Puck Your Feelings (Melting Ice #2)

CHAPTER 1

Becker

THE EQUIPMENT ROOM smells like every hockey player's wet dream—rubber, leather, and that weirdly specific scent of brand-new tape that probably shouldn't be as satisfying as it is.

I'm wedged between a rack of practice jerseys and what I'm pretty sure is Wall's backup goalie gear (the man hoards equipment like a dragon with anger management issues), my phone propped on a stack of elbow pads, recording light blinking cheerfully at me.

"—and another thing about Gatorade," I lean forward, lowering my voice like I'm about to reveal government secrets.

"Why are there so many flavors? What happened to just orange?

Now we've got 'Glacier Freeze' and 'Fierce Grape' like we're drinking Mountain Dew's aggressive cousin.

I'm convinced it's a conspiracy,” I announce to my audience of—I check the live viewer count—nine people.

Two of them are probably my mom on different devices.

“Big Sports Drink is trying to confuse us into buying twelve bottles when we only need one. "

My phone buzzes with a comment from user WallOfShame: This is why your parents worry about you.

"Wall, don't you have equipment to maintain?"

Another comment, this time from GRoov_or_die: You lost me at Glacier Freeze. Go touch grass.

I flip off the camera.

Five years I've been with the Wolves. Five solid, thoroughly mediocre years of being exactly what every team needs: a reliable defenseman who shows up, does his job, and doesn't cause drama.

I'm not scoring highlight-reel goals or getting endorsement deals.

My jersey isn't exactly flying off the shelves.

But I'm steady, and in hockey, steady keeps you employed.

The podcast started as a joke—Wall bet me I couldn't talk about hockey for thirty minutes without making a dick joke.

I lost at minute four (in my defense, someone had just scored with a between-the-legs shot, and the opportunity was right there).

But somewhere between my humiliation and Wall's victory lap, I realized I actually enjoyed it.

Talking about hockey, hot takes, conspiracy theories about sports drink companies—it gave me a way to stay in the conversation without the pressure of being in front of cameras, answering the same canned questions about "giving 110%" and "taking it one game at a time. "

Last year, watching Groover navigate the media shitstorm helped me take the plunge. Here, in my little corner of the internet where I control the narrative. Sure, my subscriber count is smaller than most people's Twitter followers, but it's mine.

"Anyway, moving on from beverage-based corruption—let's talk about training camp. We've got a new transfer coming in, some hotshot from Vancouver who apparently thinks he's god's gift to defensive zone coverage—"

I'm mid-rant when I hear it through the wall: the unmistakable drone of the new guy at the press conference happening in the media room.

The one I'm technically supposed to be at but strategically avoiding because standing in the back of a room full of reporters while they ask variations of "how do you feel about the upcoming season" makes me want to walk into traffic.

"Our defensive zone coverage will focus on systematic gap control and stick-on-puck principles, emphasizing quick transitions and maintaining defensive structure through neutral zone pressure..."

I physically cringe and mutter into the microphone. "Holy shit, is he reading from a PowerPoint presentation? Someone tell this guy he's at a hockey presser, not defending his dissertation on the biomechanics of paint drying."

My viewer count ticks up. Fourteen viewers now. We're practically going viral.

"And here we observe the rare Hockey Robot in its natural habitat," I continue, warming to my theme, "slowly draining the will to live from everyone in a fifty-foot radius with his absolutely riveting insights into—checks notes—gap control.

Folks, I've witnessed more charisma from the rubber mats in the shower.

This man makes tax forms look exciting."

Another viewer joins. Then another. Twenty-three people are now watching me roast someone through a wall. This might be my finest work.

"I mean, credit where it's due—he hasn't said 'um' once, which suggests either impressive media training or possible android origins. I'm leaning toward android. Someone check if he blinks."

That's when I notice my phone isn't the only thing that's connected to a microphone.

The sound system—the one I'd hooked into earlier to test audio levels because the equipment room has better acoustics than my apartment—is still very much connected to the building's PA system.

The same PA system that pipes into the media room.

Where the press conference is happening.

Where the Hockey Robot is currently not talking.

"Fuuuuck," I breathe, which of course also broadcasts beautifully through every speaker in the facility.

