Page 72 of Puck Your Feelings

Then comes the blessed thirty seconds of normal post-game chatter.

"Good hustle out there."

"Nice save in the third."

"Anyone see where my left shin pad went?"

For a brief, beautiful moment, I allow myself to hope.

Maybe they'll let it slide.

Maybe professional courtesy will prevail.

Maybe—

Wall's snort breaks first, a sound like someone trying to inhale a golf ball through their nostril.

And that's it.

The dam bursts.

The entire team erupts in laughter so violent I'm surprised the ceiling tiles don't come down. Petrov is doubled over, actual tears streaming down his face. Ace has slid off the bench entirely and is now on the floor, pounding his fist against the floor. Even Coach Martin—who I'm absolutely certain only came to the locker room for this exact reason—is leaning against the doorframe, shoulders shaking with barely contained glee.

Groover, the traitor, is clutching his sides like he's afraid his organs might escape.

"I've been... wondering... how it would feel... to kiss you," Ace gasps, doing a horrific impression of my voice that sounds more like a dying cow than a human.

I yank my jersey over my head with enough force to possibly dislocate both shoulders, which would at least get me a medical exemption from this torture.

"I didn't—" I start, but there's no point. They're too far gone.

I glance over at Becker, hoping for... I don't know what. Support? Solidarity in humiliation? He's red-faced and uncharacteristically silent, staring intently at his skate laces, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Including me.

Great. Even the guy I just publicly admitted to having fantasies about can't look at me. Perfect.

"#HotMicHockey is trending," Petrov announces, waving his phone like he's discovered alien life. "Half a million views in three minutes. We are going viral, my friends!"

"That's got to be some kind of record," Washington says, wiping his eyes. "Most catastrophically public crush confession in NHL history."

"Oh my God, make it stop," I groan, dropping my head into my hands.

"You know what this means, right?" Groover asks, crossing the room to pat me on the back with what I'm sure he thinks is compassion but feels more like the final nail in my coffin. "Welcome to the team. Officially."

"I've been for two weeks," I protest weakly.

"Yeah, but now you've had your Wolves baptism by fire," he explains. "Complete public humiliation that will follow you for the rest of your career. One of us! One of us!"

The others take up the chant, pounding their sticks on the ground like we're in some kind of demented hockey cult, which, to be fair, isn't far off.

"Can we just—" I try again.

"Oh, hold up," Wall interrupts, staring at his phone. "The clip's been remixed to music. Someone set your confession to 'I Wanna Kiss You' by that boy band from the 90s."

"Which boy band?" Ace asks, leaning over to see.

"Does it fucking matter?" I snap, feeling my last nerve fraying.

"Well, yeah," Ace says, like I'm the unreasonable one. "If it's NSYNC, that's one thing, but if it's Backstreet Boys, that's—"