Page 81 of Puck Your Feelings

"Look at you two," I coo, pointing the camera their way. "Shopping for your little love nest. So domestic."

Groover flips me off without looking up from the jars. "At least we don’t eat take out for ten nights in a row."

"How dare you. It’s six nights, tops." I turn to Kane. "I have salad on Tuesdays."

"Putting lettuce on a pizza doesn't make it a salad," Groover points out.

"Traitor," I mutter.

Mateo grins at the camera. "For the record, we're just being efficient. Unlike some people who are treating grocery shopping like a reality show."

"It's content, Mateo. You wouldn't understand—you're an academic."

"I understand that you've got Pop-Tarts, Red Bull, and what appears to be every flavor of Ben & Jerry's in your cart," Mateo counters.

"The essentials," I confirm.

"Oh, you two are adorable," an elderly voice chimes in from behind us.

We all turn to find a tiny old lady with a purple rinse and rhinestone-studded glasses beaming at Kane and me.

"Oh, we're not—" Kane starts.

"You're the feelings boys!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. "I saw you on the internet! My grandson showed me the video. The hockey players who fell in love during a game!"

Groover and Mateo are suddenly very interested in pasta sauce labels, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

"That's... not exactly what happened," Kane tries, his face turning a shade of red I didn't know humans could achieve.

"Oh, it was so romantic," she continues, oblivious to Kane's discomfort. "When you said you wanted to kiss him? I told my Mabel at bridge club, 'Now that's how you declare yourself!' Not like these dating apps the kids use nowadays."

I'm torn between wanting to die on the spot and wanting to adopt this woman immediately.

"Thank you?" I manage.

She pats my arm. "Don't let this one go, dear. A man who can admit his feelings in public is worth keeping."

And with that sage advice, she toddles off, leaving Kane looking like he might spontaneously combust.

"Well," I say after a moment, "that was—"

"If you put that on your podcast, I will end you," Kane mutters.

I grin. "Too late. Live streaming, baby." I glance at the live chat. "And, yep, the feelings boys are officially a thing now."

By the time we reach checkout, our cart contains the strangest assortment of items I've ever seen: protein powder (Kane), two cases of Red Bull (me), twelve different varieties of coffee (both of us, after a heated debate about roast levels),actual vegetables (Kane), three pints of ice cream (me), and an alarming amount of pasta (compromise).

The cashier—a bored-looking teenager with impressive green hair—surveys our haul with raised eyebrows. "Bodybuilder and insomniac?"

"Hockey players," I correct.

He shrugs and starts scanning. "Same thing."

CHAPTER 19

Becker

KARAOKE IS A fucking war crime when you're forced to do it at 2 PM on a Tuesday instead of at midnight after enough tequila to make Katy Parry sound like a reasonable song choice for a man. But Coach Martin, in his infinite wisdom, decided we needed "team bonding without alcohol-induced bad decisions."