Page 73 of Puck Your Feelings

"I will literally pay you to stop talking," I cut in.

"How much we talking?" Ace grins. "Because my silence is expensive, especially when your love life is going platinum on TikTok."

My phone buzzes in my bag—a series of rapid-fire notifications that can only mean bad news. I pull it out reluctantly.

Three consecutive messages from Devon, Ace's boyfriend in the group chat.

Devon:DUDE

Devon:I'M

Devon:DECEASED

And one Caps's wife:

Leila:Kane, my beautiful, beautiful disaster! I'm framing this moment for your wedding.

Great. Looks like everyone and their dog was watching. Probably my father too, which is a whole other nightmare I'm not equipped to process right now.

"I swear to God," Washington says, shaking his head, "you two can't go a day without creating stand-up comedy material. It's like living with a reality show that never stops filming."

"We don't do it on purpose," Becker finally speaks, his voice strangled.

"That's what makes it art," Wall says.

I start yanking off my pads, imagining they're the vocal cords of everyone in this room. Just let me die. Let me sink through the floor, dissolve into a puddle, evaporate into nothingness. Anything would be better than this.

"So," Ace sidles up next to me, his grin wide enough to qualify as a medical condition, "on a scale of one to 'I've been wondering how it would feel to kiss you,' how's your day going?"

CHAPTER 16

Becker

SO... THAT HAPPENED.

I've been wandering around the training facility for an hour like some kind of hockey-playing ghost, taking the longest possible route back to the cabin. I even stopped to help Coach Martin organize equipment, which, if you know me at all, is the behavioral equivalent of checking myself into a psychiatric facility.

But what else am I supposed to do after Kane—Mr. Perfect Posture, Mr. Stick Up His Ass, Mr. I've Been Wondering How It Would Feel To Kiss You—just broadcast his innermost thoughts to approximately seven hundred thousand people? Including my mother, who has already texted me fourteen variations of "???" followed by increasingly creative emoji combinations.

The truth is, I'm giving Kane space.

Space to pack his shit and move cabins, change his name, flee the country—whatever a person does after accidentally admitting on a hot mic that they want to kiss their teammate. I'm being considerate. Thoughtful. Mature, even.

Okay, fine. I'm stalling because I'm terrified.

Not that I'm opposed to the kissing part. In fact, I've spent more time than I'd care to admit thinking about what Kane's mouth might taste like. But there's a Grand Canyon-sized gap between idle fantasy and actual reality, and I'm not entirely sure I'm equipped to cross it without plummeting to my death.

After completing my seventh lap around the outdoor track, I finally admit I can't avoid the cabin forever. It's already dark, and if I don't go back soon, someone will organize a search party, and wouldn't that just be the perfect cherry on top of this embarrassment sundae?

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders like I'm about to step onto the ice, and push open the cabin door.

Kane's still here. That's the first surprise.

He's sitting on the edge of his bunk, but he springs to his feet the second I enter, like he's been electrocuted. His hair is damp—he must have showered—and he's wearing a plain gray t-shirt and sweatpants instead of his usual precision-engineered athleisure wear.

"Hey," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of a pubescent voice crack.

Kane immediately starts pacing, arranging and rearranging items on his shelf that are already in perfect alignment. "Hey. So. About the practice. I was thinking we need to work on our neutral zone coverage. And the penalty kill. Definitely the penalty kill. Did you see how Petrov was positioning himself on that last power play? Not optimal. We should review the tape tomorrow. And maybe—"