Page 48 of Puck Your Feelings
"Profound." His tone could cut glass. "You get that from a fortune cookie?"
"I got it from watching you pretend nothing bothers you when clearly everything does."
"You don't know me." He turns back to his gear, dismissing me.
Fuck that.
I push off the rack and close the distance between us. "I know you reorganize your gear when you're stressed." He stills. "I know you study film until two in the morning when you can't sleep. I know you organize your protein powders by nutritional content because controlling small things makes you feel less out of control of the big things."
He spins around, and suddenly we're close. Too close. I can see the flecks of brown in his eyes, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
"So yeah," I continue, my voice dropping, "maybe I don't know your whole life story. But I know you're scared of your father, and you're too stubborn to admit it."
His eyes flash. "You want to psychoanalyze me? Fine." He takes a step forward, and now there's maybe six inches between us. "You hide behind humor because actually being sincere is terrifying. You started a podcast as a joke because if no one takes it seriously, you can't fail."
Another step. Four inches now.
"And you're so busy performing 'fun team jokester' that you don't let anyone see who you actually are."
My heart's hammering, and I can't tell if it's from anger or something else entirely. "At least I'm not running away."
"I transferred teams to get away from him." His voice is low, dangerous. "That's not running. That's survival."
"And how's that working out?" I'm in his space now, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. "He's still in your head. Still controlling you. Just from a distance now."
His hands come up and shove my shoulders—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make me stumble back a step.
"Shut up."
Something snaps in me. I shove back, and he's the one stumbling this time, his back hitting the equipment lockers with a metallic clang.
"Make me."
***
Kane
THE WORDS HANG in the air between us, and I realize—too late—that I've got Becker pinned against the lockers, my hands on his shoulders, our faces inches apart.
This is the moment I should step back.
Instead, all I can focus on is the way Becker's chest is heaving, his lips slightly parted, his eyes bright with anger.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and my gaze tracks the movement like.
I can feet his air, hot and wet on my face.
Should air feel this hot? Or wet? Is it normal that I can feel it?
Should we be standing here like that?
Is that what teammates do?
"What are we doing here?" His voice is rough, quieter than before.
"I have no idea." My own voice sounds foreign to my ears.
The moment stretches. My eyes drop to his mouth—I can't help it—and I watch his breath catch when he notices. His pupils are blown wide, dark enough that the blue is just a thin ring around the edges.
