CHAPTER 3
Becker
THE BUS SMELLS like a combination of athletic tape, expensive cologne, and the collective regret of twenty-something men who stayed up too late doom-scrolling their own viral moments.
I know this because I'm one of them.
I dragged my ass out of bed at five-thirty, threw on the first clean clothes I could find—which turned out to be a Wolves hoodie with a mysterious stain on the sleeve and jeans that may or may not have been on my floor for three days—and called an Uber to the facility.
Now I'm standing in the parking lot at five-fifty-five, duffle bag at my feet, watching my teammates filter onto the luxury coach bus like zombies in designer athleisure.
"Morning, sunshine," Groover calls from the bus steps, looking disgustingly awake and put-together. "Sleep well?"
"I got death threats on Twitter from Vancouver fans," I reply, shouldering my bag. "So, you know. Same old."
"Could be worse. You could be Kane."
I follow his gaze to the parking lot entrance, where an SUV is pulling in with the kind of precision that suggests its driver color-codes their underwear drawer. The driver's side door opens, and Kane unfolds himself from the vehicle like he's auditioning for a car commercial.
He's wearing dark jeans, a fitted grey Henley, and aviator sunglasses despite the fact that the sun isn't even fully up yet, and he's carrying a leather bag that looks like it costs more than my rent.
"Is he serious right now?" I mutter.
"What?" Groover asks.
"It's six AM and he looks like that. It's unnatural."
Groover snorts. "You're just mad because you look like you lost a fight with your laundry hamper."
"I didn't lose. It was a draw."
Kane approaches the bus, and I watch as Washington intercepts him for what looks like a brief conversation. Kane nods, adjusts his sunglasses and heads up the bus steps.
I should probably board before this gets awkward.
Aaaand, it’s too late.
He pauses at the top of the steps, scanning the bus interior like he's calculating optimal seating arrangements using advanced geometry. His eyes land on me, still standing on the pavement like an idiot, and even through the sunglasses I can feel the weight of his stare.
"You coming, Becker?" Cap calls from inside the bus. "Or are you planning to run alongside us for twelve hours?"
"That's just cardio," I call back, but I grab my stuff and climb aboard.
The bus is one of those nice ones with the big leather seats that recline, overhead storage, and a bathroom in the back that everyone will avoid using until hour four when desperation overrides dignity.
Most of the guys have already claimed seats—Wall's sprawled across two seats with his legs in the aisle like a traffic hazard, Petrov is already asleep in the back with his mouth open, and Groover's waving at me from where he's sitting with Mateo a few rows up.
"Becker!" Groover stage-whispers, holding up contraband. "Get over here. We have snacks."
Mateo leans into the aisle, dangling a bag of trail mix. "The good kind. With the yogurt chips."
I start heading toward them when I spot Kane settling into a seat directly across the aisle from Groover and Mateo. I shoot Groover a look that clearly communicates you fucking traitor, but he just grins wider.
I'm about to walk past them all when Cap materializes in the aisle, blocking my path.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks.
"Literally anywhere else?"
"Wrong answer." He gestures to the empty seat beside Kane. "Sit."
I blink at him. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
"A little bit, yeah."
He just shoots me a look that screams this conversation is over.
"Fine," I announce to the bus at large, because if I'm going down, everyone's watching. "But I get the window."
Kane tilts his head. "I don't care about the window."
"Good, because you're not getting it."
"I just said—"
"I know what you said. I'm establishing dominance."
From across the aisle, Mateo whispers to Groover, "Is this what you meant by team chemistry?"
"Shh," Groover whispers back. "It's better than reality TV."
I hoist my duffle into the overhead compartment, then turn to face my nemesis. Kane is sitting in the aisle seat—my path to the window—looking perfectly comfortable and completely unmoved by my presence.
"You're going to have to move," I tell him.
"Why?"
"Because I need to get to the window seat."
"You could take the aisle seat."
"I just said I wanted the window."
"You could compromise."
"I don't compromise. I'm a Scorpio. Just—" I make a shooing motion. "Move. Stand up. Let me through."
"Ask nicely."
"Excuse me?"
Kane leans back in his seat, looking infuriatingly relaxed. "You want me to move. Ask nicely."
Behind me, I can hear Wall cackling. Groover is definitely recording this on his phone. Even Coach Martin looks amused, the traitor.
"Please," I grit out through clenched teeth, "move your robotic ass so I can sit down."
"That's not nice."
"It's the best you're getting."
