CHAPTER 17
Becker
I WAKE UP to the shrill beep of Kane's alarm, consciousness crashing into my skull like a sledgehammer to the face.
My first instinct is to bitch about it, as is tradition, but the words die in my throat when I realize I'm not in my bunk.
I'm still sprawled half on top of Kane, in his bunk, with my leg thrown over his and my face smushed against his chest.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Last night comes rushing back like a highlight reel of bad decisions that somehow ended really, really well.
Kane's hand moves to silence the alarm, and suddenly I’m terrified of what daylight brings.
Is this when he freaks out?
When he says it was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment, a testosterone-fueled experiment never to be repeated? My brain starts cataloging all the worst-case scenarios with the efficiency of someone who's spent years expecting the other shoe to drop.
"Morning," I manage, my voice rough with sleep and anxiety.
Kane doesn't respond for a few seconds, just looks at me with those intense eyes of his. My internal panic ratchets up to DEFCON 1, heart hammering so hard I'm surprised it doesn't wake the entire training facility.
Then, without warning, Kane leans in and kisses me—hard and rough and deliberate, like he's making a fucking point.
Well, okay then. Message received, loud and clear.
When he pulls back, his face is flushed red, and there's a hint of uncertainty beneath the intensity that makes something in my chest do a flip-flop.
Somehow, this feels like too much. Too charged. So I defuse the only way I know how. "Ugh. Morning breath much?"
He swats me on the arm and points to the floor. "Out of my bunk. Now."
I laugh and climb off him, my body protesting in ways that remind me I spent the night crammed into a space designed for one person, not two grown-ass hockey players. For the first time since training camp started, I get up without complaining about Kane's ungodly early alarm.
The morning routine that follows is a little awkward, but not in the catastrophic way I'd feared.
We move around each other in the small cabin, careful not to talk about what happened, like we're both afraid naming it might make it disappear.
I let Kane set the pace, figuring he's the one navigating new territory here.
After we've both showered and dressed, I decide it's time to address the elephant in the room.
Not the "we humped each other until we came in our pants" elephant—the other one.
"Soo," I start, fidgeting with my phone, "I hate to bring this up, but... we should probably address the hot mic somehow."
Kane's smile, which has been hovering around his lips all morning, vanishes like someone hit a kill switch. He collapses onto his bunk and hangs his head in his hands.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he groans. "How did I get here? Again?"
I can't help but laugh at his despair. "It's a gift. Some people have perfect pitch; you have perfect timing for public humiliation."
Kane glares at me, but there's no real heat behind it. I pull out my phone and open the camera app.
"Wait," he whines, now looking genuinely alarmed. "Just like that? No script? What—What do I even say?"
I shrug, already pointing the camera at him. "I don't know. Just say what's on your mind."
Kane looks like he'd rather take a slapshot to the nuts, but he straightens up as I press record.
"Yo..." he starts awkwardly, looking like he's never said "yo" in his entire life. "I guess I'm becoming a series regular, aren't I? Anyway. About what you may or may not have heard yesterday, after certain someone messed up. Again." He looks pointedly at me over the lens.
"Hey!" I protest. "It wasn't my fault this time."
"Suuure." Kane rolls his eyes before turning back to the camera. "So, about that, I just wanted to say, that, umm." He pauses, and I can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. "That it's none of y'all business, actually." He gives a mock salute. "Peace."
I burst out laughing as I stop the recording. "Look at you. Actually humaning for a change."
Kane gets up and peers over my shoulder at the phone screen. "Wait. You're not going to post that, are you?"
"Nope," I say, and he visibly relaxes. I wait a beat before adding, "Not twice, anyway. Already posted."
Kane groans and flops back on his bunk. "I hate you."
"Nope. You absolutely don’t.”
The pillow that hits me square in the face is totally worth it.
***
Kane
THE DINING HALL doors swing open with all the subtlety of a foghorn in a library. Every head swivels in our direction like we're entering wearing nothing but jockstraps and clown makeup instead of standard-issue training gear.
