Page 21 of Puck Your Feelings
"Goodnight, Riley."
"Goodnight, Kane."
I lie there in the darkness, listening to him breathe, and try to ignore the fact that I'll be doing this for the next three weeks.
Three weeks of Kane's organizational obsession.
And his stupid, stupid abs.
CHAPTER 5
Becker
THE FIRST ALARM goes off at 5:30 AM, and I'm pretty sure I'm being tortured by the CIA.
It's not even a normal alarm sound—it's some kind of gentle, ascending chime that probably cost extra because it's "scientifically designed to wake you naturally." Which is bullshit, because there's nothing natural about waking up when it's still dark outside and the only people awake are serial killers and hockey players.
I groan into my pillow, praying for death or at least unconsciousness.
The alarm stops.
Thank Christ.
Thirty seconds later, the second alarm goes off. This one's a little more insistent, like it's personally offended I didn't react to the first one.
"Make it stop," I mumble into the darkness.
"That would defeat the purpose," Kane's voice drifts up from below, and he sounds—I shit you not—awake. Alert. Possibly already caffeinated through sheer force of will.
The second alarm stops.
I start to relax back into the sweet embrace of sleep when—
The third alarm. This one sounds like a fucking air raid siren had a baby with a car alarm.
"OH MY GOD." I lean over the edge of my bunk to glare down at Kane, who's already sitting up, looking like he's about to film a commercial for athletic wear. "I hate you so much right now."
He glances up at me with zero sympathy. "Conditioning starts in fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes is enough time to reconsider all my life choices." I flop back onto my mattress, seriously contemplating whether I can fake my own death convincingly enough to get out of this.
"Get up or get left behind."
There's movement below—the efficient sounds of Kane getting dressed, probably in an outfit he laid out last night like a fucking maniac. I hear a drawer open and close. The rustle of fabric. A zipper.
I'm going to murder him and make it look like an accident.
With Herculean effort, I drag myself out of bed. My body feels like I got hit by a truck, and we haven't even started training yet.
Kane's already in full workout gear. He's checking his phone with one hand while drinking water with the other, because apparently he has to multitask even his hydration.
"You look like death," he observes helpfully.
"You look like a fucking morning person," I counter, stumbling toward my duffel bag. "Which is worse."
I manage to get dressed in what I think are clean workout clothes—or at least clothes that pass the smell test—and follow Kane out into the predawn darkness where the entire team has gathered to suffer together.
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