Page 134 of Puck Your Feelings
EPILOGUE
Kane
"WHAT'S UP, ICE holes!" Becker's voice booms through my headphones as I adjust the mic positioned between us in the locker room. "Welcome back to Ice Cold Takes, now with two million of you beautiful degenerates subscribed—"
"Two point one million," I correct, pulling up the analytics on my phone.
"Two pointonemillion beautiful degenerates," Becker amends without missing a beat. "We're coming to you live from the Wolves locker room, approximately—" he checks his watch, "—forty-three minutes before we absolutely demolish the Denver Reapers in our opener."
"Optimistic."
"I prefer 'confident with aggressive undertones.'" He leans into the mic. "And I'm here with my co-host, defensive partner, and roommate who's currently alphabetizing his gear—"
"It's organized by usage frequency, not alphabetically."
"—Kane Marcus, who definitely knows how to have fun at parties."
I flip him off out of frame. "I'm delightful at parties."
"You've been to exactly two parties since we started dating, and at one of them you reorganized Wall's spice rack."
"It was chaos. Cumin next to cinnamon? That's how people die."
Becker grins at the camera. "See what I deal with? Anyway, folks, today's the big day. Season opener. New jerseys—which look sick, by the way. New energy. New drama, probably, because it's us."
"There won't be drama."
"Kane. Babe. Light of my life. Pain in my ass." He counts on his fingers. "Last season, Groover accidentally started a Twitter war with a rival team's mascot. Wall got into a fist fight. And I may have set off a fire alarm during a team meeting."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling. Two months since training camp ended. Two months of living together, learning each other's rhythms, negotiating whose turn it is to take out the trash (him) and who's responsible for grocery shopping (me, because I made the mistake of letting him do it once and he came back with everything but food).
Two months of this—easy banter, comfortable silences, mornings where I wake up to him stealing the blankets and nights where we fall asleep watching film.
Best two months of my life.
"Alright, we gotta wrap this up," Becker says, checking the time. "But remember—tonight's game is streaming on all the usual channels, and we'll be back tomorrow with a full breakdown, behind-the-scenes, and probably footage of Kane yelling at me for something."
"That's guaranteed, not probable."
He signs off with his signature peace sign. "Stay cold, ice holes."
I kill the recording, and Becker immediately turns to me. "How do I look?"
"Like you're about to play hockey."
"But do I lookgood?"
I give him a slow once-over—new jersey, gear properly fitted for once, hair styled in that deliberately messy way that somehow works on him. "You look fine."
"Fine? That's all I get?"
"You look—" I lean in close enough that nobody else can hear, "—like I'm going to have a very difficult time concentrating on the game."
His cheeks flush pink. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"Well." He clears his throat. "Good thing we're professional athletes with excellent focus and discipline."
