Page 36 of Puck Your Feelings
Last night. Two AM. The darkness. The—
Oh, right.
Shit.
I bolt upright so fast I nearly crack my skull on the top bunk, and the sudden movement makes the entire frame creak ominously. Above me, Becker shifts but doesn't wake, and I freeze like I'm being hunted by something with excellent hearing and a taste for mortified hockey players.
That’s fine. Everything’s fine. He was asleep.
I ease back down onto my pillow, staring at the underside of Becker's bunk like it holds the answers to the universe. Or at least an explanation for why I thought jerking off three feet away from my new teammate was an acceptable life choice.
I was stressed. I couldn't sleep. It seemed like a practical solution to a practical problem.
Except now I'm lying here at five in the morning, wondering if Becker is currently trying to figure out how to request a cabin transfer without making it weird.
Too late. It's already weird.
The alarm on my phone goes off and it takes me a moment to silence it
"Fucking hell," Becker mutters, his voice rough with sleep. "Your alarm is a war crime."
I should say something. Good morning, maybe. Or sorry about the alarm. Or hey, weird question, were you happen to be awake last night when I—
"Morning," is what comes out, and it sounds strangled.
Silence.
Then: "Yeah. Morning."
The frame creaks as Becker shifts above me, and I hear the distinct sound of him sitting up, followed by a thump that suggests he just hit his head on the ceiling.
"Shit," he hisses.
"You okay?"
"Fine. Great. Living the dream up here in the fucking attic."
More silence. The kind that's so thick you could cut it with a skate blade.
Finally, I force myself out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I grab my shower stuff and head for the bathroom without looking up.
"I'm showering first," I announce to the room.
"Cool. Yeah. You do that."
Becker's voice is off. Too casual.
The kind of casual that's working way too hard to sound normal.
Fuck.
He heard, didn’t he?
I close the bathroom door and lean against it, my shower caddy dangling from one hand while I contemplate the feasibility of requesting a trade to a team in Europe. Maybe Asia. Somewhere far enough away that I'll never have to make eye contact with Riley Becker again.
The shower takes exactly eight minutes and when I emerge, Becker's sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk,my bunk, staring at his phone like it just told him his childhood dog died.
"Bathroom's yours," I say.
