Page 28 of Puck Your Feelings
I force myself to relax, or at least appear to relax. "It's fine. Just... complicated family dynamics."
"Aren't they all," Becker says quietly, and when I glance at him, there's understanding in his expression. Not pity—I'd hate pity—just recognition that families are universally capable of fucking you up.
"My father once threw shoe at me for missing empty net," Petrov announces, apparently deciding we need levity. "I was twelve. He was very drunk. Shoe hit referee instead. We had to move towns."
Wall chokes on a laugh. "That did not happen."
"I swear on my babushka's grave. She's not dead, but I swear anyway."
We're all laughing now, the tension broken by Petrov's absolutely unhinged family story.
Becker's leg shifts under the water, his calf pressing more firmly against mine. I should probably pull away. Establish boundaries.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
The cold water should be the only thing I'm focusing on—the way it's making my muscles ache, how my skin is probably turning blue. Instead, I'm hyperaware of every point of contact between Becker and me. His leg against mine. The occasional brush of his knee. The way the water moves when he shifts.
This is not good.
This is the opposite of good.
"How long do we have to stay in?" Becker asks, looking like he's contemplating escape.
"Twenty minutes," Wall says grimly. "Or until someone passes out. Whichever comes first."
"Fantastic." Becker tilts his head back against the edge of the tub, exposing the long line of his throat. There's a small scar there, just below his chin. Probably from a stick or a skate. I wonder what the story is.
I wonder why I'm wondering.
"You staring at me, Kane?" Becker asks without opening his eyes.
Fuck.
"Making sure you don't drown," I lie smoothly.
"How considerate." Now he does open his eyes, and they're fixed on me with that sharp intelligence that I'm starting to realize he hides behind humor and chaos. "I'll try not to die in the next fifteen minutes."
"Appreciate it."
Our legs are still touching.
***
BACK AT CABIN 12, Becker's trying to pretend he's not in pain, which would be more convincing if he didn't wince every time he reaches for something with his left arm.
"You should ice that shoulder," I say.
"We literally just sat in ice for twenty minutes."
"Specifically the shoulder. You're compensating with your right side."
He pauses in the middle of pulling off his hoodie—a process that's clearly causing him discomfort—and stares at me. "You noticed that?"
"I notice a lot of things."
"That's..." He seems to be searching for words. "Actually kind of impressive. And creepy. But mostly impressive."
