Page 136 of Puck Your Feelings
"Hell of a pass, Kane," Ace says, clapping my shoulder as he walks by.
"Hell of a defensive play," Washington adds. "That's the kind of read that wins championships."
I nod, accepting the praise, but I'm looking for Becker. He was here two seconds ago, and now—
"Wait." Wall's standing in the middle of the room, dripping wet from his own celebratory shower. "Where's Becker?"
"Bathroom?" Petrov suggests.
That's when we hear it.
The fire alarm.
The entire team freezes for exactly half a second, then as one unit, we all say: "BECKER!"
I'm already moving toward the hallway when he emerges, looking sheepish, phone in hand with the camera still recording.
"There was a spider," he announces to the room. "Abigspider."
I take the phone from him, turn it to face us both. "Ladies and gentlemen, my boyfriend. Certified chaos agent."
***
THE PRESS CONFERENCE is exactly the circus I expected.
We're all crammed behind the table—Washington in the center.
The first reporter stands. "Jayden, your defensive play in the third period was exceptional. You and Riley seem to have excellent chemistry out there."
I lean into the microphone. "I do have excellent chemistry with my partner."
Becker immediately jumps in: "On the ice. He means on the ice."
Wall leans across Becker to speak into his mic. "Sure he does."
"Wall—" Washington starts, but he's fighting a smile.
It's too late. The reporters smell blood.
Another one stands. "Mr. Becker, your podcast has become the NHL's third most-watched hockey content—"
"Third?" Groover interrupts, looking genuinely offended. "We need to create more drama."
"Please don't," Ace says from the end of the table.
***
PARKING LOT. EVENING air cool against my overheated skin. Becker's filming the outro for tomorrow's podcast episode, using the arena lights as a backdrop.
"—and that's a wrap on opening night," he's saying. "Four to three, baby. Groover with the game-winner, your boy Kane with two assists, and me looking devastatingly handsome the entire time—"
He stops mid-sentence, and I follow his gaze.
A black SUV's pulling into the lot.
Every muscle in my body tenses. Becker lowers the phone, moving closer—not protectively, exactly, butthere. Present. Solid.
The SUV parks. The door opens.
