Page 17 of Puck Your Feelings
Kane studies me for a long moment.
"One episode," he finally says. "After the camp. When we're back in Chicago."
"Deal."
We shake on it—his hand is warm and calloused and his grip is firm—and then we both retreat back to our respectiveactivities like we didn't just make some kind of weird peace treaty on a bus in the middle of nowhere.
My phone buzzes immediately and Ireluctantlyopen the group chat.
Wall:They shook hands. It's official.
Groover:What's official?
Wall:Whatever enemies-to-lovers arc they're speedrunning
I take a mental note to murder Wall once we get to the camp. The bus is too cramped to execute it properly.
Becker:YOU ASSULES ARE UNHINGED
Kane:Agreed.
Petrov:They agree on something! Is beautiful!
Washington:I'm muting all of you.
I glance at Kane, who's looking at his phone with an expression of deep confusion.
"Welcome to the team," I say.
"I'm already regretting every decision that led me here."
"That's the spirit."
He goes back to his book. I go back to my phone.
Three weeks in a cabin together.
Maybe it won't be the worst thing in the world.
Maybe it'll only be the second worst.
CHAPTER 4
Kane
I ARRIVE AT Cabin 12 before Becker, which is a small mercy in a day that's been largely devoid of them.
The cabin is exactly what I expected from a training camp facility tucked into the Colorado mountains—functional and aggressively rustic. A bunk bed that look like it was salvaged from a summer camp circa 1985 dominates the small space. There's a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in, two desks that have seen better decades, one closet that's going to require strategic negotiation, a mini-fridge that hums ominously, and a microwave with mysterious stains I'm choosing not to examine.
The one redeeming feature is the window overlooking the mountains, all jagged peaks and pine trees that would be picturesque if I wasn't about to spend three weeks sharing this shoebox with Riley Becker.
I drop my bag on the bottom bunk—the strategic choice for both convenience and escape routes—and start unpacking with the kind of precision that's kept me sane through years of hockey chaos.
Clothes first: workout gear folded and stacked in the left drawer, casual wear in the middle, compression gear in the right. My dress clothes go in the closet, hung with proper spacing so they don't wrinkle.
Bathroom next: toiletries lined up on the counter in order of morning routine—face wash, moisturizer, deodorant, cologne. Toothbrush in the holder, floss beside it, mouthwash on the shelf above. My electric razor plugged in on the far side, away from potential water damage.
I'm placing my books on the desk—two on defensive strategy, one on sports psychology, and the Cormac McCarthy I'm halfway through—when the door crashes open like someone's being pursued by bears.
