Page 2 of Puck Your Feelings
Someone in the chat:OH SHIT.
Another:RIP to this man's career.
WallOfShame:I'm going to laugh at your funeral.
I should shut up. I should turn off my phone, delete my entire online presence, and flee to a country without extradition treaties or professional hockey. Instead, like an absolute dipshit,I grab my microphone and march out of the equipment room toward the media area.
The doors to the press room are already open, every reporter, camera operator, and team staff member turned toward the entrance where I'm standing like an idiot, still holding my recording setup like it's a sword I'm about to fall on.
And there, at the podium, stands Jayden Kane Marcus.
He's taller than I expected—he's got at least two inches on me, which is saying something. Dark hair cut short and neat, jaw that looks like it was carved by someone who takes their job way too seriously, and eyes that are currently pinning me in place with the intensity of a sniper lining up a shot.
He's also, objectively speaking, annoyingly attractive. The kind of attractive that makes you irrationally angry because it seems excessive. Like, save some genetics for the rest of us, asshole.
"Actually," I hear myself say, because my survival instincts died somewhere around the second Gatorade conspiracy theory, "I do have a question."
Every camera swings to me. I can see at least seven phones recording. My own phone, still clutched in my other hand, shows 1,200 viewers.
I'm going to get so fired.
"How do you plan to mesh with a team when you talk like a hockey textbook threw up?"
The reporters eat it up—I can hear the excited murmuring, the rapid-fire typing. Kane doesn't even blink. If anything, he looks mildly amused, which is somehow worse than if he'd looked angry.
"How do you plan to improve your podcast when your current viewer count is smaller than our equipment budget?" He pauses, and I swear to god there's the ghost of a smirk on his face. "Though I suppose it's climbing now. You're welcome."
The room erupts. Flashes going off like we just won the Stanley Cup instead of engaged in what's probably going to be a career-ending slap fight in front of the hockey media establishment.
I check my phone. Two thousand viewers. Climbing.
Fuck.
"Are all Wolves teammates this friendly?" some reporter calls out, barely containing their glee at the drama unfolding.
I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "We're just getting started."
Kane's eyes meet mine across the room, and there's something in them I can't quite read. Challenge, maybe.
Or the promise of future violence.
Great. Fantastic. My sixth season with the Wolves, and I'm starting it by publicly roasting our new defensive transfer to 2,500 people and counting.
My phone buzzes with a text from Wall:Captain’s calling me!
And there it is.
I give Kane a little mock salute that I immediately regret, then turn and walk out with as much dignity as I can muster, which is around none.
Behind me, I hear Kane smoothly redirect back to hockey talk, like he didn't just verbally murder me in front of the entiresports media landscape. "As I was saying about systematic gap control—"
I make it approximately fifteen feet down the hallway before I stop, lean against the wall, and check my phone.
3,500 viewers. I shut off the stream. My subscriber count has jumped to 600 and climbing.
My mom has sent four texts:
Mom: RILEY ETHAN BECKER
