Page 127 of Puck Your Feelings
The whistle pierces the air, sharp and final.
CHAPTER 34
Kane
THE WHISTLE SCREAMS through the rink, and my body moves before my brain registers.
Muscle memory takes over—feet finding edges, stick finding puck, body finding position. The game erupts around me in a chaos of shouts and skate sounds and the crack of sticks meeting rubber, but it all feels distant, like I'm watching everything through frosted glass instead of actually participating.
My father's watching. Somewhere out there in the digital void, among the thousands of viewers streaming this game, he's watching.
Ace carries the puck up the right wing. I read his trajectory before he commits, angling my body to cut off the passing lane. He tries to thread it through anyway—ambitious, stupid—and my stick intercepts with a satisfyingthwack.
"Nice read!" Becker calls from somewhere behind me, and the sound of his voice grounds me in my body again.
I push the puck up ice, find Petrov breaking toward the blue line, make the pass. Don't wait to see if it connects—alreadypivoting back, covering the defensive zone because that's my job. That's what I do.
The first period dissolves into a blur of motion. I'm playing well—I know I am because my body knows what to do even when my head's a fucking mess. Every hit I take, every pass I make, every play I execute—it all happens on autopilot while my mind spins.
The buzzer sounds. First period over.
I skate to the bench, accept water from Coach Martin without really seeing him. My hands are shaking, so I grip the bottle tighter. Nobody can know I'm terrified. Nobody can see the cracks.
"How many?" I ask.
Mateo glances at the numbers. "Seven-fifty. Climbing."
Not yet. Not enough. We can do better.
"You good?" Becker appears beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush.
I nod.
He studies me for a second, those too-observant eyes seeing more than I want them to. Then he just bumps his shoulder against mine again—a silentI've got you—and skates back out.
The second period is harder. My autopilot's failing, thoughts bleeding through. Every time I touch the puck, I'm aware of the cameras. Every time I make a play, I'm aware my father's watching, probably on his tablet in his home office, probably already composing the text he'll send after—critiquing my positioning, my decision-making, my entire goddamn existence.
Wall makes a spectacular glove save that has Coach and Mateo shouting commentary about "the wingspan of a fucking pterodactyl," and despite everything, I almost smile.
Groover scores on a wraparound that's both skill and dumb luck. His celebration involves pointing at Mateo in the stands and blowing a kiss that nearly costs him a penalty for delay of game.
The buzzer sounds again. Second period over.
This is it.
My legs feel like they're made of something heavier than bone as I skate toward the streaming booth.
Every eye in the rink tracks my movement.
Mateo's already holding out the wireless mic when I reach him, like he's been waiting.
"Eight hundred thousand," he says quietly.
I take the mic. It's heavier than it should be, or maybe my hands are just shaking that badly.
The paper's in my pocket. Becker helped me write it last night. Every word carefully chosen, workshopped, perfected. I pull it out with fingers that don't feel like mine, unfold it with hands that are definitely trembling now.
The rink's gone silent. Players scattered across the ice, all staring at me. Coach Martin's stopped talking mid-sentence. Even the cameras seem to hold their breath.
