Page 47 of Puck Your Feelings

I stare at the message for a long time before responding.

Becker:I have no fucking idea.

CHAPTER 10

Becker

MORNING CONDITIONING IS a special kind of torture when you're running on three hours of sleep and a guilty conscience that weighs approximately seven thousand pounds.

Coach has us doing suicide sprints—aptly named because I'm pretty sure I'm dying—and every time I hit the line and pivot, I catch a glimpse of Kane on the other side of the gym. He's attacking the drills with ease, face blank, body moving like he's programmed for this shit.

Nobody's talking about yesterday.

Not directly, anyway.

But I feel it in every shoulder pat from Groover, every sympathetic look from Petrov, every time Wall skates past and doesn't make a single joke about my impending doom.

The team knows. The whole fucking world knows.

Kane gets supportive shoulder squeezes. I get looks that sayyou fucked up, buddy.

We're still paired for defensive drills—Cap's probably hoping we'll either work it out or kill each other and solve the problem permanently. On the ice, we move together like we havesince day one, our bodies remembering the patterns even if our brains are screaming at each other.

But the chemistry's gone. That easy flow where I'd know where he was without looking, where we'd anticipate each other's moves like we shared a brain—it's been replaced by something mechanical. Professional.

Dead.

I fucking hate it.

Practice ends, and I'm peeling off my gear in the locker room when I see Kane slip out early, heading toward the equipment room with his stick and gloves.

This is my chance.

I follow him.

The equipment room smells like tape and poor life choices—appropriate, given what I'm about to do. Kane's got his back to me, organizing his gear with the kind of focus most people reserve for defusing bombs.

"We need to talk about the response episode."

His shoulders tense, but he doesn't turn around. "No."

"Kane—"

"I'm not doing it." He moves his stick from one slot to another, then back again. Stressed. "So you can stop asking."

I step further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me. "Why not?"

"Because it's giving him what he wants." He finally turns, and his face is carefully blank. "Attention. Drama. Proof that I'm distracted by media nonsense instead of focusing on hockey."

"Or," I counter, moving closer, "it's taking away his power. He controls the narrative when you stay silent. When you speak up, you take that control back."

"You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand." I'm close enough now to see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion around his eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, you're letting him win."

His expression hardens. "This isn't a game, Riley."

"Everything's a game." I lean against the equipment rack, arms crossed. "The question is whether you're playing or being played."