Page 77 of Puck Your Feelings

With Becker.

And it was fucking amazing.

It takes a few minutes for my heart rate to return to something resembling normal and my brain to come back online. I become aware of the sticky mess in my shorts, and a laugh bubbles up in my chest. I'm about to share this absurd observation with Becker when I realize his breathing has evened out.

He's fast asleep, his head on my chest, one arm flung across my stomach, looking completely peaceful and satisfied.

I sigh, but I can't stop the smile spreading across my face. My shorts are disgusting, I have no idea what this means, and I just humiliated myself on a live podcast in front of thousands of people a few hours ago.

But with Becker's warm weight anchoring me to the bed, his soft breath against my neck, I can't bring myself to care.

This was definitely worth the public humiliation.

CHAPTER 17

Becker

I WAKE UP to the shrill beep of Kane's alarm, consciousness crashing into my skull like a sledgehammer to the face.

My first instinct is to bitch about it, as is tradition, but the words die in my throat when I realize I'm not in my bunk.

I'm still sprawled half on top of Kane, in his bunk, with my leg thrown over his and my face smushed against his chest.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Last night comes rushing back like a highlight reel of bad decisions that somehow ended really, really well.

Kane's hand moves to silence the alarm, and suddenly I’m terrified of what daylight brings.

Is this when he freaks out?

When he says it was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment, a testosterone-fueled experiment never to be repeated? My brain starts cataloging all the worst-case scenarios with the efficiency of someone who's spent years expecting the other shoe to drop.

"Morning," I manage, my voice rough with sleep and anxiety.

Kane doesn't respond for a few seconds, just looks at me with those intense eyes of his. My internal panic ratchets up to DEFCON 1, heart hammering so hard I'm surprised it doesn't wake the entire training facility.

Then, without warning, Kane leans in and kisses me—hard and rough and deliberate, like he's making a fucking point.

Well, okay then. Message received, loud and clear.

When he pulls back, his face is flushed red, and there's a hint of uncertainty beneath the intensity that makes something in my chest do a flip-flop.

Somehow, this feels like too much. Too charged. So I defuse the only way I know how. "Ugh. Morning breath much?"

He swats me on the arm and points to the floor. "Out of my bunk. Now."

I laugh and climb off him, my body protesting in ways that remind me I spent the night crammed into a space designed for one person, not two grown-ass hockey players. For the first time since training camp started, I get up without complaining about Kane's ungodly early alarm.

The morning routine that follows is a little awkward, but not in the catastrophic way I'd feared. We move around each other in the small cabin, careful not to talk about what happened, like we're both afraid naming it might make it disappear. I let Kane set the pace, figuring he's the one navigating new territory here.

After we've both showered and dressed, I decide it's time to address the elephant in the room.

Not the "we humped each other until we came in our pants" elephant—the other one.

"Soo," I start, fidgeting with my phone, "I hate to bring this up, but... we should probably address the hot mic somehow."

Kane's smile, which has been hovering around his lips all morning, vanishes like someone hit a kill switch. He collapses onto his bunk and hangs his head in his hands.