Page 4 of Puck Your Feelings

"Yeah, well." He gestures down the hallway. "Conference room's this way. We need to have a chat."

Fantastic. It's been four hours, and I'm already getting called into the principal's office.

The conference room is standard—big table, uncomfortable chairs, a TV mounted on the wall currently paused on what looks like a freeze-frame of my face mid-sentence at the press conference. Washington takes a seat at the head of the table and gestures for me to sit.

"Am I in trouble?" I ask.

Washington's mouth twitches. "Should you be?"

Before I can formulate a response that doesn't sound like a guilty confession, the door opens again and Becker walks in.

He's changed out of the casual clothes he was wearing earlier into a Wolves hoodie and jeans, his dark blond hair still sticking up in places like he's been running his hands through it. Up close, he's got these sharp blue eyes that are currently bouncing between me and Washington like he's trying to calculate his odds of survival.

"Cap," Becker says, his voice carefully neutral. "You wanted to see me?"

"Both of you, actually." Washington gestures to the empty chair next to me. "Sit."

Becker's eyes land on me, and for a second, he narrows them in an exaggerated fashion of a cartoon character, before he schools his expression into something bland and takes the seat. He's careful to leave a solid foot of space between us, like I might be contagious.

"So," Washington says, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone about to deliver news that's going to make everyone uncomfortable. "Want to tell me what the hell that was?"

"He started it," Becker says immediately, which might be the most childish thing I've heard from a professional athlete, and I've spent years in NHL locker rooms.

"I didn't start anything," I counter. "You were broadcasting your little tirade through the PA system."

"I didn't know it was connected!"

"How do you accidentally broadcast—"

"Gentlemen." Washington's voice cuts through like a referee's whistle. "I don't actually care who started it. What I care about is that video of you two is gaining traction and it's not even noon."

Becker pulls out his phone, and I watch his eyes go wide. "Holy shit. I have fifteen thousand subscribers now. That's—" He catches himself, looking up at Washington. "I mean, that's concerning. Very concerning. Professional concern."

"Uh-huh." Washington doesn't look convinced. He pulls up his own phone and turns it toward us. "ESPN's already made a highlight reel. You're trending on Twitter. The team's social media is blowing up. PR is having a field day."

I watch the clip on Washington’s phone—thirty seconds of me and Becker trading insults like we're in a middle school cafeteria instead of a professional press conference. The comments are exactly what I expected: half the internet thinks it's hilarious, the other half is already writing think pieces about "toxicity in hockey culture."

My father's going to love this.

"Look," Washington says, setting his phone down. "I'm not here to lecture you about media professionalism—that's PR's job, and trust me, they will. I'm here to tell you how we're going to fix this."

"Fix it?" Becker sits up straighter. "What's there to fix? Kane and I will just... avoid each other. Easy."

"Can't do that," Washington says, and there's something in his tone that makes my stomach drop.

"Why not?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I'm not going to like the answer.

Washington pulls out a folder—an actual physical folder, like we're in a legal drama—and slides it across the table. "Training camp agenda."

I nod slowly, not seeing the problem yet.

"Cabin assignments were done weeks ago." He opens the folder to reveal a sheet with names and cabin numbers. "Kane, meet your roommate for the next three weeks."

My eyes scan down the list until I find my name.

Cabin 12: K.J. Marcus, R. Becker.

Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me.