CHAPTER 16
Becker
SO... THAT HAPPENED.
I've been wandering around the training facility for an hour like some kind of hockey-playing ghost, taking the longest possible route back to the cabin.
I even stopped to help Coach Martin organize equipment, which, if you know me at all, is the behavioral equivalent of checking myself into a psychiatric facility.
But what else am I supposed to do after Kane—Mr. Perfect Posture, Mr. Stick Up His Ass, Mr. I've Been Wondering How It Would Feel To Kiss You—just broadcast his innermost thoughts to approximately seven hundred thousand people?
Including my mother, who has already texted me fourteen variations of "?
??" followed by increasingly creative emoji combinations.
The truth is, I'm giving Kane space.
Space to pack his shit and move cabins, change his name, flee the country—whatever a person does after accidentally admitting on a hot mic that they want to kiss their teammate. I'm being considerate. Thoughtful. Mature, even.
Okay, fine. I'm stalling because I'm terrified.
Not that I'm opposed to the kissing part.
In fact, I've spent more time than I'd care to admit thinking about what Kane's mouth might taste like.
But there's a Grand Canyon-sized gap between idle fantasy and actual reality, and I'm not entirely sure I'm equipped to cross it without plummeting to my death.
After completing my seventh lap around the outdoor track, I finally admit I can't avoid the cabin forever. It's already dark, and if I don't go back soon, someone will organize a search party, and wouldn't that just be the perfect cherry on top of this embarrassment sundae?
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders like I'm about to step onto the ice, and push open the cabin door.
Kane's still here. That's the first surprise.
He's sitting on the edge of his bunk, but he springs to his feet the second I enter, like he's been electrocuted. His hair is damp—he must have showered—and he's wearing a plain gray t-shirt and sweatpants instead of his usual precision-engineered athleisure wear.
"Hey," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of a pubescent voice crack.
Kane immediately starts pacing, arranging and rearranging items on his shelf that are already in perfect alignment.
"Hey. So. About the practice. I was thinking we need to work on our neutral zone coverage.
And the penalty kill. Definitely the penalty kill.
Did you see how Petrov was positioning himself on that last power play?
Not optimal. We should review the tape tomorrow. And maybe—"
Holy shit, he's nervous.
Kane is nervous.
I'm not sure I've ever seen him nervous before. Focused, yes. Intense, absolutely. But nervous? This is like seeing a unicorn have a panic attack.
"Soo, we're not gonna talk about it, then?" I interrupt his stream-of-consciousness.
Kane doesn't even look at me, just continues rearranging his already immaculate belongings. "Yup. That's exactly what we're not going to do. Great. Thanks for understanding."
He's mortified. And even though a small, petty part of me wants to make him squirm, the rest of me can't bear to see him like this.
I decide to give him an out.
"Look, it's not like you meant it," I say, trying to sound convincing. "You got banged up pretty hard out there. Probably hit your head or something."
He stops mid-movement, his hand frozen in the act of aligning a protein bar with the edge of the shelf. He turns to face me for the first time since I entered the cabin.
A long pause stretches between us, filled with nothing but the sound of my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
"What if I didn't?" he finally says, his voice low.
My brain gives me nothing. "Didn't what?"
He takes a hesitant step toward me. I stay rooted to the spot, afraid that any sudden movement might shatter whatever's happening here.
"Hit my head," he clarifies, taking another step closer.
I'm completely mute now, my usual torrent of words dried up like a desert.
All I can think is: don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up, don't fuck this up.
Kane moves closer still, close enough that I can smell his soap and feel the heat radiating from his body. "What if I meant it?" he asks.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly bone dry. "The thing we're not talking about?"
"Yeah," he says, now so close I can feel his breath ghost across my face. His eyelids are heavy, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "That thing."
I'm breathing like I just finished a double shift. "I'd be okay with that."
"Yeah?" he whispers.
Before I can respond—before I can even process what's happening—Kane launches forward and crashes his mouth into mine.
I’m momentarily stunned, as if my brain-body connection has been severed with a sharp sword, because, excuse me, are these Kane’s lips currently pressed again mine?
Is this real life?
Am I even awake? Or was I the one who got checked, concussed, and am currently talking nonsense at a nurse somewhere in a rural, Colorado hospital?
But if I am…what’s the harm in dreaming it on?
And so I kiss him back.
I kiss back Kane, my teammate, my roommate, the Hockey robot whose lips are surprisingly soft, currently parting against mine, tongue already pushing out, demanding entrance.
And yes, Kane lips may be soft, but there’s nothing soft about the way he’s hissing me.
Like he means it.
Like this is actually real.
Kane's hands come up to grip my neck, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss with a confidence that makes my knees weak. I grab his hips, tugging his body against mine, and holy fuck, this is actually happening.
The kiss turns heavy fast, all tongue and teeth and desperate little sounds that I'm not entirely sure which one of us is making. Kane kisses like a man with something to prove, and I'm more than happy to be his proving ground.
It's not until I feel my cock hardening, pressing insistently against Kane's thigh, that reality crashes back in.
