Page 70 of Puck Your Feelings
As we take our positions for the opening faceoff, I catch Kane's eye and give him a nod. He returns it, his game face sliding into place—all business now, that laser focus that makes him such a beast on the ice.
The puck drops, and chaos erupts.
For a practice scrimmage, everyone's playing like it's Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Groover's flying down the wing like his ass is on fire, Petrov's throwing his body around like he's auditioning for a demolition derby, and even Wall—who usually treats practice like a casual suggestion—is making saves that would make highlight reels.
"They're showing off for the cameras," I mutter to Kane as we catch a breather during a line change.
"Can you blame them?" Kane's eyes are bright with adrenaline. "Seven hundred thousand people are watching."
"Seven hundred and forty-five thousand now," Mateo calls from the bench.
Throughout the first period, Coach Martin provides actual hockey commentary for the viewers, while Mateo chimes in with his anthropological observations, creating the strangest play-by-play I've ever heard.
"Excellent forecheck pressure from the white team," Coach says.
"Notice how Groover establishes dominance by controlling the territorial center," Mateo adds. "Classic apex predator behavior."
"Petrov with a beautiful outlet pass to Ace."
"The gift-giving ritual strengthens social bonds within the pack structure."
It's absolutely ridiculous and the viewers are eating it up, according to the constant updates Mateo shouts between his commentary.
By the second period, we're tied 2-2, and the intensity has ratcheted up even further. Kane and I have settled into a rhythm, covering for each other seamlessly. When he pinches in, I drift back. When I jump into the rush, he's there to cover. It's like dancing, if dancing involved the constant threat of losing teeth.
Midway through the period, Kane collects a loose puck in our zone and starts carrying it up ice. He's got a clear lane and building speed when Ace—who's on the opposing team—lines him up perfectly.
The hit is clean but brutal.
Ace's shoulder catches Kane square in the chest, sending him crashing into the boards with a sound that makes my stomach drop. Kane goes down hard, his shoulder tanking the brunt of the impact.
I'm at his side before I even realize I'm moving, dropping to my knees beside him.
"Fuck, you okay?" I ask, my heart hammering in my chest. The rink has gone quiet, everyone waiting to see if he's hurt.
Kane groans, rolling onto his back. "I'm fine," he manages, though his face is tight with pain.
"That was quite the hit," I say, helping him sit up. "Ace trying to murder you or what?"
"Just playing the game," Kane winces as he rotates his shoulder. "Shoulder's a bit sore, though."
Without thinking, I reach out and start gently massaging the area, my fingers pressing through his jersey. "Here?"
"Yeah," Kane nods, then hisses as I find a tender spot. "Easy there, Wolverine."
"Sorry," I ease the pressure. "Better?"
"Mm-hmm."
I continue working the muscle, checking his face for any signs of serious pain. "You sure you're okay? No seeing double? No sudden urge to join the figure skating team permanently?"
That draws a small laugh out of him. "I'm sure."
But he's looking at me strangely, his eyes fixed on my face with a abnormal intensity, yet simultaneously looking like he’s spacing out.
"Kane?" I ask. "You sure you didn’t hit your head?"
He doesn't answer right away, still staring at me like he's trying to solve a particularly complex equation. "I'm sure," he finally says. "I've just... I've been thinking lately?"
