Page 60 of Puck Your Feelings

He doesn't. There's no shampoo. I'm a liar and a fraud.

But he glances down at his shoulder anyway, which gives me a moment to remember how to breathe like a normal human person.

"I don't see any—"

His phone rings, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. We both jump slightly, and Kane's expression immediately shutters when he sees the screen.

"It's my father," he says flatly.

"You don't have to answer."

"I do." He's already moving back toward the bathroom, phone in one hand, shampoo in the other. "He'll just keep calling."

The bathroom door closes behind him, and I hear his muffled "Hello" through the wood.

I stand there in the middle of the cabin like an idiot, my heart doing gymnastics routines in my chest.

Yup. It’s official.

I like him.

I like Kane.

I like his stupid organizational systems and his dry humor and the way he's slowly learning to be a person. I like how he takes his coffee black and judges everyone else's orders. I like his dedication and his hidden smile and the way he's trying so hard to break free from his father's control.

And I definitely, absolutely, without question want to kiss him.

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty cabin.

CHAPTER 13

Becker

"IS THIS REALLY necessary?" Kane asks as twelve six-foot-something professional athletes and one Mateo attempt to cram themselves into a coffee shop clearly designed for a maximum occupancy of like, three hipsters and their emotional support laptops.

"Absolutely." I hold up my phone, already recording. "Welcome back to Ice Cold Takes, where today we're continuing with our new fan-favorite segment: 'Teaching the Hockey Robot to Human.' Episode two: ordering coffee like a normal person."

Kane narrows his eyes and shoots me a side-glance. "I know how to order coffee, thank you."

"Black, no sugar doesn't count," Wall chimes in, somehow wedging himself between a display of overpriced coffee beans and a tiny woman trying very hard to pretend we're not here. "That's not coffee. That's hot sadness water."

"It's delicious," Kane protests.

"It's depressing," Petrov counters, nearly knocking over a chalkboard sign advertising something called aUnicornFrappuccino, which I’m definitely getting. "You drink coffee like you're being punished."

I pan the camera to capture the whole team spread throughout this poor, unsuspecting establishment. Groover's examining the pastry case like it contains nuclear launch codes. Ace is helping the barista—a college-aged kid whose name tag readsRiver—understand that yes, we're actually all here, and no, this isn't a prank.

Washington has somehow claimed the only armchair, Mateo perched on the arm beside him, already typing something on his phone. Probably live-tweeting this disaster.

"Alright, Robot Boy." I turn the camera back to Kane, who's staring at the menu board above the counter with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for playoff overtime. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it—and you will, because I'm not turning off this camera until you do—is to order something that isn't black coffee."

"Why?"

"Because we're trying to prove you have a personality."

"I have a personality."

"Debatable," Wall say, coughing around the word.