Page 51 of Puck Your Feelings

"I'm going to fall and die up here," he grumbles, climbing up with zero grace. "And it'll be your fault. They'll put it on my tombstone. 'Here lies Riley Becker, murdered by bunk bed assignment.'"

The cabin settles into comfortable silence. I can hear him shifting around above me, getting situated. The mattress springs creak softly.

"Hey, Kane?"

"Yeah?"

A pause. "Thanks for giving me a second chance."

My chest does that complicated thing again. "Thank me after we post the episode and I haven't been traded."

"You're not getting traded. You're too good."

I smile in the darkness. "You think I'm good?"

"At hockey. Don't let it go to your head."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Then, silence. The kind that feels full instead of empty.

I close my eyes, my father's messages temporarily forgotten, and let myself feel something I haven't felt since arriving in Chicago: hopeful.

Maybe this is fixable after all.

CHAPTER 11

Kane

"—AND THAT'S WHY I'm never letting you near audio equipment unsupervised again," I say into the microphone, and Becker's laugh is genuine enough that I feel something warm settle in my chest.

"Fair," he concedes. "Though in my defense, who expects a PA system to be connected toeverything? That's just poor infrastructure planning, if you asked me."

We’re on the easy part now. Addressing my father’s drama was neat, concise, and took exactly seven and a half minutes—yes, I timed it—which is about twice as long as I was willing to talk about it.

"No one asked you. Also, most people check before broadcasting their inner monologue to the entire facility."

"Most people are boring." Becker leans back in his chair—my chair, technically, since we're recording at my desk because his side of the cabin looks like a tornado hit a sporting goods store. "But you know what? I'm glad it happened."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "You're glad you accidentally humiliated me in fronteverybody?"

"Well, when you put it like that, I sound like an asshole." He grins. "But yeah. Because otherwise we wouldn't be here, doing this, and you'd still be giving press conferences that make tax preparation look exciting."

"I don't sound like—" I catch myself, remembering we're recording. "You know what? I'm not taking the bait."

"Character growth. I'm so proud." He glances at his laptop screen, checking the time. "Alright, folks, that's our time. Thanks for sticking with us through this absolute shitshow of a week. Kane and I are going to try not to kill each other for the remaining days of training camp, and if we succeed, we'll be back with more content that's hopefully less disaster-adjacent."

"No promises," I add.

"No promises," Becker agrees. "This is Ice Hot Takes, reminding you that even hockey players are just people who occasionally fuck up spectacularly and have to apologize on the internet about it." He reaches for his laptop. "We're out. Peace."

The recording light blinks off.

Becker immediately moves to save the file, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Okay, so I'll just edit out that one part where you sneezed directly into the mic—"

"We're not editing it."

His hands freeze. "What?"