CHAPTER 8
Kane
I WAKE UP feeling better than I have in days, which is my first clue that something's wrong.
My body's loose, relaxed, the tension that's been living in my shoulders for the past week mysteriously absent. I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles properly used, and then my brain catches up to my body.
Last night. Two AM. The darkness. The—
Oh, right.
Shit.
I bolt upright so fast I nearly crack my skull on the top bunk, and the sudden movement makes the entire frame creak ominously. Above me, Becker shifts but doesn't wake, and I freeze like I'm being hunted by something with excellent hearing and a taste for mortified hockey players.
That’s fine. Everything’s fine. He was asleep.
I ease back down onto my pillow, staring at the underside of Becker's bunk like it holds the answers to the universe. Or at least an explanation for why I thought jerking off three feet away from my new teammate was an acceptable life choice.
I was stressed. I couldn't sleep. It seemed like a practical solution to a practical problem.
Except now I'm lying here at five in the morning, wondering if Becker is currently trying to figure out how to request a cabin transfer without making it weird.
Too late. It's already weird.
The alarm on my phone goes off and it takes me a moment to silence it
"Fucking hell," Becker mutters, his voice rough with sleep. "Your alarm is a war crime."
I should say something. Good morning, maybe. Or sorry about the alarm. Or hey, weird question, were you happen to be awake last night when I—
"Morning," is what comes out, and it sounds strangled.
Silence.
Then: "Yeah. Morning."
The frame creaks as Becker shifts above me, and I hear the distinct sound of him sitting up, followed by a thump that suggests he just hit his head on the ceiling.
"Shit," he hisses.
"You okay?"
"Fine. Great. Living the dream up here in the fucking attic."
More silence. The kind that's so thick you could cut it with a skate blade.
Finally, I force myself out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I grab my shower stuff and head for the bathroom without looking up.
"I'm showering first," I announce to the room.
"Cool. Yeah. You do that."
Becker's voice is off. Too casual.
The kind of casual that's working way too hard to sound normal.
Fuck.
He heard, didn’t he?
I close the bathroom door and lean against it, my shower caddy dangling from one hand while I contemplate the feasibility of requesting a trade to a team in Europe. Maybe Asia. Somewhere far enough away that I'll never have to make eye contact with Riley Becker again.
The shower takes exactly eight minutes and when I emerge, Becker's sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk, my bunk, staring at his phone like it just told him his childhood dog died.
"Bathroom's yours," I say.
He looks up, and our eyes meet for half a second before both of us look away like we've been flashbanged.
"Cool. Thanks. Yep."
He grabs his stuff—a chaotic pile of products that he just scoops into his arms like a goddamn barbarian—and disappears into the bathroom.
I stand there in my towel, water dripping down my back, and wonder if it's possible to die of embarrassment. Like, actual physical death. Because right now, that sounds preferable to the next three weeks.
My phone buzzes.
Dad: Call me.
I delete the message without responding and get dressed with mechanical precision: underwear, compression shorts, athletic pants, t-shirt, hoodie. Everything in the right order, every movement controlled.
Control. That's what I need. Control over my body, my reactions, my fucking libido that decided last night was a great time to make an appearance.
The shower's still running when my last alarm goes off. I silence it and sit on the bottom bunk, waiting.
And waiting.
Becker's shower takes twenty-five minutes. I know because I'm watching the clock on my phone like it's going to give me answers.
When he finally emerges, he's fully dressed, his hair still damp and sticking up in seventeen different directions. He won't look at me. Just grabs his bag, his phone, his water bottle.
"Practice in thirty," he says to the wall.
"I know."
"Right. Yeah. You know. Because you're—" He gestures vaguely at me. "Organized."
"Beck—"
"Gotta go. Need to, uh, tape my stick. Very important stick-taping business that requires immediate attention."
He's out the door before I can finish his name.
I sit there alone in Cabin 12, surrounded by the evidence of our cohabitation—his chaos, my order, the space we've been sharing for five days that suddenly feels like a minefield.
My phone buzzes again. The wolves.
Wall: Morning sunshines!
Petrov: Is too early for human body. Should still be sleeping.
Becker: Already at rink. Got here early. Very dedicated to hockey. Love hockey. Hockey is life.
Wall: You okay, Beck?
Becker: Why wouldn't I be okay? I'm great. So great. Hockey’s great.
Groover: That's not concerning at all.
