CHAPTER 4
Kane
The one redeeming feature is the window overlooking the mountains, all jagged peaks and pine trees that would be picturesque if I wasn't about to spend three weeks sharing this shoebox with Riley Becker.
I drop my bag on the bottom bunk—the strategic choice for both convenience and escape routes—and start unpacking with the kind of precision that's kept me sane through years of hockey chaos.
Clothes first: workout gear folded and stacked in the left drawer, casual wear in the middle, compression gear in the right. My dress clothes go in the closet, hung with proper spacing so they don't wrinkle.
Bathroom next: toiletries lined up on the counter in order of morning routine—face wash, moisturizer, deodorant, cologne. Toothbrush in the holder, floss beside it, mouthwash on the shelf above. My electric razor plugged in on the far side, away from potential water damage.
I'm placing my books on the desk—two on defensive strategy, one on sports psychology, and the Cormac McCarthy I'm halfway through—when the door crashes open like someone's being pursued by bears.
Becker explodes into the cabin in a way I didn't think was physically possible for a single human being.
His duffle bag hits the floor and immediately vomits its contents across every available surface. A t-shirt lands on my desk. Socks scatter like shrapnel. Something that might be a phone charger whips through the air and wraps itself around the desk lamp.
"Home sweet home!" he announces, surveying the destruction he's created in approximately four seconds.
I watch, frozen in horror, as he grabs a handful of what I think are boxer briefs and tosses them vaguely toward the top bunk. They miss and land on my pillow.
"That's my bed," I say.
Becker blinks at the underwear, then at me. "Oh. Sorry." He scoops them up and tosses them toward the top bunk above me.
They miss again.
They land on my pillow. Again.
"Do you have a system for this chaos?" I ask, watching him pull out what appears to be an entire recording studio's worth of equipment.
"Yeah, it's called 'organized chaos.'" He's grinning now. "Very advanced concept. If I can see it, I know where it is."
"This isn't organized." I gesture at the battlefield that is now our shared living space. "This is entropy in action."
"Ooh, big words." He tosses a hoodie in my general direction. It hits my chest. "Did you swallow a dictionary?"
I catch the hoodie before it can fall, holding it with two fingers like it might be contaminated, and place it deliberately on the top bunk. "I swallowed a basic education. You should try it."
His grin widens, which I'm learning is a dangerous sign. "Oh, we're doing this? Okay." He leans against the desk, crossing his arms. "I should warn you—I won five straight years of 'Most Annoying Sibling' growing up. I'm professionally trained in getting under people's skin."
"I grew up with a father who critiqued my breathing technique," I reply, returning to my own unpacking with renewed focus. "You're going to have to work harder than that."
"Challenge accepted."
I don't look at him. I can feel him watching me as I finish organizing my space. Behind me, I hear him attempting to shove what sounds like seventeen pairs of shoes into a single drawer.
"You know," he says conversationally, "most people would be done unpacking by now."
"Most people don't do it correctly."
"There's a correct way to unpack?"
"There's an efficient way. You wouldn't understand."
Something soft hits the back of my head. I turn to find a balled-up sock on the floor behind me.
Becker's expression is pure innocence. "That was an accident."
"Uh-huh."
"Could've happened to anyone."
"You threw it at my head."
"Allegedly."
I pick up the sock and toss it back at him. He catches it one-handed, still grinning.
"Nice arm," he says. "Very precise. Bet you throw a mean spiral."
"Wrong sport."
"You know what I mean."
I do know what he means, and I hate that I'm almost enjoying this stupid back-and-forth. "Are you going to finish unpacking, or are you planning to live out of your bag for three weeks?"
"Bold of you to assume I've planned anything."
He does eventually finish "unpacking," which seems to involve shoving everything into drawers without any organizational system whatsoever.
His recording equipment creates a nest of cables on his desk that makes my eye twitch.
His clothes are wadded into balls that vaguely resemble folded items if you squint and have recently suffered a head injury.
But he's done, and the cabin has achieved a state of détente—half militarily organized, half looking like a tornado hit a sporting goods store.
"There," he announces, flopping onto his top bunk. "See? System."
"That's not a system."
"Works for me."
I'm about to argue when my phone buzzes. Team dinner in twenty minutes.
Saved by the bell.
