CHAPTER 6
Kane
THE AFTERNOON SCRIMMAGE is where you separate the players who just survived morning conditioning from the ones who can actually still play hockey after their legs have been turned into overcooked spaghetti.
I'm in the second category, thank you. Years of my father's brutal training regimens mean my body treats exhaustion like a minor inconvenience rather than a death sentence.
Coach splits us into two teams—blue versus black. I'm blue, paired with Becker on defense. Groover's on the opposite team, which means he's going to come at us hard.
The puck drops, and it's immediately chaos.
Petrov's flying down the wing like his skates are on fire. Wall's in net, looking bored until the first shot comes his way and he casually gloves it like he's catching a beach ball. The sound of sticks clacking, skates cutting ice, bodies colliding—it's the best kind of noise.
Becker and I settle into our positions. He's got this thing he does where he talks constantly during play, a running commentary that should be distracting but somehow isn't.
"Groover's setting up left side—yeah, there he goes—Ace is trailer—got him—"
I shift to cover Ace without Becker having to tell me. Our sticks meet the puck at the same time, deflecting the pass.
"Nice," Becker says, already transitioning up ice.
We do it again two minutes later. Petrov tries to thread a pass through the middle, and I'm already moving to intercept because I can feel Becker pinching up, closing the gap. The play breaks down before it starts.
"Okay, that was borderline telepathic," Becker pants during a whistle. "You psychic or just lucky?"
"I'm paying attention."
"To what?"
"You." The word comes out before I can filter it. "Your positioning. The way you shift weight before you commit."
He stares at me for a second, and there's something in his expression I can't read. "That's either really professional or really creepy."
"It's hockey."
"Sure. Hockey. That's what we're calling it."
Before I can figure out what that means, the whistle blows and we're back in it.
Ten minutes later, everything goes sideways.
Becker's carrying the puck up the right side, and I'm trailing, ready to support. Coby—big winger, more muscle than brain—comes in for the check. It's borderline late, borderline high, and definitely harder than it needs to be in a practice scrimmage.
Becker goes into the boards with a sick crack that makes my stomach drop.
I'm skating toward them before my brain catches up to my body.
Becker's down, not moving for a second that lasts approximately seventeen years. Coby's standing over him, not apologizing, not helping. Just fucking standing there.
I get between them. "Watch it."
Coby looks at me like I've grown a second head. "It was clean."
"I didn't say it wasn't." My voice is flat, the same tone my father uses when he's about to end someone's career. "I said watch it."
There's a beat where Coby clearly considers saying something else, then thinks better of it. Smart man.
"I'm good. I’m good." Becker's voice comes from ice level, slightly breathless but attempting casual. "Takes more than Coby's love taps to hurt me."
I offer him a hand up. He takes it, and I haul him to his feet. His grip is solid, but I don't miss the way he immediately favors his left side, how his shoulder sits slightly wrong.
"You sure?" I ask, low enough that only he can hear.
"Positive. Let's keep playing."
But I watch him the rest of scrimmage. The way he's compensating with his right side, protecting the left. The occasional wince he tries to hide. The fact that he's not throwing checks as hard as he was in the first period.
And fuck, I'm worried about him.
We've known each other for three days. Three days of forced proximity and mutual antagonism. There's no logical reason I should give a shit if he's hurt beyond basic teammate concern.
Except I do give a shit.
***
ICE BATHS WERE invented by sadists who hate joy.
I lower myself into the freezing water with the grim determination of someone about to be executed, because that's essentially what this is. Voluntary hypothermia in the name of recovery.
Wall's already in, looking miserable. Petrov slides in next, letting out a string of Russian that definitely isn't family-friendly based on the tone. Then Becker approaches our tub, sees the three of us, and apparently decides this is fine.
He climbs in across from me.
The tub is not big enough for four grown men.
Our legs immediately tangle under the water—my calf against his, his knee bumping mine, everything cold and weirdly intimate. I try to shift away, but there's nowhere to go. Wall's taking up half the tub by himself.
"So, Kane," Wall says, because apparently we're doing small talk while our balls try to retreat into our bodies. "What's your story? Why the Wolves?"
"Wanted a change of scenery."
Petrov snorts. "From Vancouver? What, mountains not good enough?"
"Something like that."
There's a pause, and I can see Wall debating whether to push.
He pushes.
"Your dad's the Vancouver media guy, right? Kane Marcus Senior?"