I throw my phone into my bag and wonder if beer league in Alaska is hiring.
***
Becker
FIVE PM, AND Kane's still not back at the cabin, which is both a relief and deeply concerning for my mental health.
I've been avoiding him all day—not hard when he's been avoiding me right back—but eventually we're going to have to occupy the same space again, and I'm not ready for that conversation.
Hey Kane, funny story, I was totally awake when you jerked off last night. Yeah, no, I heard everything. The breathing, the little sounds you tried to suppress, the way you came so quietly I almost missed it. Anyway, want to grab dinner?
I'm going to die. Actually die. They'll find my body in this cabin, and the cause of death will be listed as "acute embarrassment" with a side of "why the fuck did you get hard listening to your straight roommate masturbate, you absolute dipshit."
The cabin's stuffy as hell—we've had it closed up all day, and the afternoon sun turned it into a sauna. I crank open the window by my desk, letting in the cool mountain air, and immediately feel like I can breathe again.
O hop into the shower to get the day’s practice off my body, and it does help a little. Hot water, good pressure, and twenty minutes of aggressively not thinking about Kane's hands or the sounds he made or the way I had to bite my pillow to keep quiet while I dealt with my own situation.
I'm not proud of it, for the record. Getting off to the sound of my teammate—who's probably straight, definitely not interested, and absolutely didn't know I was awake—is not my finest moment.
It's probably not my top ten worst moments either, but it's up there.
When I get out, the cabin's still empty, and I've got about an hour before dinner. Kane's probably putting in extra gym time, because of course he is.
I get dressed, eye my laptop sitting on my desk and immediately feel guilty.
I haven't posted anything since the last viral disaster, but my subscriber count's been climbing steadily. People want content. People want insight into training camp, team dynamics, what it's like rooming with the guy I publicly roasted.
If only they knew.
I set up my equipment—microphone, laptop, headphones—and pull up my notes. I've got a rough outline: training camp intensity, defensive partnerships, team bonding activities. Nothing controversial.
Nothing that'll get me called into Cap's office again.
I hit record and slip on my headphones and the world narrows to just me and the microphone.
"What's up, ice holes, it's your boy Becker and you’re tuning into Ice Cold Takes, coming to you from training camp, where the coffee's bad, the mattresses are worse, and I'm pretty sure I saw a bear yesterday. Or it was Petrov before his morning skate. Hard to tell, honestly."
I settle into it, the familiar rhythm of talking to an audience I can't see but can imagine. It's easier than real conversations.
"—and I swear to god, if I have to do one more skating drill, my legs are going to file for divorce. They're done. They want out of this relationship—"
Twenty minutes flies by. I'm in the zone, animated and engaged, completely focused on the microphone in front of me.
I wrap it up with my usual sign-off, take off the headphones, and save the file. It schedule it to auto-uploads at six—scheduled post, because I'm not a complete amateur—and I've got just enough time to make it to dinner.
The cabin's still empty when I leave, grabbing my phone and wallet.
Kane's probably already at the lodge. We can sit at opposite ends of the table, avoid eye contact, and pretend everything's normal.
***
Kane
FIVE PM, AND I'm still at the rink, running drills like I'm trying to outrun my own thoughts.
It's not working.
Extra conditioning. Extra shooting practice. Another thirty minutes in the gym. Anything to avoid going back to Cabin 12 and facing Becker and the monumental awkwardness I've created.
Finally, Coach Martin kicks me out.
"Go eat, Kane. You're making the rest of us look bad."
I grab my bag and head back toward the cabins, my legs burning, my mind blissfully empty from exhaustion.
My phone rings.
I don't have to look to know who it is. The ringtone—default, because I'm not sentimental enough to assign custom ones—tells me everything I need to know.
I check anyway.
Dad
Three missed calls. Two voicemails I haven't listened to. A text that just says: Call me.
I answer because ignoring him only makes it worse. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me." My father's voice is sharp. "I've been trying to reach you for an hour."
"I was training. You know, hockey? The thing I'm here to do?"
"Don't be smart. We need to discuss these videos."
I close my eyes. Of course. "Which videos? There are several at this point." I bite my tongue. I’m making it worse. "It's handled."
"Handled? Jayden, you're all over social media. ESPN's running segments."
"And? It'll die down."
"Not if you keep engaging with him." A pause. "I've been watching. You're getting distracted."