Page 40 of Puck Your Feelings
"We'll discuss this later," he says finally, his voice ice-cold. "When you're thinking clearly."
"I am thinking clearly. For the first time in years, I'm actually—"
He hangs up.
I lean against the wall and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. This is fine. I said what I needed to say. He'll cool off, I'll cool off, and we'll have another conversation that goes exactly the same way because that's how it always goes.
By the time I manage to calm down, it’s already past six. So much for that shower I’ve been looking forward to.
I sigh, pocket my phone and head straight toward the lodge for dinner, my appetite completely gone.
My father shouldn’t matter in this equation.
The team is what matters now. The hockey. Proving I can do this on my own.
Not my father's opinion. Not his expectations.
Mine.
***
Becker
THE DINING HALL'S packed, the entire team crammed into the lodge's main room, and the energy's good. Loud. Everyone'stalking over each other, chirping, laughing, the kind of chaos that comes from three weeks of forced proximity and no escape.
Well, Everyone except Kane, whom I’ve all butfledfrom just minutes ago. He was milling around the cabin as I was leaving, miraculously with his eyes close, and I fucking booked it.
Again, not my proudest moment—I’m already sensing a new habit—but the last thing I needed was a super silent, super awkward walk all the way from the cabin to the hall.
I’ll deal with my shame later.
Somehow.
I grab a plate—something that might be chicken, definitely mashed potatoes, vegetables that look like they've given up on life—and find a seat next to Wall and Petrov.
"You're late," Wall observes oh-so-eloquently.
I shove a piece of chicken into my mouth and talk around it. "Recording an episode. Lost track of time."
"Podcast life." Petrov nods. "Very demanding. Much content."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. And again.
"Popular tonight," Wall comments.
I pull it out, expecting the usual—comments on an old episode, maybe someone sliding into my DMs to tell me my hockey takes are trash.
Instead, I've got forty-seven notifications.
And counting.
Mateo: Sooo… Becker? Your new episode...?
Groover: Dude, what the fuck?
Ace: Um. Did you mean to post this?
I scrunch my forehead. What the fuck are they on about? My takes werefiretoday.
