CHAPTER 19
Becker
"It's unnatural," I complain as we trudge back toward the training facility, the afternoon sun beating down on us like we've personally offended it. "Karaoke without booze is like hockey without ice. Or sex without—"
"We get it," Groover cuts me off, throwing a meaningful glance at Cap, who's walking a few paces ahead with Ace.
"I was gonna say 'feelings,' but thanks for the censorship, Dad."
Wall snorts. "Your rendition of 'Barbie Girl' was traumatizing enough without alcohol. I may need therapy."
"You're just jealous of my range," I fire back. "Besides, Kane backed me up on the chorus."
And hot damn, he did. Robot Boy actually grabbed a microphone and sang the Ken parts when I dragged him onstage. Badly, sure—he has the vocal range of a sedated moose—but he did it. With minimal coercion.
I glance over at Kane, who's walking beside me looking suspiciously close to relaxed. He's even smiling a little as Petrov recounts Wall's disastrous attempt at a Backstreet Boys medley.
"I maintain that the microphone was defective," Wall says with dignity. "No human voice should come out sounding like a cat being bathed."
"Your voice did that all on its own," Kane says, and everyone stops walking for a split second because Kane just made an actual joke.
Voluntarily.
Without someone putting a gun to his head.
It's like watching a statue come to life, or Wall admitting he was wrong about something—a rare and beautiful phenomenon that should probably be documented for science.
"It speaks!" Petrov clutches his chest dramatically. "And it has opinions about singing!"
Kane rolls his eyes, but he's still got that almost-smile.
"Next time we're doing ABBA," I announce, bumping my shoulder against Kane's. "I call dibs on being the blonde one."
"You're already the blonde one in real life," Groover points out.
"Yeah, but I want to be the specific blonde one. The one with the—"
I don't finish my sentence because Kane has suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. One second he's walking and almost-smiling, and the next he's frozen like someone hit the pause button on his entire existence. His face drains of color so fast I'm worried he's having a stroke.
"Kane?" I follow his gaze to the parking lot ahead, where a sleek black SUV is parked near the entrance to the facility. "What's wrong?"
He doesn't answer, just stares at the car like it's going to sprout tentacles and eat him. The rest of the team has noticed now, falling silent as they pick up on the sudden tension.
The driver's door opens, and a man steps out. He's tall, with dark hair going salt-and-pepper at the temples, wearing a suit that looks tailored. He moves with the confident swagger of someone who's used to people moving out of his way.
And he walks our way.
"Who's that?" Petrov asks, but I already know.
I've seen enough photos, watched enough hockey commentaries.
"My…father," Kane says, so quietly I barely hear him.
It's like watching someone put on armor. Kane's shoulders straighten, his jaw tightens, and the relaxed, almost-playful guy from two minutes ago vanishes, replaced by a human fortress with walls a mile high.
Kane's father approaches, not bothering to acknowledge the rest of us standing there like awkward extras in a family drama. His gaze is locked on Kane with laser-like intensity.
"We need to talk. Now." His voice is much deeper than Kane's, with the authoritative rumble of someone used to being obeyed.
"You should have called," Kane says, and I'm impressed by how steady he keeps his voice when his hands are clenched into fists at his sides.
"I have called. Repeatedly." The accusation hangs in the air. "But you've been ignoring me."
No one seems to know what to do. Do we leave them alone? Stay and provide moral support? Start an impromptu dance number to diffuse the tension? I'm leaning toward option three when Kane Senior's gaze swings to me, his eyes narrowing like he's spotted something unpleasant stuck to his shoe.
"So this is your…partner," he says, making the word sound like something you'd scrape off the bottom of a boat. "The podcaster making money off my son's name."
What the actual fuck?
For a split second I consider shoving him, but then I decide to take the high road. Mostly because Kane looks like he's about to shatter into a million pieces, and I don't want to make this worse for him.
"I'm his teammate," I say, forcing a polite smile. "And his friend."
Wrong answer, apparently. Kane's father steps closer, looming over me despite the fact that I'm not exactly short.
"You're a clout chaser using my son for content and attention," he spits, voice rising. "Exploiting him for your little internet show."
The accusation hits like a slap. Sure, Kane features in my podcast, but it's not like I'm—
Kane moves between us so fast I almost stumble backward. "That's enough," he says, voice tight. "Becker isn't exploiting anyone."
His father's laugh is cold enough to freeze beer. "Really? Then what do you call broadcasting private family conversations? Making spectacles on ice? You're letting him turn you into entertainment."
"Nobody's turning me into anything," Kane fires back, and there's a tremor in his voice now. "I make my own choices."
The tension crackles like we're all standing in a lightning storm, waiting to see where the next bolt will strike. I want to say something—defend myself, defend Kane—but my brain has apparently decided to take a coffee break.
Cap steps forward, radiating the calm authority that makes him such a good leader. "Mr. Marcus," he says, "I need you to leave the premises. This is a private team facility."
For a second, I think Kane's father might argue, but something in Cap's expression must convince him it's not worth it.
"Fine." He steps back, straightening his already impeccable suit. "Jayden—we'll talk in private." He gestures toward the SUV.
