Page 27 of Puck Your Feelings
Becker's down, not moving for a second that lasts approximately seventeen years. Coby's standing over him, not apologizing, not helping. Just fucking standing there.
I get between them. "Watch it."
Coby looks at me like I've grown a second head. "It was clean."
"I didn't say it wasn't." My voice is flat, the same tone my father uses when he's about to end someone's career. "I said watch it."
There's a beat where Coby clearly considers saying something else, then thinks better of it. Smart man.
"I'm good. I’m good." Becker's voice comes from ice level, slightly breathless but attempting casual. "Takes more than Coby's love taps to hurt me."
I offer him a hand up. He takes it, and I haul him to his feet. His grip is solid, but I don't miss the way he immediately favors his left side, how his shoulder sits slightly wrong.
"You sure?" I ask, low enough that only he can hear.
"Positive. Let's keep playing."
But I watch him the rest of scrimmage. The way he's compensating with his right side, protecting the left. Theoccasional wince he tries to hide. The fact that he's not throwing checks as hard as he was in the first period.
And fuck, I'm worried about him.
We've known each other for three days. Three days of forced proximity and mutual antagonism. There's no logical reason I should give a shit if he's hurt beyond basic teammate concern.
Except I do give a shit.
***
ICE BATHS WERE invented by sadists who hate joy.
I lower myself into the freezing water with the grim determination of someone about to be executed, because that's essentially what this is. Voluntary hypothermia in the name of recovery.
Wall's already in, looking miserable. Petrov slides in next, letting out a string of Russian that definitely isn't family-friendly based on the tone. Then Becker approaches our tub, sees the three of us, and apparently decides this is fine.
He climbs in across from me.
The tub is not big enough for four grown men.
Our legs immediately tangle under the water—my calf against his, his knee bumping mine, everything cold and weirdly intimate. I try to shift away, but there's nowhere to go. Wall's taking up half the tub by himself.
"So, Kane," Wall says, because apparently we're doing small talk while our balls try to retreat into our bodies. "What's your story? Why the Wolves?"
"Wanted a change of scenery."
Petrov snorts. "From Vancouver? What, mountains not good enough?"
"Something like that."
There's a pause, and I can see Wall debating whether to push.
He pushes.
"Your dad's the Vancouver media guy, right? Kane Marcus Senior?"
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "I'd prefer not to discuss my father."
The temperature in the tub—already fucking freezing—somehow drops another ten degrees. Wall's face does this thing where he clearly realizes he stepped in shit.
"Sorry," he says, and he sounds genuine. "Didn't mean to pry."
