Page 83 of Puck Your Feelings

No one seems to know what to do. Do we leave them alone? Stay and provide moral support? Start an impromptu dance number to diffuse the tension? I'm leaning toward option three when Kane Senior's gaze swings to me, his eyes narrowing like he's spotted something unpleasant stuck to his shoe.

"So this is your…partner," he says, making the word sound like something you'd scrape off the bottom of a boat. "The podcaster making money off my son's name."

What the actual fuck?

For a split second I consider shoving him, but then I decide to take the high road. Mostly because Kane looks like he's about to shatter into a million pieces, and I don't want to make this worse for him.

"I'm his teammate," I say, forcing a polite smile. "And his friend."

Wrong answer, apparently. Kane's father steps closer, looming over me despite the fact that I'm not exactly short.

"You're a clout chaser using my son for content and attention," he spits, voice rising. "Exploiting him for your little internet show."

The accusation hits like a slap. Sure, Kane features in my podcast, but it's not like I'm—

Kane moves between us so fast I almost stumble backward. "That's enough," he says, voice tight. "Becker isn't exploiting anyone."

His father's laugh is cold enough to freeze beer. "Really? Then what do you call broadcasting private family conversations? Making spectacles on ice? You're letting him turn you into entertainment."

"Nobody's turning me into anything," Kane fires back, and there's a tremor in his voice now. "I make my own choices."

The tension crackles like we're all standing in a lightning storm, waiting to see where the next bolt will strike. I want to say something—defend myself, defend Kane—but my brain has apparently decided to take a coffee break.

Cap steps forward, radiating the calm authority that makes him such a good leader. "Mr. Marcus," he says, "I need you to leave the premises. This is a private team facility."

For a second, I think Kane's father might argue, but something in Cap's expression must convince him it's not worth it.

"Fine." He steps back, straightening his already impeccable suit. "Jayden—we'll talk in private." He gestures toward the SUV.

Kane hesitates, turning to look at me, and the expression in his eyes makes my chest hurt. It's an apology, a plea for understanding, and something else I can't quite read.

Then, he’s following Kane Marcus Sr. toward the parking lot, shoulders rigid, steps measured, like he's walking to his own execution.

Automatically, I take a step to follow, but Cap's hand on my shoulder stops me. "Give them space," he says quietly.

"But—"

"Trust me on this one, Becker."

I watch helplessly as Kane climbs into the passenger side of the SUV, the door closing with a soft thud that somehow sounds like the end of something.

***

MY LEG WON'T stop fucking bouncing. I've been vibrating at the frequency of a hummingbird on cocaine for the past three hours, and my ass is starting to go numb from sitting on this hard-as-fuck bunk.

Where. The fuck. Is he?

I've picked up my phone and put it down approximately seven thousand times, typed out and deleted about fifty texts, and reorganized the protein bars by flavor (then by calorie count, then alphabetically) just to have something to do with my hands, because apparently Kane’s been rubbing off on me.

"Fucking hell," I mutter to no one, pacing the length of the cabin for the millionth time. Six steps one way, turn, six steps back. It's like the world's shittiest cardio routine.

I check my phone again: 9PM.

The car with Kane and his asshole father pulled out of the parking lot at 5.

That's almost four fucking hours. Four hours is enough time to drive to the next state. Four hours is enough time to commit several felonies.

Four hours is enough time for Kane's dad to convince him to transfer teams or retire or join a fucking monastery.