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "I'd prefer not to discuss my father."
The temperature in the tub—already fucking freezing—somehow drops another ten degrees. Wall's face does this thing where he clearly realizes he stepped in shit.
"Sorry," he says, and he sounds genuine. "Didn't mean to pry."
I force myself to relax, or at least appear to relax. "It's fine. Just... complicated family dynamics."
"Aren't they all," Becker says quietly, and when I glance at him, there's understanding in his expression. Not pity—I'd hate pity—just recognition that families are universally capable of fucking you up.
"My father once threw shoe at me for missing empty net," Petrov announces, apparently deciding we need levity. "I was twelve. He was very drunk. Shoe hit referee instead. We had to move towns."
Wall chokes on a laugh. "That did not happen."
"I swear on my babushka's grave. She's not dead, but I swear anyway."
We're all laughing now, the tension broken by Petrov's absolutely unhinged family story.
Becker's leg shifts under the water, his calf pressing more firmly against mine. I should probably pull away. Establish boundaries.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
The cold water should be the only thing I'm focusing on—the way it's making my muscles ache, how my skin is probably turning blue. Instead, I'm hyperaware of every point of contact between Becker and me. His leg against mine. The occasional brush of his knee. The way the water moves when he shifts.
This is not good.
This is the opposite of good.
"How long do we have to stay in?" Becker asks, looking like he's contemplating escape.
"Twenty minutes," Wall says grimly. "Or until someone passes out. Whichever comes first."
"Fantastic." Becker tilts his head back against the edge of the tub, exposing the long line of his throat. There's a small scar there, just below his chin. Probably from a stick or a skate. I wonder what the story is.
I wonder why I'm wondering.
"You staring at me, Kane?" Becker asks without opening his eyes.
Fuck.
"Making sure you don't drown," I lie smoothly.
"How considerate." Now he does open his eyes, and they're fixed on me with that sharp intelligence that I'm starting to realize he hides behind humor and chaos. "I'll try not to die in the next fifteen minutes."
"Appreciate it."
Our legs are still touching.
***
BACK AT CABIN 12, Becker's trying to pretend he's not in pain, which would be more convincing if he didn't wince every time he reaches for something with his left arm.
"You should ice that shoulder," I say.
"We literally just sat in ice for twenty minutes."
"Specifically the shoulder. You're compensating with your right side."
He pauses in the middle of pulling off his hoodie—a process that's clearly causing him discomfort—and stares at me. "You noticed that?"
"I notice a lot of things."
"That's..." He seems to be searching for words. "Actually kind of impressive. And creepy. But mostly impressive."
I'm already moving toward the mini-fridge where I've stored several ice packs because I believe in being prepared for injuries. My father drilled that into me young—prevention and immediate treatment are the difference between missing one game and missing ten.
I grab a pack and cross to Becker, holding it out.
He reaches for it.
Our fingers brush.
It's nothing. A half-second of skin contact that shouldn't register as anything significant. Except I feel it everywhere—that brief touch sending a jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with the cold ice pack.
"Thanks," he says, his voice slightly rougher than normal.
"Don't mention it." I retreat to my bunk, grabbing my playbook because I need something to do with my hands.
Becker settles into a chair by his mini-desk and props the ice pack on his shoulder. He pulls out his phone, scrolling with his free hand.
I try to focus on the playbook. Really, I do. But I keep sneaking glances at him, noting how he occasionally smiles at something on the screen without realizing.
"Hey, Kane?"
I look up. "Yeah?"
He's watching me now, his expression uncertain in a way I haven't seen before. "The podcast stuff. If it bothers you, I can stop including you."
I consider this. The logical answer is yes—tell him to keep me out of it, stop feeding into whatever narrative the internet is creating about us.
But.
"Do people enjoy it?" I hear myself ask. "The content?"
"Apparently." He's still watching me carefully. "Comments are mostly positive. Well, positive and wildly speculative, but positive overall."
I should care about that. About people speculating. My father would have a fucking aneurysm if he knew thousands of people were watching videos of me and theorizing about my personal life.
"Then it's fine," I say. "Just... warn me before you record."
His face breaks into a genuine smile, not the smirk or the sarcastic grin, but something real and warm. "Deal."
Silence settles between us, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet that feels almost companionable, like we're two people who've figured out how to exist in the same space in relative peace.
Progress.