Page 3 of Puck Your Feelings
Mom: WHAT DID YOU DO
Mom: I'M WATCHING THE NEWS
Mom: YOUR FATHER IS LAUGHING
There’s also one from Cap.
Washington:Conference room. Ten minutes.
And a new comment under the stream now saved as a video that sums it up perfectly:
This season is going to be fucking wild.
Yeah. Yeah, it is.
I pocket my phone and head toward what's probably going to be the most uncomfortable meeting of my professional career, trying to figure out how, exactly, I'm going to explain that I accidentally started a viral feud with our new teammate because I was too busy exposing Big Gatorade's lies to remember basic audio equipment protocol.
Five years with the Wolves.
This is definitely not how I planned to start year six.
CHAPTER 2
Kane
THE PRESS CONFERENCE wraps up with me fielding softball questions about defensive strategies and my "excitement to join the organization," all while internally calculating exactly how much damage control I'm going to need to do after that spectacular opening act.
My father is going to have a field day with this.
I can already hear his voice—that particular tone he uses when he's "disappointed" which somehow sounds worse than when he's actively pissed.You let some nobody podcaster make you look reactive. That's not how a Marcus handles media.
Except I didn't let him do anything. The discount podcaster—Becker, according to the roster sheet I memorized on the flight—broadcasted his running commentary through the goddamn PA system like he was providing DVD commentary for my life. What was I supposed to do, ignore it? Pretend I couldn't hear him comparing me to tax forms?
I shake hands with the GM, nod at the coaching staff, and make my escape before anyone can corner me for follow-up questions about my new "rivalry." As if I have time for a rivalrywith someone whose biggest career accomplishment is probably that time he didn't get benched for an entire game.
My phone buzzes as I navigate the hallway toward what I hope is the locker room.
Dad:We need to talk about that press conference.
I silence the notification without responding.
Another buzz.
Dad:Don't ignore me, Jayden.
I've been in Chicago for exactly four hours, and he's already monitoring my every move from Vancouver. This was supposed to be my fresh start—new team, new city, far enough away from his media empire that I could actually breathe without worrying about him critiquing my inhale-to-exhale ratio.
That plan lasted approximately one press conference.
I'm studying the directional signs on the wall—locker room is apparently left, training facilities right, emergency exits everywhere for when I inevitably need to flee the country—when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Kane!"
I turn to find a tall, broad-shouldered guy in Wolves merch striding toward me with the confidence of someone who's used to people listening when he talks. His expression is somewhere between amused and exasperated, which seemsto be the default state of everyone I've met so far in this organization.
"Marcus Washington. Team captain," he introduces himself, extending a hand. "Welcome to the Wolves. Hell of a first impression."
I shake his hand, his grip firm but not aggressive. "Not exactly how I planned to introduce myself to the team."
