CHAPTER 3 #2
I stare at him. He stares at his book. This conversation is going nowhere, and I don't know why I even started it.
***
HOUR FIVE brINGS a rest stop, and I've never been more grateful to escape a confined space in my life.
I practically launch myself off the bus, ignoring Wall's comment about "letting the angry birds fly free," and head straight for the convenience store attached to the gas station. I need sugar, caffeine, and possibly a lobotomy.
The store is the standard road trip variety—overpriced snacks, questionable hot dogs rotating under heat lamps, and a coffee situation that looks like it might require a hazmat team. I grab a Red Bull, a bag of sour gummies, and beef jerky that probably expired in 2019 but smells fine enough.
I'm at the counter when Kane walks in.
He surveys the store with the same calculated assessment he probably uses for defensive zone coverage, then heads straight for the cooler. He emerges with a protein shake, a banana and what looks like a box of chicken salad.
"Seriously?" I ask, eyeing his choices when he gets in line behind me. "It's a bus ride, not a cross-country expedition."
"Proper fuel is important regardless of duration."
The cashier—a woman in her fifties with a name tag that says DARLENE—is watching us with growing recognition. Her eyes widen. "Oh my god. You're the hockey guys!"
I freeze. Kane goes very still.
"The robot and the podcaster!" Darlene continues, pulling out her phone. "My boyfriend is going to die. Can I get a picture?"
I plaster on my media smile. "Sure thing."
For a second, Kane looks like he's about to decline, but he quickly schools his features.
That’s right. That’s your life now.
"Of course," he says, and his smile is so perfectly crafted it probably took years to develop.
We pose on opposite sides of Darlene while another customer takes the photo.
"This is amazing," she gushes, already typing on her phone. "Are you guys friends in real life or is it like a rivalry thing?"
"We're teammates," Kane says smoothly.
"Barely," I add, because I can't help myself.
Kane's smile doesn't slip, but I feel him shift slightly away from me. "We're working on team chemistry."
"It's a process," I agree.
"Well, you're both adorable," Darlene announces, which is possibly the most surreal thing anyone's said to me this week. "Good luck with the season!"
We pay for our stuff—Kane's healthy choices versus my gas station roulette—and head back to the bus in silence. We’re halfway there when my phone starts buzzing.
Twitter notifications. Instagram. Facebook. My podcast platform.
Darlene's picture is already live and spreading like wildfire through hockey social media.
"Fuck," I mutter, stopping to check the damage.
Kane pauses beside me. "What?"
I show him my phone, where the picture of us smiling awkwardly on either side of Darlene has been retweeted eight hundred times in three minutes.
"That was fast," Kane observes.
"That's the internet." I scroll through the comments, which range from supportive to absolutely unhinged. One person has already created a ship name. "They're calling us 'Beckane.'"
"That's… unfortunate."
When we board, every single teammate is staring at us with varying degrees of amusement.
"Beckane?" Petrov calls out. "Is good name!"
"Shut up, Petrov," I mutter, sliding back into my seat.
Kane follows, settling in with his protein shake and salad. He opens the container and starts eating with a fork he apparently brought from home, because of course he did.
"You know that's insane, right?" I gesture at his setup.
"It's called preparation."
"It's called weird."
"Says the man eating beef jerky of questionable origin."
"This jerky is fine."
"The expiration date is smudged."
"That means it's mystery jerky. Could be from any year. Schrodinger's jerky."
Kane actually pauses mid-bite. "That's not how Schrodinger's cat works."
"Sure it is. Until I get food poisoning, the jerky is both safe and unsafe."
"That's... actually not the worst application of quantum theory I've heard."
I blink at him. "Did you just compliment me?"
"I said it wasn't the worst. There's a significant difference."
"I'll take it." I tear open the jerky bag with my teeth. "This is basically a bonding moment."
"We're not bonding."
"We're sharing snack philosophy. That's practically friendship."
Kane returns his attention to his meal, but I catch what might be the ghost of a smile before he hides it behind another bite of chicken.
***
TWO HOURS TO go. I’m officially fucking dying.
I’m bored out of my mind and Kane still reading his depressing book like it's the most interesting thing in the universe.
"What's it about?" I finally ask.
He doesn't look up. "Violence. Despair. The human condition."
"Sounds fun."