The silence from the media room is the kind of silence that comes right before someone gets murdered.

Or worse, traded.

Then I hear it. That voice. The same monotone that was putting everyone to sleep thirty seconds ago, except now it has an edge sharper than freshly sharpened skate blades.

"I'd like to address the commentary coming from what sounds like the discount sports podcast hiding in our equipment room." A pause, perfectly timed, like he's done this before. "If the host has actual hockey questions instead of amateur comedy hour material, he's welcome to join us."

My viewer count explodes. Fifty. Two hundred. Five hundred. Seven-fifty.

Someone in the chat: OH SHIT.

Another: RIP to this man's career.

WallOfShame: I'm going to laugh at your funeral.

I should shut up. I should turn off my phone, delete my entire online presence, and flee to a country without extradition treaties or professional hockey. Instead, like an absolute dipshit, I grab my microphone and march out of the equipment room toward the media area.

The doors to the press room are already open, every reporter, camera operator, and team staff member turned toward the entrance where I'm standing like an idiot, still holding my recording setup like it's a sword I'm about to fall on.

And there, at the podium, stands Jayden Kane Marcus.

He's taller than I expected—he's got at least two inches on me, which is saying something.

Dark hair cut short and neat, jaw that looks like it was carved by someone who takes their job way too seriously, and eyes that are currently pinning me in place with the intensity of a sniper lining up a shot.

He's also, objectively speaking, annoyingly attractive. The kind of attractive that makes you irrationally angry because it seems excessive. Like, save some genetics for the rest of us, asshole.

"Actually," I hear myself say, because my survival instincts died somewhere around the second Gatorade conspiracy theory, "I do have a question."

Every camera swings to me. I can see at least seven phones recording. My own phone, still clutched in my other hand, shows 1,200 viewers.

I'm going to get so fired.

"How do you plan to mesh with a team when you talk like a hockey textbook threw up?"

The reporters eat it up—I can hear the excited murmuring, the rapid-fire typing. Kane doesn't even blink. If anything, he looks mildly amused, which is somehow worse than if he'd looked angry.

"How do you plan to improve your podcast when your current viewer count is smaller than our equipment budget?" He pauses, and I swear to god there's the ghost of a smirk on his face. "Though I suppose it's climbing now. You're welcome."

The room erupts. Flashes going off like we just won the Stanley Cup instead of engaged in what's probably going to be a career-ending slap fight in front of the hockey media establishment.

I check my phone. Two thousand viewers. Climbing.

Fuck.

"Are all Wolves teammates this friendly?" some reporter calls out, barely containing their glee at the drama unfolding.

I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "We're just getting started."

Kane's eyes meet mine across the room, and there's something in them I can't quite read. Challenge, maybe.

Or the promise of future violence.

Great. Fantastic. My sixth season with the Wolves, and I'm starting it by publicly roasting our new defensive transfer to 2,500 people and counting.

My phone buzzes with a text from Wall: Captain’s calling me!

And there it is.

I give Kane a little mock salute that I immediately regret, then turn and walk out with as much dignity as I can muster, which is around none.

Behind me, I hear Kane smoothly redirect back to hockey talk, like he didn't just verbally murder me in front of the entire sports media landscape. "As I was saying about systematic gap control—"

I make it approximately fifteen feet down the hallway before I stop, lean against the wall, and check my phone.

3,500 viewers. I shut off the stream. My subscriber count has jumped to 600 and climbing.

My mom has sent four texts:

Mom: RILEY ETHAN BECKER

Mom: WHAT DID YOU DO

Mom: I'M WATCHING THE NEWS

Mom: YOUR FATHER IS LAUGHING

There’s also one from Cap.

Washington: Conference room. Ten minutes.

And a new comment under the stream now saved as a video that sums it up perfectly:

This season is going to be fucking wild.

Yeah. Yeah, it is.

I pocket my phone and head toward what's probably going to be the most uncomfortable meeting of my professional career, trying to figure out how, exactly, I'm going to explain that I accidentally started a viral feud with our new teammate because I was too busy exposing Big Gatorade's lies to remember basic audio equipment protocol.

Five years with the Wolves.

This is definitely not how I planned to start year six.