CHAPTER 12
Kane
"I'M JUST SAYING," Wall announces to the ice bath like he's addressing the UN, "if you think about it, penguins are basically the goalies of the bird world."
I'm submerged to my chest in water cold enough to make my balls retract into my body cavity, wedged between Becker and the tub wall, and somehow this is still not the most uncomfortable part of my day.
"How the fuck," Petrov asks from across the tub, his accent thickening as he shivers, "are penguins goalies?"
"They can't fly, right? So they're stuck on the ground while all the other birds are up there living their best lives. Just like how I'm stuck in the crease while you assholes get to skate around having fun."
Becker shifts beside me, his calf brushing against mine under the water. "Wall, buddy, I think the cold is getting to your brain."
"My brain is fine. Unlike yours, Mr. Accidental Broadcast."
"That was one time!" Becker protests, and his knee bumps mine as he gestures. "Are we ever going to let that go?"
"No," Wall, Petrov, and I say in unison.
“And it was twice, actually,” Wall adds.
Becker's leg settles against mine again, and he doesn't move it.
I should probably move mine.
I don't.
The conversation continues around us—something about whether hot dogs are sandwiches again, because apparently this team has exactly three topics of conversation and we cycle through them on rotation—but I'm only half-listening.
I'm too aware of every point where Becker's body touches mine. Our calves pressed together. The occasional brush of his knee against mine when one of us shifts. The way he shivers slightly every thirty seconds or so, his body fighting against the cold.
When did I start cataloging his physical reactions like I'm conducting a scientific study?
"You good?" Becker asks quietly, and I realize I've been staring at the water between us for an uncomfortably long time.
"Fine. Just spacing out."
"Thinking about your dad?"
"Something like that." But that’s a lie. For once, my father isn't occupying every corner of my brain. Instead, I'm noticing things like how Becker's shoulders are slightly uneven—probably from an old injury—and the way his hair is drying in messy waves.
Why am I noticing his hair?
"We've spent more time together this week than I've spent with anyone in years," Becker comments, stretching his arms along the edge of the tub. His movement shifts his leg more firmly against mine. "And I don't completely hate it. Personal growth."
I chuckle. "Don't strain yourself."
"Too late. I think I pulled something being sincere." He grins at me, and there's that crooked smile again. The one that's slightly wider on the left side.
Why do I know which side his smile favors?
"You're not completely terrible either," I offer, and his grin widens.
"Wow. 'Not completely terrible.' Put that on my tombstone."
"Right under 'murdered by bunk bed assignment.'"
Petrov looks between us with narrowed eyes. "Are you two flirting?"
"No," we say simultaneously, which only makes Petrov's grin more insufferable.
But the question lodges in my brain like a splinter.
Are we?
I've never flirted with anyone before—too busy with hockey, too focused on meeting my father's expectations.
The few girls who showed interest in high school got polite disinterest in return.
I just assumed I was straight by default because.
.. well, because I never questioned it. Never had time to question it.
But now I'm sitting in an ice bath noticing the way Becker's eyelashes are darker at the tips, and how he has three different types of laughter—the loud bark when something genuinely surprises him, the quiet huff when he's trying not to laugh, and this low chuckle he does when he's pleased with himself.
"Time's up," Wall announces, hauling himself out of the tub with a groan. Water sluices off his massive frame. "I'm getting out before my dick freezes off."
"Too late," Becker calls after him. "It's been winter down there for years!"
Wall flips him off without turning around, which only makes Becker laugh—the loud bark, the surprised one—and I find myself smiling at the sound.
***
Becker
I'M GOING TO develop a permanent crick in my neck from the angle I'm holding it to not-so-subtly watch Kane work on his laptop.
We've been back in the cabin for an hour, settled into what's become our evening routine. Him at the desk, me on my bunk, both pretending to be productive while actually just existing in the same space.
Except I keep getting distracted by stupid shit like the way the laptop screen illuminates his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. Or how he chews on his bottom lip when he's concentrating, which should not be as attractive as it is.
This is a problem.
This is definitely a problem.
"You've been staring at the same page for ten minutes." Kane doesn't look up from his screen. "You okay?"
Busted.
"Yeah, just... tired." I'm not tired. I'm wound up like a spring loaded with poor life choices and inconvenient attraction. "Long day."
"Tell me about it." He closes his laptop and stands, stretching. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above his waistband, and my brain immediately files this under 'Things I Definitely Didn't Need To See.'
Except I did see it.
And now I can't unsee it.
"I'm showering first" he announces, grabbing his towel. "Try not to broadcast anything while I'm gone."
