Page 71 of Puck Your Feelings
"About?" I prompt, stopping the massage now that his shoulder seems okay.
His gaze doesn't waver. "It's stupid."
I scrunch my forehead. "What?"
There's a moment of silence that feels like it stretches into eternity. Then:
"I've been wondering how it would feel like to kiss you."
The words hit me like a full-body check. My brain short-circuits, a million thoughts racing through at once:Holy shit did he just say that?Is he concussed?Should I say something back?His lips do look really fucking kissable right now.Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?
That last thought penetrates the chaos in my head.
Itisquiet.
Too quiet.
The entire rink has gone still, like someone pressed pause on the universe.
Then Wall skates by, casual as you please, and says, "You know your mics are on, right?"
Kane and I both look down at our jerseys, where the small black microphones are clipped.
The microphones that are very much on.
The microphones that are broadcasting to seven hundred and fifty thousand people.
"Fuck," I whisper, which of course also broadcasts perfectly.
Kane's face goes from confused to horrified in the space of a heartbeat. The color drains from his cheeks so fast I'm worried he might actually pass out.
"Just thought you should know," Wall adds helpfully before skating away.
Coach Martin's whistle pierces the silence. "Break!" he shouts, his voice echoing around the suddenly silent rink.
Kane and I skate to the bench in a daze, neither of us speaking. Washington is waiting for us, his expression caughtsomewhere between captain disapproval and barely contained laughter.
"Well," he says as we reach the bench, "that was... let's just take a moment."
I glance at Mateo, who's frantically typing on his laptop. "How many people heard that?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"Seven hundred and sixty-eight thousand, four hundred and twelve," he says without looking up. "And climbing. And you’re trending on Twitter."
Of coursewe’re trending on Twitter.
***
Kane
I'M DYING. LITERALLY dying. Is death an option? Because death seems pretty fucking good right now.
The walk from the ice to the locker room feels like the longest death march in human history. My skates might as well be cement blocks dragging me to my execution. I keep my eyes locked on the floor, counting tiles.
Behind me, I can hear the team's forced silence, the kind that happens when twenty grown men are all simultaneously choking on suppressed laughter.
It's like being followed by a pack of hyenas with asthma.
I push through the locker room door, making a beeline for my clothes. Maybe if I change fast enough, I can flee the country before anyone speaks. I hear the hockey bags droppingaround me, the scrape of skates on rubber mats, the squeak of bench seats as everyone settles in.
