. People want insight into training camp, team dynamics, what it's like rooming with the guy I publicly roasted.

If only they knew.

I set up my equipment—microphone, laptop, headphones—and pull up my notes. I've got a rough outline: training camp intensity, defensive partnerships, team bonding activities. Nothing controversial.

Nothing that'll get me called into Cap's office again.

I hit record and slip on my headphones and the world narrows to just me and the microphone.

"What's up, ice holes, it's your boy Becker and you’re tuning intoIce Cold Takes, coming to you from training camp, where the coffee's bad, the mattresses are worse, and I'm pretty sure I saw a bear yesterday. Or it was Petrov before his morning skate. Hard to tell, honestly."

I settle into it, the familiar rhythm of talking to an audience I can't see but can imagine. It's easier than real conversations.

"—and I swear to god, if I have to do one more skating drill, my legs are going to file for divorce. They're done. They want out of this relationship—"

Twenty minutes flies by. I'm in the zone, animated and engaged, completely focused on the microphone in front of me.

I wrap it up with my usual sign-off, take off the headphones, and save the file. It schedule it to auto-uploads at six—scheduled post, because I'm not a complete amateur—and I've got just enough time to make it to dinner.

The cabin's still empty when I leave, grabbing my phone and wallet.

Kane's probably already at the lodge. We can sit at opposite ends of the table, avoid eye contact, and pretend everything's normal.

***

Kane

FIVE PM, AND I'm still at the rink, running drills like I'm trying to outrun my own thoughts.

It's not working.

Extra conditioning. Extra shooting practice. Another thirty minutes in the gym. Anything to avoid going back to Cabin 12 and facing Becker and the monumental awkwardness I've created.

Finally, Coach Martin kicks me out.

"Go eat, Kane. You're making the rest of us look bad."

I grab my bag and head back toward the cabins, my legs burning, my mind blissfully empty from exhaustion.

My phone rings.