CHAPTER 7
Becker
DAY FIVE OF training camp, and I'm starting to think someone switched out my brain for a malfunctioning GPS that only has one destination: Kane's general existence.
This is a problem.
We're crammed into one of the lodge's conference rooms for evening strategy talk—Coach going over zone coverage like it's the fucking Da Vinci Code.
Normally, I'd be paying attention because I'm a professional and this is literally my job.
But instead, I'm acutely aware that Kane and I are sharing a couch clearly designed for people who like each other, and our thighs are pressed together because there's no goddamn room.
He's taking notes.
Of course he is.
Neat, precise handwriting in a small leather notebook. His hand moves across the page with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—skating, protein powder organization, making me question my life choices.
I notice his hands. Can't not notice them. Strong, scarred knuckles from years of blocking shots and fighting for pucks. Long fingers wrapped around the pen. There's a scar across his right thumb that I want to ask about and absolutely will not ask about because that would be weird.
"Becker." Coach's voice snaps me back to reality. "You with us?"
"Yep. Absolutely. Gap control. Very important."
Kane doesn't look at me, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Fucker knows I wasn't paying attention.
The meeting wraps up with Coach reminding us that tomorrow's scrimmage will be "intense" which is code for "you’ll regret being born." Everyone starts filing out, and I'm about to follow when Groover catches my arm.
"We need to talk."
Oh, great. Nothing that starts with "we need to talk" has ever been a fun conversation.
He pulls me aside in the hallway, waiting until most of the team has cleared out before hitting me with: "So. You and Kane."
I blink at him. "There is no 'me and Kane.' There's me, and there's Kane, and there's a cabin we're both trapped in."
"Beck." He gives me the look—the one that says he sees through my bullshit like it's cling wrap. "I've seen the way you look at him."
My stomach does something uncomfortable. "How do I look at him?"
"Like you can't decide if you want to fight him or fuck him."
"Jesus Christ, Grooves—"
"I'm just saying," he continues, because apparently he's hell-bent on ruining my entire evening, "if something's developing—"
"Nothing's developing." The words come out too fast. Too defensive. "We're barely friends. We're... coworkers who happen to sleep in the same room. That's it."
Groover studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to squirm like a guilty teenager. "You know, Mateo and I—"
"Mateo and you had a fake relationship that turned real. Kane and I have a real mutual annoyance that's..." I trail off, because I don't actually know how to finish that sentence.
"That's what?" Groover prompts.
"Complicated. It's complicated, and I'm not interested in making it more complicated."
"Okay." He holds up his hands. "I'm just saying And if Kane makes you—"
"He makes me want to strangle him with his own perfectly organized shoelaces."
"That's not a no."
I flip him off and head back toward the cabin before he can psychoanalyze me further.
***
Kane
IT'S 11 PM, and I'm in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I hear Becker enter the cabin after what I assume was a punishing gym session. He's on the phone, voice low but not quite low enough.
"Yeah, Mom, camp's good."
I should probably let him know I'm here. But I'm frozen with my toothbrush halfway to my mouth like an eavesdropping creep.
"The new guy? He's... actually not terrible."
My stomach does something weird.
"No, I'm not—Mom, we're just roommates." Pause. "How did you even—did you watch the video? Of course you did."
He laughs, and it's different from his usual laugh. Softer. More genuine.
"He's not my type. Too serious. Too..."
He trails off, and I'm standing there like an idiot waiting for him to finish that sentence.
"I don't know what my type is anymore. It's been a while since..." His voice drops, quieter now. "Yeah, I know. I know I've been closed off since Trevor. But this is different. This is just team bonding."
Trevor.
As in…a man?
Becker dated a man?
Becker is—
My brain short-circuits trying to process this information while also trying not to process it because it's none of my fucking business.
"Mom, I have to go. Love you too."
I should stay in the bathroom. Give him space. Instead, I walk out like nothing happened.
Becker startles, phone disappearing into his pocket. "How much did you hear?"
I should lie. "Enough to know your mom watches my humiliating viral moments."
The tension in his shoulders releases. "Oh god. She has Google alerts set for 'hockey' and 'comedy.' She thinks you're hilarious."
"She has terrible taste."
"She raised me, so clearly."