I break the kiss, stepping back so hastily I get whiplash.
"Shit. Sorry," I mumble, heat flooding my face. "Got a little carried away."
But Kane doesn't move, his hands still hovering where they were on my neck. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, chest rising and falling rapidly as he stares at me, panting.
***
Kane
I'M STARING AT Becker.
I'm staring at Becker wordlessly.
I'm staring at Becker wordlessly, because holy fucking shit, Becker’s hard, because of me, and I have no idea what to do with that information.
My brain is malfunctions like someone just poured Gatorade on a circuit board.
What does that mean?
What does that make me?
I've never gotten another guy hard before.
I've never even thought about getting another guy hard before.
I should probably be having some kind of sexual identity crisis right about now, but the only coherent thought my brain can form is:
That is so. Fucking. Hot.
Without thinking—because if I think about it, I'll chicken out—I launch forward and crash my mouth back against his. His surprised "mmph" turns into a groan as I press my entire body against his, feeling his hard cock against my thigh, which instantly makes my own cock spring to attention.
Like it's been waiting for this moment its entire life.
The kiss is messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, and I shift my hips until our cocks line up through our clothes. The friction is electric, sending sparks shooting up my spine. Becker's stubble is scraping against my chin in a way that shouldn't be as hot as it is.
"Kane. Jayden," he mumbles against my mouth, grinding his hips forward. "Are you sure—"
"Less talking," I manage to get out between kisses. "More this."
Whatever this is.
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half moan, and starts pushing me backward, walking me across the cabin floor. The backs of my knees hit the bottom bunk, and we collapse onto it in a tangle of limbs, Becker landing on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
More of this. More of the weight.
Our cocks are now aligned perfectly, the hard length of him rubbing against mine through our athletic shorts and I think I’m the hardest I’ve ever been.
More. More of this.
I might actually die if this stops.
Becker kisses like he does everything else.
Chaotically.
Enthusiastically
And with absolute zero inhibition.
His tongue slides against mine, and then he's nipping at my lower lip, drawing it between his teeth in a way that makes me groan embarrassingly loud.
"Fuck, you're so hot when you make that noise," he murmurs against my jaw, trailing kisses down my neck.
I'm losing my mind. Officially.
My cock is throbbing, leaking in my shorts, and I push my hips up desperately, seeking more friction, more pressure.
More everything.
"I want—" I don't even know what I'm trying to say. I just know I need more.
Becker grinds down harder, his breath hot against my ear. "Tell me what you want."
I can't find the words. I’m not even sure I have the words. And so I let my body do the talking.
I grab his ass with both hands—firm and muscular and perfect—and pull him tighter against me, intensifying the pressure right where I need it most.
"That works too," he laughs breathlessly, then groans as I squeeze his ass harder.
All pretense that this is just kissing is gone.
We're dry humping, rutting against each other fully clothed, and it should be ridiculous, but isn’t. Instead, it's the most intense experience of my life.
Becker breaks the kiss suddenly and lifts his hips up, creating a few inches of space between our bodies. The loss of contact is physically painful, and I make a noise of protest that I'll definitely be embarrassed about later.
"If this is too much—" he starts, his voice ragged and uncertain. Like he's giving me an out.
"Shut up," I growl, hooking one leg around his middle and yanking him back down.
His surprised laugh turns into a moan as our cocks press together again, and then we're back at it again, the pressure building with each thrust of our hips. I feel like I'm about to float away, my entire body humming with a pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
"Oh, fuck. I'm gonna—" Becker's voice is strained, his rhythm faltering.
"Yeah," I pant, gripping his ass tighter, pulling him harder against me. "Don't stop."
He captures my mouth in another kiss, swallowing my moans as the pressure builds to an unbearable level.
I'm dimly aware I'm about to come in my pants like a fifteen-year-old, but I'm too far gone to care.
When it hits, it hits like a freight train.
My orgasm rips through me with a force that makes me arch off the bed, my cock pulsing as I come, harder than I've ever come in my life. Becker follows seconds later, his body going rigid above me, his groan muffled against my mouth as he grinds through his own release.
Then he collapses half on top of me, his weight a warm, solid presence, both of us panting like we just finished a skate from hell.
My head is spinning, my thoughts a jumbled mess.
I just made out with a guy.
I just came in my pants from making out with a guy.
With Becker.
And it was fucking amazing.
It takes a few minutes for my heart rate to return to something resembling normal and my brain to come back online. I become aware of the sticky mess in my shorts, and a laugh bubbles up in my chest. I'm about to share this absurd observation with Becker when I realize his breathing has evened out.
He's fast asleep, his head on my chest, one arm flung across my stomach, looking completely peaceful and satisfied.
I sigh, but I can't stop the smile spreading across my face. My shorts are disgusting, I have no idea what this means, and I just humiliated myself on a live podcast in front of thousands of people a few hours ago.
But with Becker's warm weight anchoring me to the bed, his soft breath against my neck, I can't bring myself to care.
This was definitely worth the public humiliation.