Page 29 of Puck Your Feelings
I'm already moving toward the mini-fridge where I've stored several ice packs because I believe in being prepared for injuries. My father drilled that into me young—prevention andimmediate treatment are the difference between missing one game and missing ten.
I grab a pack and cross to Becker, holding it out.
He reaches for it.
Our fingers brush.
It's nothing. A half-second of skin contact that shouldn't register as anything significant. Except I feel it everywhere—that brief touch sending a jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with the cold ice pack.
"Thanks," he says, his voice slightly rougher than normal.
"Don't mention it." I retreat to my bunk, grabbing my playbook because I need something to do with my hands.
Becker settles into a chair by his mini-desk and props the ice pack on his shoulder. He pulls out his phone, scrolling with his free hand.
I try to focus on the playbook. Really, I do. But I keep sneaking glances at him, noting how he occasionally smiles at something on the screen without realizing.
"Hey, Kane?"
I look up. "Yeah?"
He's watching me now, his expression uncertain in a way I haven't seen before. "The podcast stuff. If it bothers you, I can stop including you."
I consider this. The logical answer is yes—tell him to keep me out of it, stop feeding into whatever narrative the internet is creating about us.
But.
"Do people enjoy it?" I hear myself ask. "The content?"
"Apparently." He's still watching me carefully. "Comments are mostly positive. Well, positive and wildly speculative, but positive overall."
I should care about that. About people speculating. My father would have a fucking aneurysm if he knew thousands of people were watching videos of me and theorizing about my personal life.
"Then it's fine," I say. "Just... warn me before you record."
His face breaks into a genuine smile, not the smirk or the sarcastic grin, but something real and warm. "Deal."
Silence settles between us, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet that feels almost companionable, like we're two people who've figured out how to exist in the same space in relative peace.
Progress.
CHAPTER 7
Becker
DAY FIVE OF training camp, and I'm starting to think someone switched out my brain for a malfunctioning GPS that only has one destination:Kane's general existence.
This is a problem.
We're crammed into one of the lodge's conference rooms for evening strategy talk—Coach going over zone coverage like it's the fucking Da Vinci Code. Normally, I'd be paying attention because I'm a professional and this is literally my job. But instead, I'm acutely aware that Kane and I are sharing a couch clearly designed for people who like each other, and our thighs are pressed together because there's no goddamn room.
He's taking notes.
Of course he is.
Neat, precise handwriting in a small leather notebook. His hand moves across the page with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—skating, protein powder organization, making me question my life choices.
I notice his hands. Can't not notice them. Strong, scarred knuckles from years of blocking shots and fighting for pucks.Long fingers wrapped around the pen. There's a scar across his right thumb that I want to ask about and absolutely will not ask about because that would be weird.
