GET THAT PUCK

Rules and Exceptions

"Raev," she hisses again, sharper this time, "one more word, and I'm canceling. On You. Instantly."

I raise my hands like I'm surrendering in a hostage situation. "Silent as the grave. Totally innocent."

She huffs, trying not to laugh, but her eyes betray her amusement. Meanwhile, Kane glances between us again, and I swear I see a flicker of "what are they whispering about?" in his eyes. Yes! Mission accomplished.

Just then, Kane leans over slightly, probably trying to hear us better, and I stiffen dramatically, pretending to be caught in a conspiracy. She elbows me again, but this time I grin like I've just won the lottery.

If only he knew the real drama happening right under his nose—the secret society of two and their fiery fries judgment.

The cafeteria hums around us, trays clattering, voices bouncing off the walls like a chaotic symphony. Meanwhile, she sits there, casually munching on her fries, completely at ease—as if she owns the place. Her eyes flick between Kane and me, but her focus is mostly on him.

Kane's words flow smoothly, like they've known each other forever—effortless, relaxed, almost too perfect. He's describing some obscure play he saw last weekend, gesturing animatedly, and she responds with a sharp wit, nodding along, offering just enough smiles to keep him hooked.

It's easy. Too easy. Like they're getting close fast—like they're already planning their next coffee date, leaving me in the dust of my own bad jokes and secret schemes.

I lean back, trying to play it cool, but inside I'm thinking: this is a bad idea. Very bad. Or maybe just the best comedy I've ever been part of.

But Kane? He's not as smooth as he thinks. Watching him, I catch the way he lingers a little longer on her words, how his smile tightens slightly whenever she teases him. He's trying to act casual, but there's a flicker of something there—interest, curiosity... maybe even a little more.

And if we're being real? She's both our type. I might've spent years with cheerleaders and models, but that was never really my type. My type? Girls who eat the whole damn sandwich, not half a salad. Curves pressed into jeans, a little tummy showing, that easy confidence you can't fake. And yeah—the ass, the big breasts. I'm not subtle. Never have been. And I know for a fact Kane's the same—we've fooled around with the same girls before, and our tastes overlap more often than not.

I chew silently on her fries, pretending not to listen. But the silence between bites is thick with unspoken tension. She scrolls through her phone, thumb lazy, eyes occasionally darting back to Kane with that amused, deadly glint.

"So," Kane finally says, leaning back with forced nonchalance, "you two are, what... friends?"

Her eyes snap to me, icy sharp. "Me and Raev? We are not friends. We are tutor and student."

I grin, unbothered. "Right. Keep treating me like the plague."

Kane chuckles, the sound low and cocky, like he's testing invisible tripwires just to see which one will blow up in his face.
"Hey, so Liora," he drawls, "you and your friend here want to come to the hockey game tomorrow night?"

Her friend here is Saint Claire—yes, Saint, because apparently the universe enjoys irony. She's the kind of girl who looks like she was carved out of sugar, library fines, and polite smiles. I'm honestly stunned she's friends with Liora, whose mouth could make a sailor retire early.

Saint Claire has been sitting there for a solid half hour while we talked, tucked behind a book big enough to double as a shield. She hasn't acknowledged us once. Not a flicker of curiosity, not a glance, not even a twitch. For all she knows, we could be trolls, or sentient trash cans, or two heads attached to one body. Nothing. She just keeps reading like the plot of her novel is more important than Kane's biceps or Liora's dangerous smirk.