***
Becker
DINNER IS UNDERWHELMING, to say the least—protein, carbs, more protein, vegetables that taste like punishment, and enough electrolyte drinks to drown a village.
I load up my plate because I learned in my rookie year that you never know when the next good meal is coming, and Kane is watching me like I've personally offended his nutritionist.
"That's a lot of pasta," he observes.
"Carb loading."
"We haven't done anything yet."
"Preemptive carb loading."
He just shakes his head and returns to building what looks like a sad, beige sculpture of chicken breast and brown rice.
After dinner, Cap gathers us for the official welcome meeting—standard stuff about training camp expectations, safety protocols, and a thinly veiled threat about what will happen if anyone posts anything stupid on social media.
Everyone looks at me during that part.
"What?" I ask innocently earning a few eye rolls.
Cap finishes his speech with a reminder about morning conditioning at oh-six-hundred, which is a time that shouldn't exist for anyone who isn't a farmer or deeply masochistic.
By the time Kane and I make it back to Cabin 12, I'm exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the bus ride and everything to do with the constant low-level awareness that I'm now living with someone who probably color-codes his dreams.
"I'm showering first," Kane announces, already grabbing his toiletries.
"Go for it."
He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the water start exactly three seconds later.
I pull out my phone and check my podcast stats while I wait. The press conference episode is up to 300K views. My subscriber count has jumped to 18K. Comments are split between people who think the whole thing is hilarious and people who are genuinely concerned about "workplace harassment."
One comment catches my eye: They have insane chemistry. Like they're two seconds away from either fighting or fucking.
Ugh. Gross.
I close the app so fast I nearly drop my phone.
Exactly eight minutes later—I timed it because I'm petty—the shower shuts off. Two minutes after that, Kane emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing sleep pants and nothing else.
And okay, fine.
The Hockey Robot has abs.
Like, really good abs. The kind that suggest he does core work for fun. His chest is solid muscle, and there's a line of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants.
I'm suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
"Bathroom's free," he says, toweling his buzzcut.
I grunt a half-assed acknowledgment and grab my stuff.
The shower is still warm and steamy, smelling like whatever fancy soap Kane uses. I crank the water as hot as it'll go and spend way too long trying not to think about the fact that Kane was naked in here three minutes ago, because we’re no going to go there.
Kane is already in his bunk when I emerge some half-hour later, reading something on his phone with intense focus. He glances up when I come out, and his eyes catch on me for just a second before darting back to his screen.
I climb up to my bunk, which requires more coordination than I expected because I'm tired and the ceiling is right there. I bang my elbow on the wall, my knee on the ladder, and nearly concuss myself on the ceiling before I finally collapse onto the mattress.
"Graceful," Kane comments from below.
"Fuck off."
I grab my phone to set my alarm, typing in 5:45AM and labeling it WHY, OH WHY because if I don't laugh, I'll cry.
Below me, I hear Kane set multiple alarms. Of course he does. Probably has them labeled by priority: First Warning, Second Warning, You're Definitely Late Now.
The cabin settles into darkness. I can hear him breathing, hear every tiny shift of his weight on the mattress below me.
The frame creaks when he moves, every sound annoyingly loud, which is fair, given that we're separated by maybe four feet of vertical space and a mattress that's probably older than both of us.
I close my eyes, and last about seven seconds in silence. "You awake?"
Kane sighs. "Unfortunately."
I grin at the ceiling. "Why'd you transfer here? You were killing it in Vancouver."
He stays quiet long enough that I think maybe he's not going to answer.
"Wanted a change," he finally says.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
I get it—some stuff you don't want to talk about with a guy you met yesterday and publicly insulted in front of thousands of people.
"Fair enough," I say. "For what it's worth, your press conference wasn't that boring. I've heard worse."
I can practically hear his surprise in the pause that follows.
"Your podcast isn't that bad," he offers back, and it sounds like the words are being physically extracted. "I've heard worse."
I laugh, the sound too loud in the quiet cabin. "Wow. Romance isn't dead after all."
"Shut up and go to sleep, Becker."
"It's Riley, actually." I don't know why I tell him this.
Another pause, longer this time.
"Goodnight, Riley."
"Goodnight, Kane."
I lie there in the darkness, listening to him breathe, and try to ignore the fact that I'll be doing this for the next three weeks.
Three weeks of Kane's organizational obsession.
And his stupid, stupid abs.