Page 50 of Puck Your Feelings
"In my defense, they were very convincing injuries. I had a whole system involving ketchup packets and dramatic timing."
"You're a menace."
"Yeah, but I'm your menace now." He says it lightly, joking, but something in my chest does a complicated flip at the words. "Come on. Let's go write this thing before I accidentally broadcast something else. One fuck up at a time."
I follow him out of the equipment room, my phone heavy in my pocket with my father's unanswered messages, and try not to think about how close we just came to—
To what?
I don't let myself finish that thought.
***
Kane
IT'S PAST MY bedtime when I finally lean back in my desk chair, rubbing my eyes. My laptop screen is full of notes and crossed-out sentences and highlighted sections. Becker's perched on my bed—we gave up on him sitting in the other chair after he kept fidgeting and nearly fell off it twice—with his own laptop balanced on his knees.
"Okay," he says, reading through the latest draft. "So we open with me taking full responsibility. No hedging, no excuses. I fucked up, here's how, here's why it won't happen again."
"Then I come in," I continue, scanning my section. "Address what happened directly. No deflecting or downplaying."
"What do you want to say about your father?" He's watching me carefully, his earlier humor set aside for something more serious.
I think about it. About all the things I could say, all the ways I could burn that bridge completely. But that's not who I am, even if he deserves it.
"That I respect his career and his knowledge of the game," I say slowly, working through it as I speak. "But I'm my own player. I need space to develop my own identity separate from his legacy."
Becker nods, typing. "That's good. Respectful but firm. Sets a boundary without being cruel."
"And we emphasize this was an accident." I look at him. "You weren't trying to expose me."
"Even though I totally did expose you." His mouth twists ruefully.
"Which you will never do again."
"Never." He mimes throwing his phone out the window. "I'm deleting every app. We're going analog only. Carrier pigeons. Smoke signals."
"Don't be dramatic."
"Drama is literally my brand." But he's smiling as he says it, and I find myself smiling back.
We work for hours, fine-tuning every sentence until it says exactly what we need it to say. The anger from earlier has completely dissipated, replaced by this focused collaboration that feels almost comfortable. Natural, even.
Around midnight, Becker stretches his arms above his head, his spine cracking audibly. "I think we've got it."
I read through the final script one more time, checking for anything that could be misinterpreted or taken out of context. "It's good. Really good."
"We make a half-decent team when we're not trying to kill each other."
"Emphasis onhalf."
He laughs and closes his laptop, setting it carefully on my desk. "Do you want to record now, or wait until tomorrow?"
I check the time. "Tomorrow. When we're fresh and not running on fumes and spite."
"Fair point." He stands, stretching again, and heads for the ladder to his bunk. "Still can't believe you banished me to the nosebleeds."
"Think of it as penance."
