CHAPTER 8 #2
My jaw clenches. "I requested this transfer to get away from you micromanaging my life. Remember?"
"I'm not micromanaging. I'm concerned. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I start walking again, my grip tight on my phone. I'm approaching Cabin 12. The window’s open but the lights off. Becker's probably already at dinner.
Good. I need a few minutes alone before I have to face him.
"This isn't about control," Dad continues. "It's about your career. Your reputation. You're embarrassing the family name with this circus."
"It's not my circus," I snap, my voice rising. "I'm just trying to play hockey."
"By feuding with a media wannabe?"
I stop again, this right outside the cabin.
"He's not a media wannabe. He's my teammate."
"He's a distraction. And your stats better improve this season, or this whole transfer was pointless."
"My stats are fine."
"Fine isn't good enough. Not with the Marcus name attached."
And there it is. The real issue. Not my performance. Not my happiness. The fucking name.
"Maybe that's the problem," I say, my voice tight. "Maybe I'd rather play beer league than have you micromanage my career from your broadcast booth."
"Don't be dramatic—"
"I'm not being dramatic, dad. You micromanage every aspect of my life. Every game, every interview, every decision gets filtered through what you think I should be doing. I requested this transfer to get away from you!"
My heart’s pounding as I finish my spiel, and what I’m met with is silence. Whole fifteen seconds of it.
"We'll discuss this later," he says finally, his voice ice-cold. "When you're thinking clearly."
"I am thinking clearly. For the first time in years, I'm actually—"
He hangs up.
I lean against the wall and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. This is fine. I said what I needed to say. He'll cool off, I'll cool off, and we'll have another conversation that goes exactly the same way because that's how it always goes.
By the time I manage to calm down, it’s already past six. So much for that shower I’ve been looking forward to.
I sigh, pocket my phone and head straight toward the lodge for dinner, my appetite completely gone.
My father shouldn’t matter in this equation.
The team is what matters now. The hockey. Proving I can do this on my own.
Not my father's opinion. Not his expectations.
Mine.
***
Becker
THE DINING HALL'S packed, the entire team crammed into the lodge's main room, and the energy's good. Loud. Everyone's talking over each other, chirping, laughing, the kind of chaos that comes from three weeks of forced proximity and no escape.
Well, Everyone except Kane, whom I’ve all but fled from just minutes ago. He was milling around the cabin as I was leaving, miraculously with his eyes close, and I fucking booked it.
Again, not my proudest moment—I’m already sensing a new habit—but the last thing I needed was a super silent, super awkward walk all the way from the cabin to the hall.
I’ll deal with my shame later.
Somehow.
I grab a plate—something that might be chicken, definitely mashed potatoes, vegetables that look like they've given up on life—and find a seat next to Wall and Petrov.
"You're late," Wall observes oh-so-eloquently.
I shove a piece of chicken into my mouth and talk around it. "Recording an episode. Lost track of time."
"Podcast life." Petrov nods. "Very demanding. Much content."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. And again.
"Popular tonight," Wall comments.
I pull it out, expecting the usual—comments on an old episode, maybe someone sliding into my DMs to tell me my hockey takes are trash.
Instead, I've got forty-seven notifications.
And counting.
Mateo: Sooo… Becker? Your new episode...?
Groover: Dude, what the fuck?
Ace: Um. Did you mean to post this?
I scrunch my forehead. What the fuck are they on about? My takes were fire today.
I open my podcast app to make sure I didn’t accidentally post something else by mistake, like my attempt at signing in the shower two weeks ago.
The episode sits at—holy hell—150k downloads in just under fifteen minutes. That has to be a new record.
But then, I scroll to the comments and my stomach drops so fast it's probably somewhere in the basement.
Is that Kane in the background??
Holy shit, you can hear someone arguing.
DRAMA
Background audio is WILD
Wait. What?
I jam my earbuds in with shaking hands and press play on episode, skipping to the middle and setting is to 2x speed.
My voice, talking about Wall-the-bear.
And underneath it, faint but definitely audible: another voice.
Kane's voice.
“Maybe I'd rather play beer league than have you micromanage my career.”
Oh fuck.
I keep listening, horror mounting with every second.
“—every aspect of my life.”
"I requested this transfer to get away from you!"
My entire body goes numb.
It’s a conversation. Muffled, like it's coming through a wall—or a window—but clear enough that you can hear every word.
Kane fighting with his father.
Private, painful, family shit that I just broadcast to 150K people and climbing.
My fingers are shaking as I desperately scramble to delete it. Where’s the fucking delete button?
But the episode's already been downloaded too many times. People are clipping it, sharing it on Twitter, uploading it to YouTube.
It's everywhere.
"Beck?" Wall's voice sounds far away. "You good?"
I look up, my face probably the color of a stop sign, and scan the dining hall.
Kane just walked in.
He's heading for the food line, his phone in his pocket.
Unaware.
As in slow motion, I watch as he looks around the space, only to find people staring.
As his expression changes from tired to confused.
As he stops walking.
As he pulls out his phone.
As he reads whatever notifications are flooding in—texts, mentions, alerts, the entire internet collectively losing its shit.
His face goes white.
Then red.
Then white again.
He looks up, his eyes scanning the room, and when they land on me, I see it all: betrayal. Fury. Devastation.
I open my mouth—to say what, I don't know. Sorry? I didn't mean to? I didn't know you were outside and—
Kane turns and storms out.
The entire dining hall goes quiet.
"Becker," Wall says carefully. "What the fuck did you do?"
I'm already moving, shoving back from the table, my chair scraping loud against the floor.
"I need to—I have to—"
I don't finish the sentence. Just run.