Page 79 of Puck Your Feelings

I'm going to spontaneously combust right here in the middle of the dining hall, and my obituary will read "Death by Mortification: Hockey Player Bursts Into Flames After Teammates Discover His Sex Life."

Becker, meanwhile, recovers his composure with the resilience of a cockroach surviving nuclear winter. "Oh, are they now? Or were your ears pressed against it with a glass in between?"

"He's not denying it! It's official!" Petrov crows, pumping his fist like he's just won the lottery.

"Hey! That's dirty play," Becker protests, but the damage is done.

I watch in horror as Groover reaches into his wallet and peels off a crisp hundred-dollar bill, slapping it into Ace's waiting palm with an eye roll.

Wall cups his hands around his mouth and shouts into the room, "Hey, Petrov! Pay up!"

Wait. What?

"You didn't actually have bets going, did you?" I ask, though the evidence unfolding before me makes the question painfully redundant.

There’s a collective "Of course we had" from literally everyone in earshot.

My eyes grow wider as Coach Martin—COACH MARTIN!—pulls out his wallet and hands a twenty to one of the trainers.

Even the staff was in on this? What is this, Vegas?

"Unacceptable," Becker declares.

Groover chuckles. "Need I remind you who initiated the betting on me and Mateo?"

"Exactly! That's my shtick," Becker insists, like he's protecting his intellectual property rights to inappropriate gambling.

Wall leans toward Petrov, not bothering to lower his voice. "Fifty says Kane dumps his ass within a week."

"The only reason you two are still alive is I can't play Hockey in prison," Becker shoots back.

Groover wiggles his eyebrows. "You could shoot hoops."

"Don't tempt me."

I follow Becker to the buffet line, grabbing a tray while attempting to process the fact that our entire team—plus coaching staff, apparently—has been gambling on our sex lives. My brain keeps cycling through embarrassment, indignation, and a strange sort of acceptance, because honestly, what did I expect?

These are the same guys who two days bet on how many pucks Wall could fit in his mouth. (The answer was three, and he won fifty bucks.)

As we sit down at a table, I'm still red-faced, but something warm and unfamiliar is bubbling up underneath the mortification. The team is treating this like it's normal—like Becker and I hooking up is just another Tuesday, worthy of teasing but not actual judgment.

I stab at my eggs, fighting against the smile threatening to break free. Because smiling would only encourage them, and they're already insufferable enough.

But fuck me if it doesn't feel good to sit next to Becker, surrounded by teammates who care enough to bet on our relationship status, in a place where I can just... be.

CHAPTER 18

Becker

"WELCOME BACK TO another episode of 'Teach the Robot How to Human,' the only podcast where we attempt to transform a hockey-playing cyborg into something resembling a functional member of society." I hold my phone up to capture Kane's annoyed eye roll as we approach the sliding doors of Farmer Fred's Grocery Emporium. "Today's mission: teaching Kane how normal people shop for food."

"I know how to shop for food, thank you," Kane protests, trying to duck out of frame. "I've been feeding myself for years."

"Protein powder and meal-prepped chicken breast isn't food." I spin the camera around to show our teammates piling out of two rental SUVs behind us. "And we've brought reinforcements to witness your transformation."

Wall grins to the camera. Petrov waves enthusiastically. Groover and Mateo are already halfway to the entrance, deep in conversation about what looks suspiciously like a shopping list.

"Are multiple angles really necessary?" Kane asks, eves darting to Wall who’s already pulling out his phone.