Page 5 of Puck Your Feelings

"No," Becker says flatly. "Absolutely not. Cap, come on—"

"I'm not rooming with him," I interrupt, pointing at Becker without looking at him. "Isn't there another cabin? A closet? I'll sleep in the equipment room—"

"The assignments are final," Washington cuts us both off. "And before you ask, no, I'm not changing them just because you two decided to audition for a reality show at your first press conference."

"This is punishment," Becker accuses. "You're punishing us."

"I'm giving you an opportunity," Washington corrects, and the way he says it makes it clear this conversation is over. "Three weeks to work out whatever this is before the season starts. Either you figure out how to coexist as teammates, or you spend the entire season on the bench. Your choice."

I glance at Becker, who's staring at Washington like he just announced we're being shipped to Siberia. His jaw is tight, and he's gripping the edge of the table.

"Maybe Kane can learn to be less robotic," Washington continues, his tone almost cheerful now, "and maybe you can learn to be more professional. Think of it as character development."

"I don't need character development," I mutter.

"Your press conference performance suggests otherwise," Washington shoots back.

Becker makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be the beginning of a mental breakdown. "This is insane. You know that, right?"

"Consider it motivation to work out your differences." Washington stands, gathering his folder. "Or don't. But you'll do it while sharing Cabin 12."

I lean back in my chair. Three weeks. In a cabin. With the guy who just publicly mocked me to thousands of people and counting.

"Cabin 12 better have good wifi for when I need to document this disaster," Becker mutters.

"It doesn't," Washington replies without missing a beat. "That's the point."

He gets up and heads toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. "Bus leaves at oh-six-hundred tomorrow. Don't be late. And for the love of God, try not to kill each other before we get there."

The door closes behind him with a decisive click.

Silence fills the conference room like water in a sinking ship.

I should say something. Anything that’s at least semi-professional and mature. Instead, I turn to look at Becker, who's still staring at the closed door like it might open again and reveal this was all a joke.

"Three weeks," he says finally.

"Three weeks," I confirm.

"In a cabin."

"Apparently."

"With you."

"The feeling's mutual."

He turns to face me fully for the first time since sitting down, and up close, I can see the faint freckles across his nose. His eyes are more green than blue in this light, and there’s a small scar on his chin.

"Look," Becker says, and his voice has lost some of its earlier edge. "I didn't mean for the PA system thing to happen. I was testing audio levels earlier and forgot to disconnect."

It's not quite an apology, but it's closer than I expected.

"And I shouldn't have called you out in front of the media," I admit, because apparently we're doing this. "That was... reactive."

"Reactive," Becker repeats, and there's a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. "That's one word for it."

"You called me a hockey textbook."