Kane hesitates, turning to look at me, and the expression in his eyes makes my chest hurt. It's an apology, a plea for understanding, and something else I can't quite read.
Then, he’s following Kane Marcus Sr. toward the parking lot, shoulders rigid, steps measured, like he's walking to his own execution.
Automatically, I take a step to follow, but Cap's hand on my shoulder stops me. "Give them space," he says quietly.
"But—"
"Trust me on this one, Becker."
I watch helplessly as Kane climbs into the passenger side of the SUV, the door closing with a soft thud that somehow sounds like the end of something.
***
MY LEG WON'T stop fucking bouncing. I've been vibrating at the frequency of a hummingbird on cocaine for the past three hours, and my ass is starting to go numb from sitting on this hard-as-fuck bunk.
Where. The fuck. Is he?
I've picked up my phone and put it down approximately seven thousand times, typed out and deleted about fifty texts, and reorganized the protein bars by flavor (then by calorie count, then alphabetically) just to have something to do with my hands, because apparently Kane’s been rubbing off on me.
"Fucking hell," I mutter to no one, pacing the length of the cabin for the millionth time. Six steps one way, turn, six steps back. It's like the world's shittiest cardio routine.
I check my phone again: 9PM.
The car with Kane and his asshole father pulled out of the parking lot at 5.
That's almost four fucking hours. Four hours is enough time to drive to the next state. Four hours is enough time to commit several felonies.
Four hours is enough time for Kane's dad to convince him to transfer teams or retire or join a fucking monastery.
I've never even met the guy before today, and I already hate his guts more than I hate morning skates and people who don't use turn signals combined. The way he looked at me, the pure disgust on his face, made me want to show him exactly how we handle pompous dickwads in the penalty box.
And Kane just... went with him. He looked at me with those sad fucking eyes and followed his father like he didn't have a choice.
Maybe he didn't.
I drop back onto the bunk, scrubbing my hands over my face. My mind keeps replaying the way Kane's entire body language changed the second he saw his dad—like someone flipped a switch and turned him from almost-human Kane back into Robot Kane 1.0.
I'm about to start my fifty-first lap of the cabin when the door finally opens.
Kane steps inside, and… Jesus. He looks wrecked. His face is ghost-white except for two patches of color high on his cheekbones, and his eyes have that thousand-yard stare that guys get after particularly brutal playoff eliminations.
I'm off the bunk in 0.2 seconds flat. "Where were you?" It comes out harsher than I intended, but my nerves are shot to hell and back.
Kane doesn't even look at me as he closes the door with excess care. "Walking. Thinking."
"Walking? For four hours?" I follow him as he moves to his bunk, watching as he sits down and starts untying his shoes. And says nothing. "Well? What did your father want?"
Kane takes off his shoes and puts them side by side under the bunk, then starts organizing his pocket contents on the nightstand. Keys. Wallet. Phone. Each item placed with surgical precision, like he's performing an operation instead of avoiding my questions.
"Just... father things," he says finally, his voice flat. "The usual."
I stand there, waiting for more, but that's apparently all I'm getting. My pulse pounds in my ears. "Kane, talk to me."
He looks up, and for a split second I see something raw in his eyes before he blinks it away. "I'm exhausted. Can we just not tonight?"
"No. We can't 'not tonight.'" I drop to a crouch in front of him, trying to force eye contact. "What did he actually say to you?"
Kane's shoulders rise and fall in a sigh that looks like it takes his last reserves of energy. "Nothing. Everything's fine, really."
The word "fine" lands like a slap. Fine is what people say when things are the exact fucking opposite of fine. Fine is what you tell the trainer when your ankle is probably broken but you don't want to miss the third period.
Fine is bullshit, and Kane knows it.
"Your father shows up unannounced, calls me a clout chaser, drags you away for four hours, and you come back looking like someone ran over your dog, but everything's 'fine'?" My voice rises with each word. "Do I look stupid to you?"
"He shouldn't have said that about you," he says quietly, and the fact that he's focusing on that instead of answering my actual question makes me want to scream. "I'm sorry he called you a clout chaser."
"I don't give a fuck what he called me!" I stand up, throwing my hands in the air. "He's not my father. I don't care what he thinks about me. I care what he said to you that's got you looking like you're about to throw up or pass out or both!"
Kane stands too, his movements stiff. "I said it's nothing. I've dealt with my father my entire life. This was just more of the same."
"Bullshit." I step closer, right into his personal space. "You're lying to me."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you fucking are!" My voice echoes off the cabin walls. "I don’t get it. Why are you pretending everything’s fine when clearly it isn’t?"
Kane's face goes even more rigid, if that's possible. "There's nothing to get. I had a conversation with my father, I handled it, and now I'd like to go to bed."
I stare at him, looking for any crack in the armor, any sign of the Kane who was lifting me on the ice, and laughing with his whole body when we fell. The was kissing me senseless on this very bunk just days ago.
He's not there.
Something cold and hard settles in my chest. "Fine," I say, and the word tastes like ash. "Since you don't want to talk, I guess I'll leave you alone."
I grab my phone and jacket and head for the door. I pause with my hand on the knob, giving him one last chance to stop me.
Nothing.
I step out into the night and let the door slam behind me, the sound echoing in the silence like a gunshot.