CHAPTER 5
Becker
It's not even a normal alarm sound—it's some kind of gentle, ascending chime that probably cost extra because it's "scientifically designed to wake you naturally.
" Which is bullshit, because there's nothing natural about waking up when it's still dark outside and the only people awake are serial killers and hockey players.
I groan into my pillow, praying for death or at least unconsciousness.
The alarm stops.
Thank Christ.
Thirty seconds later, the second alarm goes off. This one's a little more insistent, like it's personally offended I didn't react to the first one.
"Make it stop," I mumble into the darkness.
"That would defeat the purpose," Kane's voice drifts up from below, and he sounds—I shit you not—awake. Alert. Possibly already caffeinated through sheer force of will.
The second alarm stops.
I start to relax back into the sweet embrace of sleep when—
The third alarm. This one sounds like a fucking air raid siren had a baby with a car alarm.
"OH MY GOD." I lean over the edge of my bunk to glare down at Kane, who's already sitting up, looking like he's about to film a commercial for athletic wear. "I hate you so much right now."
He glances up at me with zero sympathy. "Conditioning starts in fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes is enough time to reconsider all my life choices." I flop back onto my mattress, seriously contemplating whether I can fake my own death convincingly enough to get out of this.
"Get up or get left behind."
There's movement below—the efficient sounds of Kane getting dressed, probably in an outfit he laid out last night like a fucking maniac. I hear a drawer open and close. The rustle of fabric. A zipper.
I'm going to murder him and make it look like an accident.
With Herculean effort, I drag myself out of bed. My body feels like I got hit by a truck, and we haven't even started training yet.
Kane's already in full workout gear. He's checking his phone with one hand while drinking water with the other, because apparently he has to multitask even his hydration.
"You look like death," he observes helpfully.
"You look like a fucking morning person," I counter, stumbling toward my duffel bag. "Which is worse."
I manage to get dressed in what I think are clean workout clothes—or at least clothes that pass the smell test—and follow Kane out into the predawn darkness where the entire team has gathered to suffer together.
***
COACH MARTIN IS standing in the middle of the outdoor training area looking way too awake for someone who should still be in REM sleep. He's holding a clipboard and wearing a smile that promises pain.
"Morning, weaklings!" he barks. "Hope you got your beauty sleep, because you're going to earn your breakfast today."
Beside me, Wall mutters, "I didn't sign up for the military."
"Yeah, you did," Petrov says from his other side. "Says so in your contract. Small print."
Coach launches into the warmup, which is actually just disguised torture. High knees, butt kicks, lateral shuffles, bear crawls. My lungs are burning, and we haven't even started the real conditioning yet.
Kane's three people ahead of me in the line, moving through each drill with surgical precision. His form is perfect. His breathing is controlled. He looks like he could do this for six more hours without breaking a sweat.
I hate him.
We move into sprint intervals—thirty seconds all-out, thirty seconds recovery. Except the "recovery" is jogging, which isn't recovery at all, it's just a different flavor of suffering.
Wall pulls up beside me during one of the recovery jogs, his long legs eating up ground. "How's the roommate situation?"
I gasp out words between breaths. "He... organizes... his protein powders."
"Monster."
"By... nutritional... content."
Wall whistles low. "That's serial killer behavior."
Petrov joins us on my other side, not even breathing hard because he's twenty-one and apparently immortal. "But is he hot?"
"Is who hot?" I wheeze.
"Kane." He says this like it's obvious. "We all see you staring."
"I'm not—" Another sprint interval starts, cutting me off. I push through it, my quads screaming. When we hit recovery, I continue, "He's annoying."
"That's not an answer," Wall points out.
Groover catches up to us—how is everyone so fucking fast?—and shoots Petrov a look. "Leave him alone. They just met."
"Exactly!" Petrov grins. "Is still new relationship energy!"
"There's no relationship!" I gasp out. "There's forced cohabitation."
Ace blows past all of us like we're standing still, and I hear him call back, "Twenty bucks says they hook up before camp ends!"