"Would you let it go already?"
His quiet chuckle follows him into the bathroom.
I flop back on my bunk and stare at the ceiling, trying to figure out when exactly my life became a rom-com I didn't audition for.
A week ago, Kane was just the uptight new guy I accidentally started a viral feud with.
Now he's the uptight new guy I accidentally started a viral feud with who I maybe, possibly, definitely want to kiss.
Fuck.
The shower turns on, and I firmly do not think about Kane naked and wet on the other side of that door. I absolutely do not think about water running down his chest, or how his shoulders would look slick with soap, or—
Nope.
Not thinking about it.
I grab my phone and open the team group chat, desperate for distraction.
Wall: How's married life in Cabin 12?
Groover: They're probably making out right now
Me: We're NOT making out
Petrov: That's exactly what someone making out would say
Me: I hate all of you
Wall: ??
I'm typing out a particularly creative threat involving Wall's backup goalie pads and a wood chipper when the bathroom door opens.
"Hey, can you—"
I look up.
Big mistake.
Kane is standing in the doorway.
Wet.
Wearing only a towel.
A towel that's slung dangerously low on his hips, barely clinging to existence, revealing a V of muscle that disappears beneath the terry cloth.
Water droplets trail down his chest—his very defined, very there chest—following the lines of muscles I didn't know existed outside of anatomy textbooks, and there's a droplet making its way down his neck that I watch with the focus I usually reserve for tracking pucks.
My brain makes a sound like a dial-up modem trying to connect to the internet circa 1997.
"—shampoo?" Kane finishes, and I realize he's been talking this whole time while I've been having a full-system shutdown.
"You... what?"
"Shampoo?" He points vaguely toward the desk area. "I forgot to bring it in. It's in my bag."
Right. Shampoo. A normal thing that normal people need for normal showering purposes.
Except there's nothing normal about the way my body is currently responding to the visual stimulus of Kane's abs.
Because holy fuck, those are abs.
Not just abs. Abs with a capital A. Abs that look like they were photoshopped by someone who doesn't understand moderation. There's a six-pack situation happening that's bordering on obscene, and I'm staring at it like it holds the answers to the universe's greatest mysteries.
"Becker?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out weird. Too high. I clear my throat and try again. "Yeah, sure. Shampoo. Getting the shampoo."
I swing down from my bunk with zero grace, nearly face-planting in my haste to look anywhere but at Kane's torso. His bag is right there by the desk, and I rummage through it with hands that are definitely not shaking.
Found it.
I turn back around, shampoo bottle in hand, and immediately regret getting into hockey in the first place, because if I hadn’t gone into hockey, I currently would not be facing Kane, who’s still standing there, still wet, still wearing only that towel that seems to be held up by sheer force of will and maybe a prayer.
"Here." I hold out the bottle, but I have to cross the cabin to give it to him, which means getting closer to all that exposed skin.
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine, and I swear to god there's a spark of static electricity going off. Or else, it’s my body's last-ditch effort to warn me that I'm about to do something monumentally stupid.
"Thanks," he says, when I finally drag my eyes up from his chest (with significant effort).
"No problem." I should step back. I should definitely step back.
We're standing too close now. Close enough that I can see water droplets caught in his eyelashes. Close enough to count the different shades of brown in his eyes. Close enough to make several consecutive terrible decisions if I don't get my shit together.
"You're staring," he says.
"Am I?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry. I just—" What? What's my excuse here? Sorry, I just realized you're hot and now I'm having a crisis? "You have shampoo on your shoulder."
He doesn't. There's no shampoo. I'm a liar and a fraud.
But he glances down at his shoulder anyway, which gives me a moment to remember how to breathe like a normal human person.
"I don't see any—"
His phone rings, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. We both jump slightly, and Kane's expression immediately shutters when he sees the screen.
"It's my father," he says flatly.
"You don't have to answer."
"I do." He's already moving back toward the bathroom, phone in one hand, shampoo in the other. "He'll just keep calling."
The bathroom door closes behind him, and I hear his muffled "Hello" through the wood.
I stand there in the middle of the cabin like an idiot, my heart doing gymnastics routines in my chest.
Yup. It’s official.
I like him.
I like Kane.
I like his stupid organizational systems and his dry humor and the way he's slowly learning to be a person. I like how he takes his coffee black and judges everyone else's orders. I like his dedication and his hidden smile and the way he's trying so hard to break free from his father's control.
And I definitely, absolutely, without question want to kiss him.
"Fuck," I whisper to the empty cabin.