CHAPTER 15
Becker
I'M PRACTICALLY VIbrATING out of my fucking skates.
This isn't just any scrimmage—this is my podcast's coming-out party, the moment we transform from "that weird show where Becker rants about Gatorade" to "legitimate hockey content with actual production value."
We've got cameras set up around the rink, players mic'd up, and—most importantly—a live audience that keeps growing by the minute.
"Seven hundred and twelve thousand viewers, Becker!" Mateo shouts from his command center near the bench, where he's surrounded by more tech than NASA uses to launch rockets. "And we haven't even started!"
"Holy shit," I breathe, skating a lazy circle near center ice. "That's like, the population of Boston. Or Seattle. Or whatever city has seven hundred thousand people."
"Focus, Becker!" Washington barks as he skates past. "Stop checking the view count and finish your warm-up."
"I am focused!" I protest, backwards-skating toward where Mateo sits with his laptop. "I'm just, you know, monitoring our reach."
"You've checked seventeen times in the last five minutes," Mateo says without looking up from his screen. "I'm keeping count for anthropological purposes."
"Seventeen is a perfectly reasonable number of times," I argue, then notice he's wearing his "GROOVER'S REAL BF" jersey. I poke him right in the print, and say, "Nice touch."
"Thanks. I'm establishing my territory for the viewers." He adjusts his glasses. "Did you know that in many primate societies, males will publicly mark their mates to deter potential rivals?"
"Are you calling Groover a monkey?"
"I'm saying you're all primates with sticks."
I can't argue with that assessment.
Coach Martin appears beside Mateo, adjusting his own microphone. "We're live in two minutes, Becker. Get your ass in gear."
"Yes, Coach!" I salute and push off, skating toward Kane, who's been attempting to help with the technical setup and failing.
Earlier, he spent five solid minutes trying to untangle a cable before Petrov gently took it from him, muttering something in Russian that I'm pretty sure translated to "useless pretty boy. "
"You ready for this?" I ask, spraying ice as I stop beside him.
Kane looks up from where he's frowning at a small black box with blinking lights. "I think I broke the internet."
"That's not the internet, that's a power converter," I explain, taking it from him before he can cause a blackout. "And you look like my grandmother trying to program a DVR."
"Your grandmother sounds technologically advanced."
"She once called me because her iPad wouldn't turn on. It wasn't charged. Or an iPad. It was a cutting board."
Kane's mouth twitches. "Okay. Technology isn't my strong suit."
"Really? I hadn't noticed. What with you trying to plug the HDMI cable into a phone."
"That was one time."
"It was ten minutes ago."
Kane opens his mouth to retort when Coach's whistle pierces the air, signaling us to gather at center ice. As we skate over, Kane adjusts his mic, which is clipped to his practice jersey.
The bloopers are gonna be fire.
"Don't worry about the mic," I say. "Just play like it's not there."
"Easy for you to say. You never shut up anyway."
"Exactly. I'm in my natural habitat. This is like filming a penguin in Antarctica."
"Are you saying you’re a penguin now?"
"I'm saying I'm majestic and built for this environment."
Washington’s voice echoes around. "Alright, ladies, enough flirting. Blue team on this side, white on the other. Full-contact, three twenty-minute periods. Let's give the viewers a show."
Kane and I are both on the blue team, paired as defensive partners. Over the past few days, we've developed a surprising chemistry on the ice. It's like some weird hockey telepathy—I always seem to know where he's going to be, and he anticipates my moves before I make them.
It's fucking spooky, honestly.
As we take our positions for the opening faceoff, I catch Kane's eye and give him a nod. He returns it, his game face sliding into place—all business now, that laser focus that makes him such a beast on the ice.
The puck drops, and chaos erupts.
For a practice scrimmage, everyone's playing like it's Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals.
Groover's flying down the wing like his ass is on fire, Petrov's throwing his body around like he's auditioning for a demolition derby, and even Wall—who usually treats practice like a casual suggestion—is making saves that would make highlight reels.
"They're showing off for the cameras," I mutter to Kane as we catch a breather during a line change.
"Can you blame them?" Kane's eyes are bright with adrenaline. "Seven hundred thousand people are watching."
"Seven hundred and forty-five thousand now," Mateo calls from the bench.
Throughout the first period, Coach Martin provides actual hockey commentary for the viewers, while Mateo chimes in with his anthropological observations, creating the strangest play-by-play I've ever heard.
