Page 88 of Puck You Both

"Eleven. Why is it eleven? Where—"

I raise my hand. The puppy comes with it. "Twelve," I say. "Went glove side. Rookie mistake."

It gets a bigger laugh than anything I've said all season, which tells you something about the Vipers roster.

After the puppy war, the schedule shows mercy: one stool, one kitten, one Wall.

That's the whole concept. Whoever designed the shot understood that the least performative man in the league should not be handed a hose or a narrative. Just a small animal, and somewhere to sit.

A staffer pours the kitten into his palm. It fits with room to spare.

He doesn't pose. I'd bet the entire gala fund he doesn't know how. He looks down at the kitten with that total attention of his, and the kitten looks up the full height of him, thinks it over, and sets one paw on his thumb.

The camera doesn't stop for a full minute.

"That's the calendar," the photographer says, quiet, like she's in church.

"He's not doing anything." Becker is still on the floor, holding two puppies. "I built a concept. I sacrificed my body."

"That's the cover."

"He's just sitting there."

Theo has drifted to my side, phone up, filming on his phone.

I catch my own face doing something warm and extremely public, and I turn it into a cough.

"Smooth," Theo says, without looking away from his screen.

Then the photographer checks her list and says the thing I've been tracking down the schedule all day. "Let's get the glare!"

Right. Yes. The professional hatred. My specialty.

We take our marks facing each other. I tip my chin up the usual three inches. Nobody except us three know that the last time I stood this close to him, there was no glaring involved. My pulse knows. My pulse is being deeply unprofessional about it.

"Perfect," she says. "Now give me the real thing."

We give her the real thing. We're good at it. Somewhere between takes, it occurs to me that this is the only kind of eye contact the two of us are licensed for in public.

"Angrier," she says.

We deliver angrier. Wall's eyes narrow on cue, mine narrow back, two jaws clenching, and we are absolutely nailing the deception right up until the light stand creaks.

I know before it happens. Somewhere in my body, I know.

"Kiss kiss."

The crew cracks up. The photographer laughs so hard she has to lower the camera.

I hold the glare. Wall holds the glare. To everyone else in the room: two men annoyed by a bird.

"Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss."

Jesus. He's warming up. He has the room and he knows it, and I am exactly one more "kiss kiss" from learning what my face does under torture, when Theo appears beneath the light stand with a handful of trail mix.

"Okay, superstar." He holds his arm up. Hendrix steps onto his wrist like they've toured together. "Let's go workshop your material."

The loudest man in two teams, executing the quietest save of the day. Nobody applauds. I want to.