"I can hear you!" I yell after him.
"Good!" He's already twenty yards ahead. "Want in on the action?"
Coach Martin saves me from having to respond by blowing his whistle and gathering us for the next phase of torture: stairs.
The facility has this massive staircase leading up to the main lodge—has to be at least a hundred steps.
We're doing sprints.
Up and down.
Repeatedly.
Until someone dies, presumably.
Kane attacks the stairs like they offended him. I watch his powerful legs drive up each step, the way his whole body engages in the movement. His form is textbook perfect, and I'm definitely only noticing from a professional standpoint.
Definitely.
By the time we finish conditioning, I'm ready to curl up on the ground and become one with the earth. My legs are jelly. My lungs are on fire. I'm pretty sure I can taste my own mortality.
Kane's barely winded.
"Good work," he says as we head toward the rink for the next phase of practice.
"I despise you," I reply, but there's no heat in it. I'm too tired for heat.
"That's the spirit."
***
ICE TIME IS supposed to be the fun part. Skating, puck work, actual hockey instead of just suffering on dry land.
Except Coach Martin has other plans.
"Defensive drills!" he announces with the enthusiasm of someone who’s about to torture us for another ninety minutes. "We're going to work on two-on-two situations. Defense versus offense. Communication is key."
He starts reading off pairings, and I already know what's coming before he says it.
"Kane and Becker on defense. Groover and Ace on offense."
Of course.
Kane skates over to me, and we take our positions at the blue line. Groover and Ace are at center ice, both grinning like they know something we don't.
"Ready to get embarrassed?" Groover calls.
"Ready to play actual defense instead of whatever you call what you're doing?" Ace adds.
"Just come at us," Kane says, his voice flat and focused.
The whistle blows.
Groover and Ace attack with the kind of coordination that comes from playing together for years. They're passing, moving, creating space. I'm trying to read the play, trying to anticipate, but Kane's positioning isn't where I expect it to be.
I commit to covering Groover's pass. Kane doesn't cover Ace. Ace receives the puck with all the time in the world and snipes it past the practice goalie.
"Again," Coach barks.
Second attempt is somehow worse. We're both trying to cover the same player, leaving the other one wide open. Kane and I literally collide, our shoulders crashing together hard enough to knock us both off balance. Groover walks in and scores like we're not even there.
"You're thinking too much!" Coach yells. "Again. And this time, communicate like you're actually on the same team."
Kane skates back to position, his jaw tight. "You pinched too early."
"You didn't cover the trailer," I shoot back.
"Because you were already committed—"
"Gentlemen," Coach interrupts. "Less talking, more playing. Show me something."
The whistle blows for the third attempt.
This time, I see Groover setting up for his usual move—he likes to drive wide and cut back to the middle. Without thinking, I pinch down, cutting off his angle. It's risky as hell because if I'm wrong, Ace has a clear path to the net.
But Kane reads it.
He immediately shifts to cover Ace, his stick perfectly positioned. Groover tries to force the pass anyway, and Kane's stick intercepts it cleanly. He's already moving up ice before the puck fully settles on his blade, starting the counter-attack.
"See?" Coach skates over, looking pleased. "Not so hard when you stop trying to out-think each other. Trust your instincts and your partner."
After the drill cycles through a few more times—we successfully defend three out of the next five attempts, which feels like a massive improvement—Kane skates over to me during the water break.
"Nice read on that pinch," he says, and it sounds like the words cost him something.
I take a long drink from my water bottle, buying time to process the fact that Kane just complimented me. "Nice trust on the coverage."
"I figured you wouldn't make the same risky play twice without reason."
"I figured you'd be smart enough to adapt."
We're staring at each other, and there's something almost competitive in it. Like we're both trying to figure out if this is going to work or if we're going to kill each other first.
Wall skates by, close enough to be heard but not stopping. "Now kiss."
"Wall!" we both yell in unison.
He's already halfway across the rink, laughing his ass off.
