Page 82 of Puck Your Feelings

"It's unnatural," I complain as we trudge back toward the training facility, the afternoon sun beating down on us like we've personally offended it. "Karaoke without booze is like hockey without ice. Or sex without—"

"We get it," Groover cuts me off, throwing a meaningful glance at Cap, who's walking a few paces ahead with Ace.

"I was gonna say 'feelings,' but thanks for the censorship, Dad."

Wall snorts. "Your rendition of 'Barbie Girl' was traumatizing enough without alcohol. I may need therapy."

"You're just jealous of my range," I fire back. "Besides, Kane backed me up on the chorus."

And hot damn, he did. Robot Boy actually grabbed a microphone and sang the Ken parts when I dragged himonstage. Badly, sure—he has the vocal range of a sedated moose—but he did it. With minimal coercion.

I glance over at Kane, who's walking beside me looking suspiciously close to relaxed. He's even smiling a little as Petrov recounts Wall's disastrous attempt at a Backstreet Boys medley.

"I maintain that the microphone was defective," Wall says with dignity. "No human voice should come out sounding like a cat being bathed."

"Your voice did that all on its own," Kane says, and everyone stops walking for a split second because Kane just made an actual joke.

Voluntarily.

Without someone putting a gun to his head.

It's like watching a statue come to life, or Wall admitting he was wrong about something—a rare and beautiful phenomenon that should probably be documented for science.

"It speaks!" Petrov clutches his chest dramatically. "And it has opinions about singing!"

Kane rolls his eyes, but he's still got that almost-smile.

"Next time we're doing ABBA," I announce, bumping my shoulder against Kane's. "I call dibs on being the blonde one."

"You're already the blonde one in real life," Groover points out.

"Yeah, but I want to be thespecificblonde one. The one with the—"

I don't finish my sentence because Kane has suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. One second he's walking and almost-smiling, and the next he's frozen like someone hit the pausebutton on his entire existence. His face drains of color so fast I'm worried he's having a stroke.

"Kane?" I follow his gaze to the parking lot ahead, where a sleek black SUV is parked near the entrance to the facility. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer, just stares at the car like it's going to sprout tentacles and eat him. The rest of the team has noticed now, falling silent as they pick up on the sudden tension.

The driver's door opens, and a man steps out. He's tall, with dark hair going salt-and-pepper at the temples, wearing a suit that looks tailored. He moves with the confident swagger of someone who's used to people moving out of his way.

And he walks our way.

"Who's that?" Petrov asks, but I already know.

I've seen enough photos, watched enough hockey commentaries.

"My…father," Kane says, so quietly I barely hear him.

It's like watching someone put on armor. Kane's shoulders straighten, his jaw tightens, and the relaxed, almost-playful guy from two minutes ago vanishes, replaced by a human fortress with walls a mile high.

Kane's father approaches, not bothering to acknowledge the rest of us standing there like awkward extras in a family drama. His gaze is locked on Kane with laser-like intensity.

"We need to talk. Now." His voice is much deeper than Kane's, with the authoritative rumble of someone used to being obeyed.

"You should have called," Kane says, and I'm impressed by how steady he keeps his voice when his hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

"Ihavecalled. Repeatedly." The accusation hangs in the air. "But you've been ignoring me."