Page 89 of Puck Your Feelings

I can’t tell Becker. He'll want to fight back. That's who he is—chaos and defiance wrapped in a hockey jersey. He'll confront my father, and his career will be over before the season starts. If I end things without explanation, he'll be hurt. But at least he'll still have a future.

Sacrifice his heart to save his career.

Some fucking choice.

I open my laptop, the blue light harsh in the darkness. My fingers hover over the keyboard before typing:Riley Becker stats.

His profile fills the screen. Five solid seasons with the Wolves. Not a superstar, but consistent, reliable. The kind of player teams need to win championships. The kind of player who could have another decade in the league if nothing derails him.

I click to another tab:Ice Cold Takes podcast. Clips of Becker's animated face fill the screen, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughs. Comments plentiful below each video:

This guy is the most entertaining thing in hockey right now

Finally someone who isn't afraid to be real

Becker and Kane are the duo we didn't know we needed

I click on one of our joint videos, watching the way we play off each other. The way he draws me out of my shell with relentless, good-natured prodding. The way I can't help responding to him, like a plant turning toward sunlight.

A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. But it’s a sad one.

***

Becker

THE WALK BACK from the gym takes me twice as long as it should. I'm deliberately dragging my feet, taking the scenic route like I'm some deep-thinking philosopher instead of a sweaty hockey player with boy problems.

Give him space.Groover’s words echo is my brain.

Easy for him to say. He and Mateo communicate so well they practically finish each other's sentences—in two languages, since Mateo's been teaching him Italian. Meanwhile, Kane and I can't even manage basic English without everything turning into a disaster.

But fine. Space. I can do space.

I'm a goddamn astronaut of emotional distance. Neil Armstrong has nothing on me.

I open the cabin door as quietly as possible, expecting darkness and Kane's rhythmic breathing from the bottom bunk. Instead, I find him wide awake, sitting at his desk, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen, casting harsh shadows that make him look like he's starring in some noir film about a tortured detective.

He glances over his shoulder when I enter, and his eyes—those fucking eyes that I can usually read like hockey stats—dart away so fast it's like looking at me physically hurts.

"Hi," he says, voice so faint it barely qualifies as sound.

And just like that, my astronaut credentials are revoked.

I can't do this.

I physically cannot stand in this room and pretend everything's fine when he won't even look at me. Groover's advice circles the drain of my non-existent impulse control, and I last exactly three seconds before I'm shutting the door behind me and leaping inside.

"Okay, we're talking. Now."

Kane's shoulders tense, but he still won't turn around. "I told you, there's nothing to talk—"

"Bullshit." The word explodes from me like it's been waiting all night. "Complete and utter bullshit, Kane. Yesterday you couldn't keep your hands off me. Today you won't even look at me. That'ssomething."

He stands abruptly, moving things around on his desk, rearranging pencils, straightening papers. Classic Kane stress behavior, but it only makes me angrier because he still won't fucking look at me.

"I just..." he starts, voice tight. "I think we're moving too fast."

I let out a laugh that sounds more like I'm choking. "Too fast? Are you shitting me right now? What happened with your father? What did he say to you?"