We do our usual nighttime routine—the awkward dance of two people trying to use one bathroom, the negotiation of space, the careful not-looking while the other person changes. I'm in my bunk first, Becker climbing up to his a minute later.
Lights off.
Darkness settles around us like a weighted blanket.
Then: "Can I ask you something?"
I stare at the underside of his bunk. "Depends on the question."
"Why does everyone call you Kane? Don’t you have a name of your own?"
The question catches me off guard. "Jayden. I don't even remember who started calling me Kane. Must have been my father. It caught on." I let out a humorless laugh. "Hard to escape someone's shadow when you're literally named after them."
"I get that. Being your own person."
"Do you?" I don't mean it to sound challenging, but it does.
"Yeah. I do."
Silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. Just... there.
"For what it's worth," Becker says, "I think Jayden suits you better."
Something in my chest tightens. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Kane is the guy who gives robotic press conferences. Jayden is the guy who brings me ice packs and color-codes his protein powders like a psychopath."
I actually laugh. "Go to sleep, Becker."
"It's Riley."
"I know."
***
2 AM, AND sleep is a foreign concept.
I've been staring at the wooden slats of Becker's bunk for the past hour, my father's voice playing on loop in my head like the world's worst podcast.
You need to prove yourself with this team, Jayden. Show them you're not just riding on my name. I didn't raise you to be mediocre.
The call had come right after dinner. Twenty minutes of thinly veiled criticism disguised as "constructive feedback.
" Twenty minutes of being reminded that nothing I do will ever be quite good enough, that every mistake is a reflection on him, that my entire career exists in his shadow whether I want it to or not.
The frustration sits in my chest like a weight, pressing down until I can barely breathe.
I need to take the edge off. Get the stress our of my system.
Above me, Becker's breathing is deep and even. Asleep. Has been for at least an hour based on the rhythm.
This is wildly inappropriate.
I know it's inappropriate.
Jerking off three feet away from your roommate violates approximately seventeen different codes of decent human behavior.
But I'm wound so tight I might actually snap, and this is the only release available to me in this godforsaken cabin in the middle of nowhere.
I listen carefully to Becker's breathing. Still even. Still steady.
Fuck it.
My hand slides beneath my waistband slowly, carefully. My cock is already half-hard from sheer tension, and the first touch sends relief flooding through me.
I keep my movements controlled. Minimal. Just enough friction to chase the release I desperately need. I'm not thinking about anything specific, just the mechanics of it.
My cock hardens fully in my grip, and I work it with practiced efficiency. Quick, quiet strokes. Focusing on the physical sensation, the building pressure, the promise of relief from the constant noise in my head.
A soft gasp escapes before I can stop it.
I freeze completely, hand stilling on my cock, listening intently for any change in Becker's breathing.
Nothing. Still even. Still asleep.
I wait another thirty seconds to be sure, then continue. Slower this time. More careful.
But it's been days since I've had real privacy. Days of constant tension, and new environment. And Becker.
My hips shift slightly, seeking more friction. Another quiet sound catches in my throat and I bite it back hard.
The pleasure builds faster than expected. My breathing gets heavier despite my efforts to control it. The hand not on my cock fists in the sheets.
A few more strokes and it’ll all be over.
Then, I can sleep.
***
Becker
I AM GOING to die.
That's it. That's what's happening. I'm going to die right here in this top bunk from a lethal combination of sexual frustration, inappropriate arousal, and the universe's apparent mission to destroy any remaining shred of my sanity.
I woke up about twenty minutes ago—some shift in the cabin's ambient noise pulling me from sleep. I was lying there debating whether to check my phone when I heard Kane move below me. A restless shift. Then another.
I was about to ask if he was okay when I heard it.
A breath. Different from his normal breathing. Deeper. Caught in his throat.
And now, my entire body has gone rigid, because—
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
Oh Jesus Christ no.
The quiet rustle of fabric confirms what my brain is frantically trying to deny. The subtle, rhythmic movement. Kane's breathing getting slightly deeper despite obvious efforts to stay silent.
He's jerking off.
Right below me.
I should make noise. Cough or shift obviously or say something—anything—to let him know I'm awake so he can stop and we can both pretend this never happened and go back to our regularly scheduled mutual antagonism.
But I'm completely paralyzed.