Page 57 of Puck Your Feelings

"My brain is fine. Unlike yours, Mr. Accidental Broadcast."

"That was one time!" Becker protests, and his knee bumps mine as he gestures. "Are we ever going to let that go?"

"No," Wall, Petrov, and I say in unison.

“And it was twice, actually,” Wall adds.

Becker's leg settles against mine again, and he doesn't move it.

I should probably move mine.

I don't.

The conversation continues around us—something about whether hot dogs are sandwiches again, because apparently this team has exactly three topics of conversation and we cycle through them on rotation—but I'm only half-listening.

I'm too aware of every point where Becker's body touches mine. Our calves pressed together. The occasional brush of his knee against mine when one of us shifts. The way he shivers slightly every thirty seconds or so, his body fighting against the cold.

When did I start cataloging his physical reactions like I'm conducting a scientific study?

"You good?" Becker asks quietly, and I realize I've been staring at the water between us for an uncomfortably long time.

"Fine. Just spacing out."

"Thinking about your dad?"

"Something like that." But that’s a lie. For once, my father isn't occupying every corner of my brain. Instead, I'm noticing things like how Becker's shoulders are slightly uneven—probably from an old injury—and the way his hair is drying in messy waves.

Why am I noticing his hair?

"We've spent more time together this week than I've spent with anyone in years," Becker comments, stretching his arms along the edge of the tub. His movement shifts his leg more firmly against mine. "And I don't completely hate it. Personal growth."

I chuckle. "Don't strain yourself."

"Too late. I think I pulled something being sincere." He grins at me, and there's that crooked smile again. The one that's slightly wider on the left side.

Why do I know which side his smile favors?

"You're not completely terrible either," I offer, and his grin widens.

"Wow. 'Not completely terrible.' Put that on my tombstone."

"Right under 'murdered by bunk bed assignment.'"

Petrov looks between us with narrowed eyes. "Are you two flirting?"

"No," we say simultaneously, which only makes Petrov's grin more insufferable.

But the question lodges in my brain like a splinter.

Are we?

I've never flirted with anyone before—too busy with hockey, too focused on meeting my father's expectations. The few girls who showed interest in high school got polite disinterest in return. I just assumed I was straight by default because... well, because I never questioned it. Never had time to question it.

But now I'm sitting in an ice bath noticing the way Becker's eyelashes are darker at the tips, and how he hasthree different types of laughter—the loud bark when something genuinely surprises him, the quiet huff when he's trying not to laugh, and this low chuckle he does when he's pleased with himself.

"Time's up," Wall announces, hauling himself out of the tub with a groan. Water sluices off his massive frame. "I'm getting out before my dick freezes off."

"Too late," Becker calls after him. "It's been winter down there for years!"