"It's not meant to be fun."
"Then why read it?"
"Because not everything needs to be entertaining to have value."
"Counterpoint: yes it does."
This time he does look up, one eyebrow raised. "Your worldview explains a lot about your podcast."
"My podcast is entertaining and valuable."
"If you say so."
"I do say so. In fact—" I pull out my phone. "Let me show you the analytics—"
"I'm not interested in your numbers."
"Because you're jealous."
"Because I'm reading."
"You're avoiding."
"I'm trying to."
I grin, because I've definitely gotten under his skin now. "Admit it. You're a little bit impressed."
Kane sighs, closes his book, and turns to face me fully for the first time since we sat down. "Fine. You want my honest opinion?"
"Um, no."
"Your podcast is chaotic, unprofessional, and full of stupid conspiracy theories. You have no clear structure, your audio quality is inconsistent, and half the time you sound like you're recording in a bathroom."
I stare at him. "That's because I sometimes am."
"I'm aware. I can hear the echo."
"So you have listened."
His expression shifts—caught. "I did research before accepting the trade."
"Research. On me."
"On all my new teammates."
"But you specifically listened to my podcast!"
He rolls his eyes. "Yours is the only podcast. And I fast-forwarded through most of it."
"But not all of it."
We're staring at each other now, and there's something almost playful in the way his eyes have lightened. It's the first time he's looked even remotely human.
"The episode about hockey superstitions was interesting," he admits finally. "Your interview with Wall about goalie rituals was well-structured."
"Was that a compliment?"
"It was an observation."
"Sounded like a compliment to me."
"Then your hearing is impaired."
"My hearing is fine. You just have a hard time being nice."
Kane's mouth twitches. "Maybe you have a hard time accepting criticism."
"That wasn't criticism. That was you admitting my podcast is good."
"I said one episode had merit."
"A win’s a win."
From across the aisle, I hear Groover whisper to Mateo, "Are they flirting?"
"I think they think they're arguing," Mateo whispers back.
"That's what I said. Flirting."
I flip them off without looking away from Kane, who's now fighting a smile. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the tiny crease at the corner of his mouth.
"You want to be on the podcast," I announce.
Kane's smile disappears. "No."
"You're curious."
"I'm not—"
"One episode. You and me. We can talk about your transition to the team, address the press conference disaster, show everyone we're actually capable of having a conversation without bloodshed."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
"Because you're scared."
Kane's eyes flash. "I'm not scared of your podcast."
"Then prove it."
"I don't need to prove anything to you."
"Sounds like something a scared person would say."
We're close now—not physically, we're still in our respective seats, but the energy between us has shifted into something charged. Kane is looking at me like he's trying to decide if I'm serious or just being an asshole, and honestly, I'm not entirely sure myself.
"One episode," I repeat. "You get full editorial approval. I won't ambush you with questions about your personal life or your father or—"
"How do you know about my father?"
"Everyone knows about your father."
Kane's expression shutters. "I don't discuss my father."
"Then we won't discuss him. We'll talk about hockey. Defensive strategies. Your transition to Chicago. Whatever you want."
He sighs. "Why do you care?"
It's a good question. I should have an answer that isn't weird.
Instead, I come up empty.
Kane studies me for a long moment.
"One episode," he finally says. "After the camp. When we're back in Chicago."
"Deal."
We shake on it—his hand is warm and calloused and his grip is firm—and then we both retreat back to our respective activities like we didn't just make some kind of weird peace treaty on a bus in the middle of nowhere.
My phone buzzes immediately and I reluctantly open the group chat.
Wall: They shook hands. It's official.
Groover: What's official?
Wall: Whatever enemies-to-lovers arc they're speedrunning
I take a mental note to murder Wall once we get to the camp. The bus is too cramped to execute it properly.
Becker: YOU ASSULES ARE UNHINGED
Kane: Agreed.
Petrov: They agree on something! Is beautiful!
Washington: I'm muting all of you.
I glance at Kane, who's looking at his phone with an expression of deep confusion.
"Welcome to the team," I say.
"I'm already regretting every decision that led me here."
"That's the spirit."
He goes back to his book. I go back to my phone.
Three weeks in a cabin together.
Maybe it won't be the worst thing in the world.
Maybe it'll only be the second worst.