CHAPTER 14
Becker
"GATHER ROUND," COACH Martin shouts across the ice, his voice bouncing off the rink walls with all the subtlety of a freight train.
I skate over, already suspicious. When Coach uses that particular tone—the one that sounds like he's about to announce we're having fun whether we like it or not—disaster usually follows.
Last time it was paintball, and Wall "accidentally" shot Petrov in the ass six times.
I might have added a seventh for good measure.
Also accidentally, of course. The time before that was trust falls, and Ace dropped Groover so hard I swear I heard his soul leave his body.
"What fresh hell awaits us today?" I mutter to Kane as we glide to a stop at the edge of the group.
Kane gives me one of those looks—the ones where his mouth stays perfectly still but his eyes do that crinkly thing that means he's laughing internally.
"Today," Coach announces with the enthusiasm of someone who's enjoys other people's suffering, "we're doing something a little different for team building."
Wall groans preemptively. "If it's karaoke again, I quit. My dignity was already low, but okay."
"Not karaoke." Coach grins. "Figure skating."
The collective groan that rises from twenty professional hockey players could power a small city with pure dismay.
"Figure skating?" Petrov repeats, his accent thickening with distress. "Like with the spinning and the sequins?"
"The triple axels and the jazz hands?" Groover adds, demonstrating with a halfhearted shimmy that makes Mateo, who's watching from the stands, snort-laugh into his coffee.
"The tight pants and the—" Wall starts.
"Yes, yes, all of it," Coach interrupts. "Except the sequins. Those are optional."
Kane shifts beside me, and I glance over to find him studying the ice with unusual interest. Almost like he's... excited?
No, that can't be right. Kane doesn't get excited.
He gets "cautiously optimistic" at best, and that's usually reserved for perfectly executed defensive plays and protein shakes.
"Why?" I ask, because someone has to. "Why are we doing this?"
Coach's grin widens. "Because, Becker, hockey is about power and speed, but it's also about balance and control. Figure skating will help with your edge work and your core stability. Plus," he adds, "management thinks it'll make for good social media content."
Of course they do. Ever since the podcast incident, the PR team has been milking our unexpected viral fame for all it's worth.
"And to help us," Coach continues, "I've brought in an expert."
He gestures toward the rink entrance, where a petit woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun is watching.
"This is Svetlana Fedorova," Coach says. "Former Olympic coach, three-time gold medalist, and—"
"And you are all too stiff," Svetlana interrupts, her accent thick as she glides onto the ice with more grace than our entire team combined. "Hockey players think only of power. I teach you grace."
She can't be more than five feet tall and probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, but there's something in her eyes that makes me want to apologize for things I haven't even done yet.
"Oh good," Wall mutters. "A tiny Russian woman is about to destroy what's left of my self-esteem."
Svetlana circles us like a shark assessing which seal looks tastiest, her critical gaze moving from player to player.
"You," she points at Groover. "With him." She jabs a finger at Ace.
"You." Petrov jumps when she stops in front of him. "With the tall one." She indicates Wall, who looks like he's contemplating retirement.
"This is a safety hazard," Wall protests as Petrov reluctantly skates to his side. "I'm at least a foot taller than him."
Svetlana ignores him. "You two." She points at Washington and Coach Martin, both of whom immediately start making excuses.
"I should really only observe—" Coach begins, while Cap tries, "I have a knee thing—“
"Partners," she cuts both off, in a tone that suggests they can either comply or die.
They comply.
She continues around the circle, pairing players off with ruthless efficiency until she reaches Kane and me.
"You," she says, eyeing Kane with sudden interest. "You have done this before."
Kane's cheeks flush slightly. "A little. When I was younger."
Wait, what? This is new information. I file it away for later interrogation.
"Good," Svetlana nods. "You with him." She points at me, and I swear I see Kane's shoulders relax just a fraction.
Not that I was hoping to be paired with him or anything.
"Now," Svetlana claps her hands. "Basic positions. Watch."
She demonstrates a series of movements that look deceptively simple. Until we try them ourselves.
Petrov and Wall are the first disaster. Wall's attempt at a graceful turn sends his elbow directly into Petrov's face, and by the third accidental hit, Wall is staring deadpan at Coach.
"This is attempted murder," he announces. "And I'm the weapon."
Ace and Groover are surprisingly decent, moving together with unexpected coordination that has Svetlana nodding in grudging approval. Mateo whistles from the stands, and Grooves blows him a kiss that almost costs him his balance.