For three excruciating seconds, absolute silence reigns. My stomach does a full Olympic gymnastics routine while I dart my eyes to Becker, who looks suspiciously like he's fighting a smirk.
Then, all hell breaks loose.
Whistles erupt from every corner. Ace slow-claps with exaggerated enthusiasm. Petrov bangs his spoon against his protein shake like he's announcing the heavyweight champion of the world. Even Washington is failing miserably at hiding a grin behind his coffee mug.
"What's going on?" I mutter to Becker, though the sinking feeling in my gut suggests I already know exactly what's happening.
Wall materializes in front of us, blocking our path to the blessed anonymity of the breakfast buffet. He slaps Becker's back hard enough to make him stumble forward. "Finally! The suspense was unbearable."
My face ignites like someone just threw gasoline on it and struck a match.
Sweet baby Jesus, they know.
How do they know? We were quiet. Mostly quiet. Okay, not entirely quiet, but surely not—
"I don't know what you're talking about," Becker says with the conviction of a toddler denying they ate the cookies while covered in chocolate.
Wall's face splits into a grin. "These walls are thin."
"Very, very thin," Groover adds, appearing at Wall's side like some sort of sex-detecting ninja.
My brain melts. The mental image of the entire team with their ears pressed against our cabin walls while Becker and I—nope. Not going there.
I'm going to spontaneously combust right here in the middle of the dining hall, and my obituary will read "Death by Mortification: Hockey Player Bursts Into Flames After Teammates Discover His Sex Life."
Becker, meanwhile, recovers his composure with the resilience of a cockroach surviving nuclear winter. "Oh, are they now? Or were your ears pressed against it with a glass in between?"
"He's not denying it! It's official!" Petrov crows, pumping his fist like he's just won the lottery.
"Hey! That's dirty play," Becker protests, but the damage is done.
I watch in horror as Groover reaches into his wallet and peels off a crisp hundred-dollar bill, slapping it into Ace's waiting palm with an eye roll.
Wall cups his hands around his mouth and shouts into the room, "Hey, Petrov! Pay up!"
Wait. What?
"You didn't actually have bets going, did you?" I ask, though the evidence unfolding before me makes the question painfully redundant.
There’s a collective "Of course we had" from literally everyone in earshot.
My eyes grow wider as Coach Martin—COACH MARTIN!—pulls out his wallet and hands a twenty to one of the trainers.
Even the staff was in on this? What is this, Vegas?
"Unacceptable," Becker declares.
Groover chuckles. "Need I remind you who initiated the betting on me and Mateo?"
"Exactly! That's my shtick," Becker insists, like he's protecting his intellectual property rights to inappropriate gambling.
Wall leans toward Petrov, not bothering to lower his voice. "Fifty says Kane dumps his ass within a week."
"The only reason you two are still alive is I can't play Hockey in prison," Becker shoots back.
Groover wiggles his eyebrows. "You could shoot hoops."
"Don't tempt me."
I follow Becker to the buffet line, grabbing a tray while attempting to process the fact that our entire team—plus coaching staff, apparently—has been gambling on our sex lives.
My brain keeps cycling through embarrassment, indignation, and a strange sort of acceptance, because honestly, what did I expect?
These are the same guys who two days bet on how many pucks Wall could fit in his mouth. (The answer was three, and he won fifty bucks.)
As we sit down at a table, I'm still red-faced, but something warm and unfamiliar is bubbling up underneath the mortification. The team is treating this like it's normal—like Becker and I hooking up is just another Tuesday, worthy of teasing but not actual judgment.
I stab at my eggs, fighting against the smile threatening to break free. Because smiling would only encourage them, and they're already insufferable enough.
But fuck me if it doesn't feel good to sit next to Becker, surrounded by teammates who care enough to bet on our relationship status, in a place where I can just... be.