Page 68 of Puck Your Feelings
Neither does he.
His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, so briefly I might have imagined it. But I didn't imagine the way my heart rate picks up, or how my grip on his waist tightens slightly.
What the fuck is happening?
This is Becker.
Annoying, chaotic, never-shuts-up Becker. Who is suddenly not annoying at all. Who is suddenly very close, and whose lips look very—
The lights shut off completely.
"What the—" Becker starts, and then we're both laughing in the darkness, the tension broken.
"Timer," I explain. "Rink lights automatically shut off at midnight."
"Of course they do," he sighs. "Just when I was getting good."
"That's a very wide interpretation of 'good.'"
"Fuck off," he says, but there's no heat in it. "How are we supposed to get off the ice now? I can't see shit."
"I've got you." I keep one arm around him, using my free hand to fish my phone from my pocket. The flashlight illuminates a small circle around us, catching the glint of his eyes, the curve of his smile.
"My hero," he drawls, but he doesn't pull away as I guide us toward the exit.
We make it off the ice without incident, sitting side by side on the bench to remove our skates. The silence between us isn't awkward, exactly, but feels charged somehow.
"Thanks," I say finally. "For not making fun of the figure skating thing."
He looks up, surprised. "Why would I make fun of it? It's cool that you can do something most of us can't."
"My father thinks it's ridiculous."
"Yeah, well, no offense, but your father sounds like an asshole."
I should defend him. That's what I always do—explain away his behavior, make excuses. Instead, I find myself nodding. "He can be."
Becker bumps his shoulder against mine. "Thanks for sharing it with me. And for not letting me break my face."
"Your face is fine the way it is," I say before I can stop myself.
He raises an eyebrow. "Just fine? Not exceptional? Not the pinnacle of masculine beauty?"
And just like that, we're back on familiar ground—Becker being ridiculous, me pretending to be annoyed by it.
Except I'm not annoyed. Not even a little bit.
CHAPTER 15
Becker
I'M PRACTICALLY VIBRATING out of my fucking skates.
This isn't just any scrimmage—this is my podcast's coming-out party, the moment we transform from "that weird show where Becker rants about Gatorade" to "legitimate hockey content with actual production value."
We've got cameras set up around the rink, players mic'd up, and—most importantly—a live audience that keeps growing by the minute.
"Seven hundred and twelve thousand viewers, Becker!" Mateo shouts from his command center near the bench, where he's surrounded by more tech than NASA uses to launch rockets. "And we haven't even started!"
