Page 42 of Puck Your Feelings

As his expression changes from tired to confused.

As he stops walking.

As he pulls out his phone.

As he reads whatever notifications are flooding in—texts, mentions, alerts, the entire internet collectively losing its shit.

His face goes white.

Then red.

Then white again.

He looks up, his eyes scanning the room, and when they land on me, I see it all: betrayal. Fury. Devastation.

I open my mouth—to say what, I don't know. Sorry? I didn't mean to? I didn't know you were outside and—

Kane turns and storms out.

The entire dining hall goes quiet.

"Becker," Wall says carefully. "What the fuck did you do?"

I'm already moving, shoving back from the table, my chair scraping loud against the floor.

"I need to—I have to—"

I don't finish the sentence. Just run.

CHAPTER 9

Kane

I NEED TO not be here.

Not in the dining hall with fifty pairs of eyes watching me like I'm a fucking zoo exhibit. And more importantly, not anywhere near Becker and his goddamn podcast and his complete inability to keep my life private.

My legs are moving before my brain catches up, carrying me out of the lodge and toward—where? The cabin's out. That's Becker's territory now, contaminated by his chaos and his microphones and his apparent talent for ruining my entire existence.

The main building. It's got to have somewhere I can hide until I figure out how to request an emergency trade to literally anywhere else.

I take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break out and flee the country without me. First floor, second floor, third floor—I keep going until I hit the top landing and find myself in a hallway that looks like it hasn't seen human life since the Cold War.

Perfect.

I slide down the wall and collapse onto the dusty floor, my phone already buzzing in my pocket like it's having a seizure.

Don't look. Don't look at it. Looking makes it real.

I look at it.

Forty-three notifications. Sixty. Eighty-seven. The number climbs while I watch, each buzz another person discovering that my family drama is now public entertainment.

My hands are shaking as I open the podcast app.

I shouldn't listen to it. I know I shouldn't. But there's this sick part of me that needs to hear exactly how bad it is, like poking at a bruise to see how much it hurts.

I press play.