Page 8 of Puck Your Feelings
The chat explodes.
Petrov:Oh this is going to be good
Wall:Twenty bucks says they kill each other by week two
Ace:I'll take that action
I close the chat and pocket my phone, heading out of the conference room before anyone can corner me for an in-person interrogation.
The hallway is mostly empty now, though I catch glimpses of players heading toward what I assume is the locker room. I should probably go introduce myself properly, start building those team relationships that are supposedly important.
Instead, I find my way to the parking garage and sit in my car for twenty minutes, trying to remember why I thought this transfer was a good idea.
Fresh start. New team. Away from Dad's media empire and constant commentary.
How's that working out so far?
My phone buzzes with a new notification.
ESPN:Wolves' Kane and Becker Face Off in Viral Press Conference Moment.
Perfect.
I start the car and drive to my new apartment, already dreading tomorrow's bus ride and the three weeks that follow.
Cabin 12.
With Riley Becker.
Who thinks I talk like a tax form.
I can survive three weeks of anything.
Probably.
CHAPTER 3
Becker
THE BUS SMELLS like a combination of athletic tape, expensive cologne, and the collective regret of twenty-something men who stayed up too late doom-scrolling their own viral moments.
I know this because I'm one of them.
I dragged my ass out of bed at five-thirty, threw on the first clean clothes I could find—which turned out to be a Wolves hoodie with a mysterious stain on the sleeve and jeans that may or may not have been on my floor for three days—and called an Uber to the facility. Now I'm standing in the parking lot at five-fifty-five, duffle bag at my feet, watching my teammates filter onto the luxury coach bus like zombies in designer athleisure.
"Morning, sunshine," Groover calls from the bus steps, looking disgustingly awake and put-together. "Sleep well?"
"I got death threats on Twitter from Vancouver fans," I reply, shouldering my bag. "So, you know. Same old."
"Could be worse. You could be Kane."
I follow his gaze to the parking lot entrance, where an SUV is pulling in with the kind of precision that suggests its driver color-codes their underwear drawer. The driver's sidedoor opens, and Kane unfolds himself from the vehicle like he's auditioning for a car commercial.
He's wearing dark jeans, a fitted grey Henley, and aviator sunglasses despite the fact that the sun isn't even fully up yet, and he's carrying a leather bag that looks like it costs more than my rent.
"Is he serious right now?" I mutter.
"What?" Groover asks.
