CHAPTER 10
Becker
MORNING CONDITIONING IS a special kind of torture when you're running on three hours of sleep and a guilty conscience that weighs approximately seven thousand pounds.
Coach has us doing suicide sprints—aptly named because I'm pretty sure I'm dying—and every time I hit the line and pivot, I catch a glimpse of Kane on the other side of the gym. He's attacking the drills with ease, face blank, body moving like he's programmed for this shit.
Nobody's talking about yesterday.
Not directly, anyway.
But I feel it in every shoulder pat from Groover, every sympathetic look from Petrov, every time Wall skates past and doesn't make a single joke about my impending doom.
The team knows. The whole fucking world knows.
Kane gets supportive shoulder squeezes. I get looks that say you fucked up, buddy.
We're still paired for defensive drills—Cap's probably hoping we'll either work it out or kill each other and solve the problem permanently. On the ice, we move together like we have since day one, our bodies remembering the patterns even if our brains are screaming at each other.
But the chemistry's gone. That easy flow where I'd know where he was without looking, where we'd anticipate each other's moves like we shared a brain—it's been replaced by something mechanical. Professional.
Dead.
I fucking hate it.
Practice ends, and I'm peeling off my gear in the locker room when I see Kane slip out early, heading toward the equipment room with his stick and gloves.
This is my chance.
I follow him.
The equipment room smells like tape and poor life choices—appropriate, given what I'm about to do. Kane's got his back to me, organizing his gear with the kind of focus most people reserve for defusing bombs.
"We need to talk about the response episode."
His shoulders tense, but he doesn't turn around. "No."
"Kane—"
"I'm not doing it." He moves his stick from one slot to another, then back again. Stressed. "So you can stop asking."
I step further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me. "Why not?"
"Because it's giving him what he wants." He finally turns, and his face is carefully blank. "Attention. Drama. Proof that I'm distracted by media nonsense instead of focusing on hockey."
"Or," I counter, moving closer, "it's taking away his power. He controls the narrative when you stay silent. When you speak up, you take that control back."
"You don't understand—"
"Then help me understand." I'm close enough now to see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion around his eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, you're letting him win."
His expression hardens. "This isn't a game, Riley."
"Everything's a game." I lean against the equipment rack, arms crossed. "The question is whether you're playing or being played."
"Profound." His tone could cut glass. "You get that from a fortune cookie?"
"I got it from watching you pretend nothing bothers you when clearly everything does."
"You don't know me." He turns back to his gear, dismissing me.
Fuck that.
I push off the rack and close the distance between us.
"I know you reorganize your gear when you're stressed.
" He stills. "I know you study film until two in the morning when you can't sleep.
I know you organize your protein powders by nutritional content because controlling small things makes you feel less out of control of the big things. "
He spins around, and suddenly we're close. Too close. I can see the flecks of brown in his eyes, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
"So yeah," I continue, my voice dropping, "maybe I don't know your whole life story. But I know you're scared of your father, and you're too stubborn to admit it."
His eyes flash. "You want to psychoanalyze me? Fine." He takes a step forward, and now there's maybe six inches between us. "You hide behind humor because actually being sincere is terrifying. You started a podcast as a joke because if no one takes it seriously, you can't fail."
Another step. Four inches now.
"And you're so busy performing 'fun team jokester' that you don't let anyone see who you actually are."
My heart's hammering, and I can't tell if it's from anger or something else entirely. "At least I'm not running away."
"I transferred teams to get away from him." His voice is low, dangerous. "That's not running. That's survival."
"And how's that working out?" I'm in his space now, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. "He's still in your head. Still controlling you. Just from a distance now."
His hands come up and shove my shoulders—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make me stumble back a step.
"Shut up."
Something snaps in me. I shove back, and he's the one stumbling this time, his back hitting the equipment lockers with a metallic clang.
"Make me."
***
Kane
THE WORDS HANG in the air between us, and I realize—too late—that I've got Becker pinned against the lockers, my hands on his shoulders, our faces inches apart.
This is the moment I should step back.
Instead, all I can focus on is the way Becker's chest is heaving, his lips slightly parted, his eyes bright with anger.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and my gaze tracks the movement like.
I can feet his air, hot and wet on my face.
Should air feel this hot? Or wet? Is it normal that I can feel it?
Should we be standing here like that?
Is that what teammates do?
"What are we doing here?" His voice is rough, quieter than before.
"I have no idea." My own voice sounds foreign to my ears.
The moment stretches. My eyes drop to his mouth—I can't help it—and I watch his breath catch when he notices. His pupils are blown wide, dark enough that the blue is just a thin ring around the edges.
"This is a bad idea," I say, but I don't move.
"Terrible idea," he agrees.
Neither of us steps back.
I'm hyperaware of every point of contact—my hands on his shoulders, his chest almost touching mine, the way his breath ghosts across my skin. My heart's doing something complicated and painful in my chest.
And I have absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on right now.
His eyes search mine, looking for something. Permission, maybe. Or a reason to stop.
I don't give him either.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. Then again.