***
LUNCH IS A blessed relief after the morning's torture. The dining hall is set up buffet-style with all the nutritious, boring food that's supposed to fuel peak athletic performance. I load up my plate with chicken, rice, vegetables, and enough carbs to put me in a food coma.
I'm sitting at a table with Groover, Mateo, Wall, and Petrov when Kane slides into the seat across from me. He's got his usual depressing plate of lean protein and complex carbs, arranged in a way that suggests he's thought about the optimal eating order.
"You know you can just eat it, right?" I ask. "You don't have to create a color wheel."
"Presentation affects enjoyment," he says, cutting his chicken into precise, equal-sized pieces.
"So does spontaneity. Ever just grab a handful of food and shove it in your face?"
"No."
"Didn't think so."
I pull out my phone and open my recording app, because if I'm going to suffer through this camp, I might as well create content. I hit record and prop the phone against my water bottle.
"Day two of Project Teach the Hockey Robot how to Human," I announce, keeping my voice low enough that nearby tables can't hear but clear enough for the mic.
"Today's subject is morning routines. Did you know some people set three alarms?
Not for emergencies. Just to wake up. This is psychopath behavior, folks. "
Kane looks up from his precisely cut chicken, and there's this glint in his eye that suggests he's about to engage. "Did you know some people can't function before consuming an entire coffee pot? That's addiction, not a personality trait."
I grin and angle the phone toward him. "He's learning to banter. I'm so proud."
Kane leans forward slightly, speaking directly to the microphone. "Efficiency is key to peak performance."
"Don't," I interrupt. "Don't explain it. Let the people live in mystery."
"The mystery is how you function at all," Kane says, returning to his meal.
I'm about to respond when my phone buzzes on the table. Group chat notification. Then another. Then five more in rapid succession.
I pause the recording and glance down to find new messages in Wolf Pack.
Petrov: They're flirting
Ace: 100%
I look up to find the entire table staring at their phones.
We're all sitting right here, within arm's reach of each other.
"We can see the chat," I announce to the table.
Kane pulls out his own phone, scrolling through the messages with a frown. "This is professional discourse."
More messages pop up.
Groover: Sure it is
Wall: Upgrading my bet to $75
I shoot Wall a glare across the table. He just smirks and takes another bite of his sandwich.
Washington: Everyone focus on recovery. We have afternoon scrimmage.
"Thank you, voice of reason," I mutter, about to close the messaging app when another message appears.
Washington : Though for the record, I'm taking Ace's side on the bet.
I huff.
Becker: CAP!
Kane is reading the messages with an expression of deep confusion, like he's trying to decode a foreign language. "Why are they betting on us?"
"Because they're bored and terrible," I explain. "Also, we apparently provide entertainment."
"By existing?"
"By bickering. They think it's..." I gesture vaguely. "A thing."
"It's not a thing."
"I know it's not a thing."
Across the table, Groover and Mateo exchange a look that clearly communicates they think we're both idiots.
I finish eating and upload the clip as a short—just a clip of Kane and me going back and forth. I title it "Day 2: The Golden Boy Learns Banter" and post it without overthinking.
My phone immediately starts buzzing.
The view count climbs: 10K. 20K. 35K.
"Jesus," I mutter, watching the numbers.
"What?" Kane asks.
"People really like watching us argue."
He leans over to look at my phone, and suddenly he's close enough that I can smell his deodorant. His eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as he watches the view count go up in real time.
I shrug. "Apparently we're fascinating."
He pulls back. "Or people have too much free time."
I start scrolling through the comments, reading them aloud because I'm a glutton for punishment. “HockeyFan47 says ‘Are we just going to ignore the sexual tension?’ with three fire emojis." I keep scrolling. "PuckBunny23 says 'Kane looking at Becker like he wants to eat him' with the eyes emoji."
Kane's jaw tightens. "They're reading too much into it."
"Obviously." I'm definitely not blushing. My face is just warm from the training.
We both go back to our meals, and my phone buzzes again.
Wall: You two are the worst liars I've ever met.
I flip him off without looking up from my plate.