Page 74 of Puck Your Feelings
Holy shit, he's nervous.
Kane is nervous.
I'm not sure I've ever seen him nervous before. Focused, yes. Intense, absolutely. But nervous? This is like seeing a unicorn have a panic attack.
"Soo, we're not gonna talk about it, then?" I interrupt his stream-of-consciousness.
Kane doesn't even look at me, just continues rearranging his already immaculate belongings. "Yup. That's exactly what we're not going to do. Great. Thanks for understanding."
He's mortified. And even though a small, petty part of me wants to make him squirm, the rest of me can't bear to see him like this.
I decide to give him an out.
"Look, it's not like you meant it," I say, trying to sound convincing. "You got banged up pretty hard out there. Probably hit your head or something."
He stops mid-movement, his hand frozen in the act of aligning a protein bar with the edge of the shelf. He turns to face me for the first time since I entered the cabin.
A long pause stretches between us, filled with nothing but the sound of my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
"What if I didn't?" he finally says, his voice low.
My brain gives me nothing. "Didn't what?"
He takes a hesitant step toward me. I stay rooted to the spot, afraid that any sudden movement might shatter whatever's happening here.
"Hit my head," he clarifies, taking another step closer.
I'm completely mute now, my usual torrent of words dried up like a desert.
All I can think is:don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up.
Kane moves closer still, close enough that I can smell his soap and feel the heat radiating from his body. "What if I meant it?" he asks.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly bone dry. "The thing we're not talking about?"
"Yeah," he says, now so close I can feel his breath ghost across my face. His eyelids are heavy, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "That thing."
I'm breathing like I just finished a double shift. "I'd be okay with that."
"Yeah?" he whispers.
Before I can respond—before I can even process what's happening—Kane launches forward and crashes his mouth into mine.
I’m momentarily stunned, as if my brain-body connection has been severed with a sharp sword, because, excuse me, are these Kane’s lips currently pressed again mine?
Is this real life?
Am I even awake? Or was I the one who got checked, concussed, and am currently talking nonsense at a nurse somewhere in a rural, Colorado hospital?
But if I am…what’s the harm in dreaming it on?
And so I kiss him back.
I kiss back Kane, my teammate, my roommate, the Hockey robot whose lips are surprisingly soft, currently parting against mine, tongue already pushing out, demanding entrance.
And yes, Kane lips may be soft, but there’s nothing soft about the way he’s hissing me.
Like he means it.