"Excellent forecheck pressure from the white team," Coach says.
"Notice how Groover establishes dominance by controlling the territorial center," Mateo adds. "Classic apex predator behavior."
"Petrov with a beautiful outlet pass to Ace."
"The gift-giving ritual strengthens social bonds within the pack structure."
It's absolutely ridiculous and the viewers are eating it up, according to the constant updates Mateo shouts between his commentary.
By the second period, we're tied 2-2, and the intensity has ratcheted up even further.
Kane and I have settled into a rhythm, covering for each other seamlessly.
When he pinches in, I drift back. When I jump into the rush, he's there to cover.
It's like dancing, if dancing involved the constant threat of losing teeth.
Midway through the period, Kane collects a loose puck in our zone and starts carrying it up ice. He's got a clear lane and building speed when Ace—who's on the opposing team—lines him up perfectly.
The hit is clean but brutal.
Ace's shoulder catches Kane square in the chest, sending him crashing into the boards with a sound that makes my stomach drop. Kane goes down hard, his shoulder tanking the brunt of the impact.
I'm at his side before I even realize I'm moving, dropping to my knees beside him.
"Fuck, you okay?" I ask, my heart hammering in my chest. The rink has gone quiet, everyone waiting to see if he's hurt.
Kane groans, rolling onto his back. "I'm fine," he manages, though his face is tight with pain.
"That was quite the hit," I say, helping him sit up. "Ace trying to murder you or what?"
"Just playing the game," Kane winces as he rotates his shoulder. "Shoulder's a bit sore, though."
Without thinking, I reach out and start gently massaging the area, my fingers pressing through his jersey. "Here?"
"Yeah," Kane nods, then hisses as I find a tender spot. "Easy there, Wolverine."
"Sorry," I ease the pressure. "Better?"
"Mm-hmm."
I continue working the muscle, checking his face for any signs of serious pain. "You sure you're okay? No seeing double? No sudden urge to join the figure skating team permanently?"
That draws a small laugh out of him. "I'm sure."
But he's looking at me strangely, his eyes fixed on my face with a abnormal intensity, yet simultaneously looking like he’s spacing out.
"Kane?" I ask. "You sure you didn’t hit your head?"
He doesn't answer right away, still staring at me like he's trying to solve a particularly complex equation. "I'm sure," he finally says. "I've just... I've been thinking lately?"
"About?" I prompt, stopping the massage now that his shoulder seems okay.
His gaze doesn't waver. "It's stupid."
I scrunch my forehead. "What?"
There's a moment of silence that feels like it stretches into eternity. Then:
"I've been wondering how it would feel like to kiss you."
The words hit me like a full-body check. My brain short-circuits, a million thoughts racing through at once: Holy shit did he just say that? Is he concussed? Should I say something back? His lips do look really fucking kissable right now. Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?
That last thought penetrates the chaos in my head.
It is quiet.
Too quiet.
The entire rink has gone still, like someone pressed pause on the universe.
Then Wall skates by, casual as you please, and says, "You know your mics are on, right?"
Kane and I both look down at our jerseys, where the small black microphones are clipped.
The microphones that are very much on.
The microphones that are broadcasting to seven hundred and fifty thousand people.
"Fuck," I whisper, which of course also broadcasts perfectly.
Kane's face goes from confused to horrified in the space of a heartbeat. The color drains from his cheeks so fast I'm worried he might actually pass out.
"Just thought you should know," Wall adds helpfully before skating away.
Coach Martin's whistle pierces the silence. "Break!" he shouts, his voice echoing around the suddenly silent rink.
Kane and I skate to the bench in a daze, neither of us speaking. Washington is waiting for us, his expression caught somewhere between captain disapproval and barely contained laughter.
"Well," he says as we reach the bench, "that was... let's just take a moment."
I glance at Mateo, who's frantically typing on his laptop. "How many people heard that?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"Seven hundred and sixty-eight thousand, four hundred and twelve," he says without looking up. "And climbing. And you’re trending on Twitter."
Of course we’re trending on Twitter.
***
Kane
I'M DYING. LITERALLY dying. Is death an option? Because death seems pretty fucking good right now.
The walk from the ice to the locker room feels like the longest death march in human history. My skates might as well be cement blocks dragging me to my execution. I keep my eyes locked on the floor, counting tiles.
