Page 20 of Puck Your Feelings
Exactly eight minutes later—I timed it because I'm petty—the shower shuts off. Two minutes after that, Kane emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing sleep pants and nothing else.
And okay, fine.
The Hockey Robot has abs.
Like, really good abs. The kind that suggest he does core work for fun. His chest is solid muscle, and there's a line of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants.
I'm suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
"Bathroom's free," he says, toweling his buzzcut.
I grunt a half-assed acknowledgment and grab my stuff.
The shower is still warm and steamy, smelling like whatever fancy soap Kane uses. I crank the water as hot as it'll go and spend way too long trying not to think about the fact that Kane was naked in here three minutes ago, because we’re no going to go there.
Kane is already in his bunk when I emerge some half-hour later, reading something on his phone with intense focus. He glances up when I come out, and his eyes catch on me for just a second before darting back to his screen.
I climb up to my bunk, which requires more coordination than I expected because I'm tired and the ceiling isright there. I bang my elbow on the wall, my knee on the ladder, and nearly concuss myself on the ceiling before I finally collapse onto the mattress.
"Graceful," Kane comments from below.
"Fuck off."
I grab my phone to set my alarm, typing in 5:45AM and labeling itWHY, OH WHYbecause if I don't laugh, I'll cry.
Below me, I hear Kane set multiple alarms. Of course he does. Probably has them labeled by priority:First Warning, Second Warning, You're Definitely Late Now.
The cabin settles into darkness. I can hear him breathing, hear every tiny shift of his weight on the mattress below me. The frame creaks when he moves, every sound annoyingly loud, which is fair, given that we're separated by maybe four feet of vertical space and a mattress that's probably older than both of us.
I close my eyes, and last about seven seconds in silence. "You awake?"
Kane sighs. "Unfortunately."
I grin at the ceiling. "Why'd you transfer here? You were killing it in Vancouver."
He stays quiet long enough that I think maybe he's not going to answer.
"Wanted a change," he finally says.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
I get it—some stuff you don't want to talk about with a guy you met yesterday and publicly insulted in front of thousands of people.
"Fair enough," I say. "For what it's worth, your press conference wasn't that boring. I've heard worse."
I can practically hear his surprise in the pause that follows.
"Your podcast isn't that bad," he offers back, and it sounds like the words are being physically extracted. "I've heard worse."
I laugh, the sound too loud in the quiet cabin. "Wow. Romance isn't dead after all."
"Shut up and go to sleep, Becker."
"It's Riley, actually." I don't know why I tell him this.
Another pause, longer this time.
