Page 129 of Puck Your Feelings
And somewhere out there, my father's watching.
Let him watch.
I'm done performing for an audience of one.
***
Becker
THE POST-GAME pile-on's still happening when I finally extract myself enough to breathe. Groover's got Kane in a headlock that's more affectionate than aggressive, Petrov's yelling something in Russian that sounds celebratory, and Ace is attempting to start a chant that approximately nobody's joining.
Kane looks like he's been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure.
His eyes are glazed, movements mechanical as Groover releases him and slaps his shoulder. He blinks slowly, like he's trying to remember where he is.
"Who won?" he asks, voice flat.
Wall, who skated all the way from his net to join the celebration despite being on the losing side, stares at Kane like he's grown a second head. "Were you notthere?"
"Give him a break," Petrov cuts in, grinning. "He's solving daddy issues. More important than the game."
"Nothing's more important than the game," everyone says in unison—including Mateo.
Kane's still standing there looking shell-shocked, so I skate closer, grab his jersey, and tug him toward me.
"Kane," I say, quiet enough that only he can hear over the chaos. "Hey. Look at me."
His eyes focus on mine, pupils blown wide.
"I love you too."
Something shifts in him—the shock cracks, and underneath is something raw and real and so fucking vulnerable it makes my chest ache.
"Yeah?" His whispers.
"Yeah, you dramatic off-script idiot." I pull him in and kiss him.
The team erupts into fresh whoops and hollers. Someone—Wall—yells, "Get a room!"
We break apart, Kane's face the color of a fire hydrant, and start skating toward the exit. My hand finds his, fingers threading together because fuck it, we just officially came out to eight hundred thousand people. Holding hands is nothing.
A cluster of journalists hover near the tunnel like vultures circling roadkill, phones out, recording everything. Some I recognize from press conferences. Others look like they crawled out of tabloid hell specifically to make Kane's life a spectacle.
Kane’s grip on my hand tightens, and his shoulders go rigid in that way they do when he's about to shut down completely.
Not happening. Not today.
I plant myself between Kane and the reporters, still holding his hand, and plaster on my bestI'm-about-to-make-your-job-very-difficultsmile.
"Welcome," I address them with exaggerated politeness. "Lovely to see you all. Great turnout. Really appreciate the support."
"Riley, can you comment on—" one starts.
"Nope."
"Is Kane's father aware—"
"Didn't you just watch the same stream as everyone else?"
