Page 131 of Puck Your Feelings
Behind us, the team's still celebrating on the ice, their voices echoing through the rink. Ahead of us, the locker room door's propped open, warm air spilling out into the cold tunnel.
And beside me, Kane's hand is warm in mine.
Yeah. We won.
CHAPTER 35
Kane
"THIS IS ABUSE," Becker announces from where he's sprawled across his bunk like a starfish that's given up on life. "Actual, legitimate abuse. I'm calling someone. OSHA. The Geneva Convention. That hotline for people whose boyfriends are psychopaths."
I don't look up from where I'm folding his t-shirts into neat rectangles. "OSHA doesn't cover packing methodology."
"They should." He props himself up on his elbows to glare at me. "And those shirts were fine the way they were."
"They were balls of fabric that you shoved into your bag like you were hiding evidence."
"Efficient!"
"Chaotic."
"Organized chaos is still a form of organization."
I hold up what used to be a shirt and is now a Salvador Dali painting in fabric form. "This has achieved sentience and is begging for death."
Becker snatches it from my hands. "You're being dramatic."
"I'm being accurate." I return to the remaining pile of his clothes, which looks like a textile factory exploded. "How did you even fit all this in one bag?"
"Talent. Determination. Disregard for the laws of physics."
The cabin's nearly empty now—my stuff's already packed and stacked by the door with, Becker's belongings scattered across every available surface.
Our last day here.
This place—this tiny cabin with its bunk beds and paper-thin walls and shower that only produces two temperatures (hypothermia and surface-of-the-sun)—has somehow become significant. We fought here. Made up here. Had sex here.
So much has happened in these four walls that leaving feels like closing a chapter I'm not quite ready to finish.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I glance at the screen and freeze.
Dad:You may just be more stubborn than I am. I didn't know that was possible.
I stare at it for a solid ten seconds, reading it three times to make sure I'm not hallucinating.
"What?" Becker asks, apparently done with his dramatic death pose.
I hand him the phone.
He reads it, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Is this... is this him trying to benice?"
"I think so?"
"Huh." Becker hands the phone back. "Not quite an apology."
"No," I agree. "But it's a start."
"Your dad's emotionally constipated," Becker says. "Must run in the family."