He regards me for another moment, then—with the kind of deliberate slowness that suggests he's enjoying this—stands up and steps into the aisle.
Except he doesn't step back far enough.
I'm forced to squeeze past him, my chest brushing his as I shimmy sideways into the row. "You're doing this on purpose," I mutter.
"Doing what?" He sounds innocent, but I can hear the amusement.
"Being a human wall."
"I'm simply standing in the aisle."
"You're standing in my way."
I finally make it past him—though I'm pretty sure I stepped on his foot at least once, maybe twice—and throw myself into the window seat with all the grace of a baby giraffe on ice skates.
Kane slides back into the aisle seat with economical movements, settling in like he's about to meditate for the next six hours. He pulls out his phone, a pair of expensive-looking headphones, and—I shit you not—a goddamn book.
A physical book.
With pages.
"Are you serious?" I ask.
He doesn't look up. "About what?"
"You brought a book. To a bus ride. With a team full of people."
"I prefer reading to mindless conversation."
"Mindless—" I sputter. "Who are you calling mindless?"
"If the podcast fits."
From across the aisle, I hear Groover poorly disguise a laugh as a cough. Mateo is very deliberately staring out his window.
"You know what? Fine. Read your book. I hope it's very boring and tax-related and perfectly on-brand for you."
"It's Cormac McCarthy."
"I don't know who that is, and I don't care."
"Clearly."
I yank out my own phone and scrolling through Twitter—because I hate myself, apparently—when the bus lurches forward. The movement jostles my shoulder against Kane's, and he shifts away like I'm contagious.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"It's fine."
We lapse into silence. Kane opens his book. I stare at my phone. The bus rolls out of the parking lot and onto the highway, and I can already tell this is going to be the longest twelve hours of my life.
***
WE'RE AN HOUR in when Groover leans across the aisle. "How's the honeymoon going?"
"Fuck off," I say without heat.
"Is that any way to talk to your best friend?"
"You're not my best friend. You're the guy who convinced me to do that ice bucket challenge in January."
"That was character building."
Mateo pipes up from beside him. "I saw the video. That was hypothermia building."
"Thank you, Mateo. Voice of reason."
Kane still hasn't looked up from his book, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Is he... amused?
Nah. Impossible. The Hockey Robot doesn't experience human emotions like amusement.
"So, Kane," Groover continues, because he has no sense of self-preservation. "How are you liking Chicago so far?"
Kane finally glances up. "It's fine."
"Fine," Groover repeats. "Wow. Don't overwhelm us with enthusiasm."
"I've been here less than twenty-four hours. I haven't formed extensive opinions yet."
"See?" I gesture at Kane. "This is what I'm talking about. Who says 'extensive opinions' in casual conversation?"
"People with vocabularies beyond single syllables," Kane replies without missing a beat.
Mateo makes a sound like a kettle whistling. Groover is grinning like Christmas came early.
"Okay, okay," Groover says, holding up his hands. "I'm just trying to facilitate team bonding here."
"By starting fights?" I ask.
"I didn't start anything. You two are doing this all on your own." He settles back into his seat. "It's like watching two cats in a bag."
"I'm not a cat," Kane says.
"Neither am I," I add.
"And yet, here we are," Groover says cheerfully. "In a bag."
Kane returns to his book. I return to my phone. Groover returns to bothering Mateo about something I tune out because if I don't, I'm going to throw something.
My phone buzzes with a group chat notification.
Wall: Taking bets on how long until Kane and Becker either fight or fuck.
Jesus.
Ace: WALL!
Wall: What? I'm providing a valuable team service
Petrov: I bet fight. Becker cannot keep mouth shut
I huff through my nose and start typing.
Becker: I'M IN THIS CHAT
Wall: I know. Makes it more fun
Groover: My money's on them being secretly into each other
Becker: I WILL END YOU
Washington: Everyone shut up or I'm turning this bus around
Wall: You can't turn a bus around on the highway
Washington: Watch me
I glance at Kane to see if he's noticed, but he's still focused on his book like nothing in the universe exists except Cormac McCarthy and whatever bleak prose he's consuming.
"Do you ever check the group chat?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Kane turns a page. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's chaos."
"It's team bonding."
"It's twenty-three men acting like middle schoolers with unlimited texting plans."
He's not wrong, but I'm not about to admit that.
"You're going to miss important information," I point out.
"If it's important, someone will tell me in person."
"What if it's time-sensitive?"
"Then they'll call."