Page 78 of Puck Your Feelings

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he groans. "How did I get here?Again?"

I can't help but laugh at his despair. "It's a gift. Some people have perfect pitch; you have perfect timing for public humiliation."

Kane glares at me, but there's no real heat behind it. I pull out my phone and open the camera app.

"Wait," he whines, now looking genuinely alarmed. "Just like that? No script? What—What do I even say?"

I shrug, already pointing the camera at him. "I don't know. Just say what's on your mind."

Kane looks like he'd rather take a slapshot to the nuts, but he straightens up as I press record.

"Yo..." he starts awkwardly, looking like he's never said "yo" in his entire life. "I guess I'm becoming a series regular, aren't I? Anyway. About what you may or may not have heard yesterday, after certain someone messed up.Again." He looks pointedly at me over the lens.

"Hey!" I protest. "It wasn't my fault this time."

"Suuure." Kane rolls his eyes before turning back to the camera. "So, about that, I just wanted to say, that, umm." Hepauses, and I can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. "That it's none of y'all business, actually." He gives a mock salute. "Peace."

I burst out laughing as I stop the recording. "Look at you. Actually humaning for a change."

Kane gets up and peers over my shoulder at the phone screen. "Wait. You're not going to post that, are you?"

"Nope," I say, and he visibly relaxes. I wait a beat before adding, "Not twice, anyway. Already posted."

Kane groans and flops back on his bunk. "I hate you."

"Nope. You absolutely don’t.”

The pillow that hits me square in the face is totally worth it.

***

Kane

THE DINING HALL doors swing open with all the subtlety of a foghorn in a library. Every head swivels in our direction like we're entering wearing nothing but jockstraps and clown makeup instead of standard-issue training gear.

For three excruciating seconds, absolute silence reigns. My stomach does a full Olympic gymnastics routine while I dart my eyes to Becker, who looks suspiciously like he's fighting a smirk.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

Whistles erupt from every corner. Ace slow-claps with exaggerated enthusiasm. Petrov bangs his spoon against his protein shake like he's announcing the heavyweight champion of the world. Even Washington is failing miserably at hiding a grin behind his coffee mug.

"What's going on?" I mutter to Becker, though the sinking feeling in my gut suggests I already know exactly what's happening.

Wall materializes in front of us, blocking our path to the blessed anonymity of the breakfast buffet. He slaps Becker's back hard enough to make him stumble forward. "Finally! The suspense was unbearable."

My face ignites like someone just threw gasoline on it and struck a match.

Sweet baby Jesus, they know.

How do they know? We were quiet. Mostly quiet. Okay, not entirely quiet, but surely not—

"I don't know what you're talking about," Becker says with the conviction of a toddler denying they ate the cookies while covered in chocolate.

Wall's face splits into a grin. "These walls are thin."

"Very, very thin," Groover adds, appearing at Wall's side like some sort of sex-detecting ninja.

My brain melts. The mental image of the entire team with their ears pressed against our cabin walls while Becker and I—nope. Not going there.