I attempt a solo spin that Svetlana demonstrated, confident that my years of hockey have prepared me for this moment.
They have not.
My skates slide out from under me, and I hit the ice with a thud that knocks the wind out of my lungs and the dignity out of my soul.
"Fuck me sideways with a hockey stick," I wheeze.
Kane appears above me, extending a hand. "Not how I'd phrase it, but accurate sentiment."
I grab his hand and let him pull me up, surprised by how easily he lifts me. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
His mouth does that almost-smile thing. "Maybe a little."
"Again!" Svetlana shouts from across the ice. "With more passion!"
"I'm passionate about not breaking my tailbone," I mutter, but I get back into position.
Kane's hands come to rest lightly on my hips, adjusting my stance. "Bend your knees more," he says. "And keep your weight centered."
His touch is professional, instructive, but it still sends a weird little shiver up my spine that I'm choosing to ignore completely.
After twenty minutes of various humiliations, Svetlana calls for a water break. I collapse onto the bench, my legs burning in ways they never do during hockey practice.
"This is ridiculous," I pant, grabbing my water bottle. "I'm a professional athlete. I shouldn't be winded from prancing around for twenty minutes."
Kane sits beside me, not even breathing hard. Fucker.
I glance over his shoulder and notice him watching something on his phone—a figure skating video, the skater executing a perfect jump that looks physically impossible.
"You actually like this stuff?" I ask, leaning closer to see the screen.
He looks momentarily caught, then shrugs. "I appreciate technical precision."
"Uh-huh." I study him. "There's more to it than that. Spill."
He hesitates, then sighs. "My mom loved it. After she died, I kept watching. My dad absolutely hated it. Thought it wasn't masculine enough. Which, honestly, made me like it more."
The admission feels significant somehow, like he's handed me a small piece of himself that not many people get to see.
"Teach me, then," I say, surprising myself. "If you know so much."
He looks startled. "What?"
"Teach me," I repeat. "Show me how to do one of those spinny things without falling on my ass."
He studies me for a moment, like he's trying to figure out if I'm messing with him. Then he stands, extending his hand. "Come on, then."
Back on the ice, Kane demonstrates a basic spin, his movements fluid and controlled in a way that makes it clear this isn't his first rodeo. And more importantly, he does not land on his ass. The whole team gradually stops to watch as he executes a perfect turn, one leg extended behind him.
"Holy shit," Wall says. "The Robot has hidden talents."
Kane ignores him, skating back to me. "Your turn. Start with your feet like this." He positions himself behind me, hands on my hips again, adjusting my stance. "Weight on your right foot, left toe pointed out."
I'm suddenly very aware of how close he is—his chest nearly touching my back, his breath warm against my ear. And I'm even more aware that the entire team is watching us with varying degrees of amusement.
"Now push off and turn," Kane instructs. "Keep your core tight."
I attempt to follow his instructions and manage a wobbly half-turn before stumbling. Kane steadies me with a hand on my lower back.
"Better," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Again."
After a few more attempts, I can almost complete a full spin without looking like I'm about to face-plant.
It's not pretty, but it's progress.
"You two!" Svetlana's voice cuts through the rink. "Come here!"
We skate over, and she eyes us critically. "You." She points at Kane. "You know lifts?"
Kane's eyes widen slightly. "Basic ones. It's been a while."
"Show me," she commands. "Lift him."
"What?" Kane and I say in unison.
Svetlana rolls her eyes. "You lift two hundred pound men in fights. This same but prettier. Do it."
"I don't think—" Kane starts.
"Do it or run laps," Svetlana barks.
The entire team has stopped to watch now, sensing imminent entertainment at our expense.
"Fine," Kane mutters. He positions himself behind me again. "I'll put my hands on your waist. When I count three, jump slightly and I'll lift you. Try to hold your core tight."
"This is going to end badly," I warn him.
"Probably," he agrees. "Three, two, one—"
I jump, he lifts, and for a split second, it seems like it might actually work.
Then physics remembers we exist, and we go down in a heap of tangled limbs and wounded pride.
But instead of being annoyed, Kane's laughing—actually laughing, not just that eye-crinkle thing. It's a deep, rich sound that I've rarely heard from him. And it's infectious. Soon I'm laughing too, sprawled half on top of him on the ice.