Page 66 of Puck Your Feelings

Enter gravity.

The landing is a controlled disaster—we stumble but manage to stay upright, Kane's arms wrapping around me to keep us from falling again.

The team erupts in cheers and whoops, even Coach looking impressed.

"And that's when they both realized they were completely fucked," Wall announces from the sidelines.

"Shut up, Wall," Kane and I yell in unison, which only makes everyone laugh harder.

***

Kane

I PUSH THROUGH the cabin door, muscles pleasantly sore from my extra hour at the gym. There's something satisfying about working past the point where everyone else quits—finding that edge where your body wants to give up but your mind says fuck that.

The cabin is empty. No Becker sprawled across the bunk with his laptop balanced precariously on his stomach. No podcast equipment scattered across his desk like a bomb went off in an electronics store. No running commentary on whatever ridiculous video he's watching.

Just... quiet.

It's nice.

Except it's not, really.

The silence feels wrong somehow, like walking into your apartment and immediately sensing someone's been there. Not that I'd know what that's like—I live alone in a place so meticulously organized I’d spot an out of place teabag in a heartbeat. But still.

Becker's skates are missing from their usual spot by the door, too. Even in chaos, he has patterns—shoes kicked off immediately upon entering, skates always in the same corner, his ridiculous collection of energy drinks lined up on the edge of his desk like toxic soldiers.

I should enjoy the peace. Take a shower. Call it an early night.

Instead, I find myself grabbing my own skates and heading back out.

The rink is mostly dark when I arrive, just the emergency lights casting a blue-white glow across the ice. Enough to see, not enough to be seen.

Perfect for spying on someone who probably doesn't want an audience.

And there he is.

Becker glides across the center of the ice, attempting what I'm pretty sure is supposed to be a basic spin. His form is atrocious—arms flailing instead of controlled, weight distributed all wrong. He wobbles, nearly goes down, recovers with all the grace of a drunk giraffe, and immediately sets up to try again.

I should announce myself. Let him know I'm watching.

I don't.

Instead, I stand in the shadows by the entrance, watching as he makes another attempt. And another. Each one marginallyless disastrous than the last, but still firmly in the category of "please don't try this in public."

But he keeps trying.

That's the thing about Becker that I've reluctantly come to admire—he never stops trying, even when he's terrible at something.Especiallywhen he's terrible at something.

He sets up for another spin, and I can't help but smile as he wobbles through it, arms pinwheeling.

"Your free leg needs to be straighter," I call out, stepping onto the ice.

Becker yelps—actually yelps—and nearly falls, catching himself at the last second. "Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick!" He clutches his chest dramatically. "Make some noise when you creep up on people, Robot!"

"Sorry," I say, not particularly sorry at all.

"How much did you see?" he demands, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.