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. I step back quickly, pulling out my phone with shaking hands.
Five texts from my father, each one progressively more aggressive.
Dad: You need to call me. Now.
Dad: I'm not asking, Jayden.
Dad: This behavior is unacceptable.
Dad: You're embarrassing yourself and the family.
Dad: If you don't call me in the next hour, I'm coming there myself.
I show Becker the screen, my hand still not quite steady. "This is what I'm dealing with. Constantly. Every single day. He's relentless."
Becker reads the messages, his expression shifting from tense to something softer. "Then let's be equally relentless. Let's do the episode."
"Riley—"
"Listen." He pushes off the locker, standing at his full height. "You don't have to talk about everything. Just enough to take back control. Set your own narrative instead of letting him set it for you." He meets my eyes. "I'll help you. No more screw-ups, I promise."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.
"Why do you care so much?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "Because you're my teammate," he says finally. "And because I genuinely like you, even when you're being a stubborn ass."
A pause.
"And because I'm the one who caused this mess. Let me help fix it."
I study his face—the earnestness there. Finally, I give in. "Fine. But we script it first. Every single word."
"Every word." He holds up three fingers. "Scout's honor."
"Were you even a scout?"
His grin is sudden and bright, cutting through the tension like a knife. "Absolutely not. I got kicked out of day camp for teaching other kids how to fake injuries."
The laugh that escapes me is unexpected, startled out by the sheer absurdity. It's the first time I've laughed in twenty-four hours, and it feels like breaking the surface after being underwater too long.
"Of course you did."
"In my defense, they were very convincing injuries. I had a whole system involving ketchup packets and dramatic timing."
"You're a menace."
"Yeah, but I'm your menace now." He says it lightly, joking, but something in my chest does a complicated flip at the words. "Come on. Let's go write this thing before I accidentally broadcast something else. One fuck up at a time."
I follow him out of the equipment room, my phone heavy in my pocket with my father's unanswered messages, and try not to think about how close we just came to—
To what?
I don't let myself finish that thought.
***
Kane
IT'S PAST MY bedtime when I finally lean back in my desk chair, rubbing my eyes.
My laptop screen is full of notes and crossed-out sentences and highlighted sections.
Becker's perched on my bed—we gave up on him sitting in the other chair after he kept fidgeting and nearly fell off it twice—with his own laptop balanced on his knees.
"Okay," he says, reading through the latest draft. "So we open with me taking full responsibility. No hedging, no excuses. I fucked up, here's how, here's why it won't happen again."
"Then I come in," I continue, scanning my section. "Address what happened directly. No deflecting or downplaying."
"What do you want to say about your father?" He's watching me carefully, his earlier humor set aside for something more serious.
I think about it. About all the things I could say, all the ways I could burn that bridge completely. But that's not who I am, even if he deserves it.
"That I respect his career and his knowledge of the game," I say slowly, working through it as I speak. "But I'm my own player. I need space to develop my own identity separate from his legacy."
Becker nods, typing. "That's good. Respectful but firm. Sets a boundary without being cruel."
"And we emphasize this was an accident." I look at him. "You weren't trying to expose me."
"Even though I totally did expose you." His mouth twists ruefully.
"Which you will never do again."
"Never." He mimes throwing his phone out the window. "I'm deleting every app. We're going analog only. Carrier pigeons. Smoke signals."
"Don't be dramatic."
"Drama is literally my brand." But he's smiling as he says it, and I find myself smiling back.
We work for hours, fine-tuning every sentence until it says exactly what we need it to say. The anger from earlier has completely dissipated, replaced by this focused collaboration that feels almost comfortable. Natural, even.
Around midnight, Becker stretches his arms above his head, his spine cracking audibly. "I think we've got it."
I read through the final script one more time, checking for anything that could be misinterpreted or taken out of context. "It's good. Really good."
"We make a half-decent team when we're not trying to kill each other."
"Emphasis on half."
He laughs and closes his laptop, setting it carefully on my desk. "Do you want to record now, or wait until tomorrow?"
I check the time. "Tomorrow. When we're fresh and not running on fumes and spite."
"Fair point." He stands, stretching again, and heads for the ladder to his bunk. "Still can't believe you banished me to the nosebleeds."
"Think of it as penance."
"I'm going to fall and die up here," he grumbles, climbing up with zero grace. "And it'll be your fault. They'll put it on my tombstone. 'Here lies Riley Becker, murdered by bunk bed assignment.'"
The cabin settles into comfortable silence. I can hear him shifting around above me, getting situated. The mattress springs creak softly.
"Hey, Kane?"
"Yeah?"
A pause. "Thanks for giving me a second chance."
My chest does that complicated thing again. "Thank me after we post the episode and I haven't been traded."
"You're not getting traded. You're too good."
I smile in the darkness. "You think I'm good?"
"At hockey. Don't let it go to your head."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Then, silence. The kind that feels full instead of empty.
I close my eyes, my father's messages temporarily forgotten, and let myself feel something I haven't felt since arriving in Chicago: hopeful.
Maybe this is fixable after all.