Behind me, I can hear the team's forced silence, the kind that happens when twenty grown men are all simultaneously choking on suppressed laughter.
It's like being followed by a pack of hyenas with asthma.
I push through the locker room door, making a beeline for my clothes. Maybe if I change fast enough, I can flee the country before anyone speaks. I hear the hockey bags dropping around me, the scrape of skates on rubber mats, the squeak of bench seats as everyone settles in.
Then comes the blessed thirty seconds of normal post-game chatter.
"Good hustle out there."
"Nice save in the third."
"Anyone see where my left shin pad went?"
For a brief, beautiful moment, I allow myself to hope.
Maybe they'll let it slide.
Maybe professional courtesy will prevail.
Maybe—
Wall's snort breaks first, a sound like someone trying to inhale a golf ball through their nostril.
And that's it.
The dam bursts.
The entire team erupts in laughter so violent I'm surprised the ceiling tiles don't come down.
Petrov is doubled over, actual tears streaming down his face.
Ace has slid off the bench entirely and is now on the floor, pounding his fist against the floor.
Even Coach Martin—who I'm absolutely certain only came to the locker room for this exact reason—is leaning against the doorframe, shoulders shaking with barely contained glee.
Groover, the traitor, is clutching his sides like he's afraid his organs might escape.
"I've been... wondering... how it would feel... to kiss you," Ace gasps, doing a horrific impression of my voice that sounds more like a dying cow than a human.
I yank my jersey over my head with enough force to possibly dislocate both shoulders, which would at least get me a medical exemption from this torture.
"I didn't—" I start, but there's no point. They're too far gone.
I glance over at Becker, hoping for... I don't know what. Support? Solidarity in humiliation? He's red-faced and uncharacteristically silent, staring intently at his skate laces, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Including me.
Great. Even the guy I just publicly admitted to having fantasies about can't look at me. Perfect.
"#HotMicHockey is trending," Petrov announces, waving his phone like he's discovered alien life. "Half a million views in three minutes. We are going viral, my friends!"
"That's got to be some kind of record," Washington says, wiping his eyes. "Most catastrophically public crush confession in NHL history."
"Oh my God, make it stop," I groan, dropping my head into my hands.
"You know what this means, right?" Groover asks, crossing the room to pat me on the back with what I'm sure he thinks is compassion but feels more like the final nail in my coffin. "Welcome to the team. Officially."
"I've been for two weeks," I protest weakly.
"Yeah, but now you've had your Wolves baptism by fire," he explains. "Complete public humiliation that will follow you for the rest of your career. One of us! One of us!"
The others take up the chant, pounding their sticks on the ground like we're in some kind of demented hockey cult, which, to be fair, isn't far off.
"Can we just—" I try again.
"Oh, hold up," Wall interrupts, staring at his phone. "The clip's been remixed to music. Someone set your confession to 'I Wanna Kiss You' by that boy band from the 90s."
"Which boy band?" Ace asks, leaning over to see.
"Does it fucking matter?" I snap, feeling my last nerve fraying.
"Well, yeah," Ace says, like I'm the unreasonable one. "If it's NSYNC, that's one thing, but if it's Backstreet Boys, that's—"
"I will literally pay you to stop talking," I cut in.
"How much we talking?" Ace grins. "Because my silence is expensive, especially when your love life is going platinum on TikTok."
My phone buzzes in my bag—a series of rapid-fire notifications that can only mean bad news. I pull it out reluctantly.
Three consecutive messages from Devon, Ace's boyfriend in the group chat.
Devon: DUDE
Devon: I'M
Devon: DECEASED
And one Caps's wife:
Leila: Kane, my beautiful, beautiful disaster! I'm framing this moment for your wedding.
Great. Looks like everyone and their dog was watching. Probably my father too, which is a whole other nightmare I'm not equipped to process right now.
"I swear to God," Washington says, shaking his head, "you two can't go a day without creating stand-up comedy material. It's like living with a reality show that never stops filming."
"We don't do it on purpose," Becker finally speaks, his voice strangled.
"That's what makes it art," Wall says.
I start yanking off my pads, imagining they're the vocal cords of everyone in this room. Just let me die. Let me sink through the floor, dissolve into a puddle, evaporate into nothingness. Anything would be better than this.
"So," Ace sidles up next to me, his grin wide enough to qualify as a medical condition, "on a scale of one to 'I've been wondering how it would feel to kiss you,' how's your day going?"