Page 92 of Puck Your Feelings

"No," he says, his voice rough.

"What?" I manage, still breathless. Confused.

He takes two steps back, putting distance between us, though his eyes never leave mine.

"You want me? Then get your shit together."

"But—" I start, gesturing vaguely toward his erection.

"I'm not stupid, Kane," he cuts me off. "You're trying to fuck away whatever's bothering you. I'm not playing that game."

He backs up further, the tent in his pants making it clear just how much self-control this is taking.

"When you figure out what you actually want—not what your father wants, not what you think you should want, but what you actually want—then you can have me. Until then, keep your distance."

Before I can respond, he's climbing up to the top bunk, leaving me standing there with my mouth open, my body still humming from the aftershocks.

I stare up at the bunk where he's disappeared.

Frustrated. Impressed. Stunned.

Even with an obvious hard-on, even after what just happened, Becker's resolve is unbreakable.

And somehow, impossibly, that makes me want him even more.

CHAPTER 23

Kane

I'M AWAKE.

Not just the normal "let me scroll through my phone until I pass out" awake. I'm talking full-on, brain-in-overdrive, every-muscle-tense awake.

I've been staring at the same crack in the wood wall for—I check my phone—two hours and seventeen minutes. The screen informs be of nothing but the time and the absence of new messages.

My father's deadline looms in my brain like a guillotine blade. I can practically hear the countdown ticking away in my head.

Above me, the top bunk creaks. Becker's not sleeping either. The rhythm of his breathing is all wrong—too measured, too controlled. He's lying up there pretending to be asleep, just like I'm down here pretending I'm not having a full-blown mental crisis.

I set my phone face-down on the mattress. The screen's been dark for hours.

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but all I see is Becker's face. The hurt there. The confusion.

Figure out whatyouwant.

WhatIwant.

What a fucking concept.

For twenty-four years, what I've wanted hasn't been part of the equation. There's what my father wants, what the team needs, what the coaches want. But what I want? That's always been irrelevant.

And what I want is four feet above me, pretending to sleep.

I want Becker. I want his chaos and his stupid jokes and his ability to make me feel like I'm more than just Kane Marcus's son. I want to stop thinking about my father's threats, about careers and consequences and deadlines.

Just for one night, I want to be selfish.