CHAPTER 21
Kane
THE DOOR SLAMS behind Becker with a finality that echoes through the cabin like a gunshot. I flinch, the sound reverberating in the sudden silence.
Alone. Again.
I pace the small space, rearranging items that don't need rearranging. My perfectly organized supplements. My socks. My playbooks. Usually, it calms me—a small pocket of order in a chaotic world.
Not tonight.
My hands won't stop fucking shaking.
I grab my phone and align it precisely with the edge of the desk, then immediately pick it up again because it's two millimeters off. I straighten Becker's rumpled sheets on the top bunk, smoothing wrinkles that will only return when he comes back.
If he comes back.
"Fuck," I mutter, collapsing onto my bunk and dropping my head into my hands.
For the first time in my life, I wish I had someone to call. Someone to talk to. Someone who isn't my father. But hockey has always been my entire life—practice, games, film study, conditioning. No time for friendships outside the sport. No energy for connections beyond teammates.
And now the only person I want to talk to is the one person I can't.
My father's words echo in my head, a broken record of threats and ultimatums.
***
"WAS THAT REALLY necessary—" I start as soon as we're in the car, the words tight in my throat.
"Listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once." My father doesn't look at me, just gestures toward the sidewalk where the team still mills around. "All of... this ends now."
I sigh, fingers digging into my thighs. "What?" If he has a problem, he'll have to say it plainly.
"Don't play stupid with me." His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "Do you understand what you're doing to your career? To your reputation? To my reputation?"
The familiar weight settles on my shoulders—the burden his legacy. "This isn't about you."
"Everything you do reflects on me. I built your career, put my name on you—literally. You're Kane Marcus Junior playing hockey. People don't separate us."
Twenty-four years of this shit.
Twenty-four years of being an extension of him rather than my own person. "You helped train me when I was young. But I built my own career. I earned my spot on this team."
"And now you're throwing it away for what? A phase? Attention?"
Heat rises in my chest. "It's not a phase. I like—"
"You like the attention he brings," he cuts me off. "The internet fame, the media coverage, being 'brave' and 'authentic.' Once the novelty wears off, you'll realize what you've damaged."
I reach for the door handle, stomach churning. "I'm done with this conversation."
"Sit. Down." His voice drops to that dangerous register I know too well. "We're not finished."
My hand freezes on the handle.
"If you continue this... whatever it is... with that podcaster, there will be consequences."
The temperature in the car seems to drop ten degrees. "What consequences?"
"I've been in this league for thirty years, boy. I know everyone—GMs, coaches, sponsors, media executives." His eyes meet mine. "One word from me about his...professionalism, his motivations, his character... and his career is over."
I blink. Once. Twice. Seven times. "You're...threatening Becker?"
"I'm explaining reality. Teams won't touch someone controversial. Sponsors drop people for less. He'll be blacklisted."
"You wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't I?" He pulls out his phone, scrolling through text conversations with a practiced thumb. "Remember Mike Chen? Sports journalist who wrote that article criticizing my commentary three years ago?"
My stomach sinks. Chen had been rising fast in hockey journalism before suddenly disappearing from major outlets. "He's working for a high school newspaper now. Coach Patterson who publicly disagreed with my analysis?"
"He's no longer in the league..."
"Exactly. Blacklisted. I have power, Jayden. And I will use it."
He continues scrolling, showing me more examples. A player who crossed him, mysteriously traded to the worst team in the league despite good performance. A media member who interviewed me without my father's approval, suddenly losing access to all major venues. The pattern is clear and consistent.
"I can make careers or break them. Including your little podcaster's."
The air in the car feels too thin. "That's not a choice—"
"Then make the right one. You have 24 hours.
" His voice is calm now, which somehow makes it worse.
"End this insanity cleanly and quietly, and I'll make sure his podcast gets the sponsorships it deserves.
I'll open doors for him. Or continue, and I'll make sure every door slams shut.
What do you think he'll choose when he finds out? "
The implication hangs between us, heavy and grotesque.
"You're asking me to choose between him and his career."
"I'm asking you to be smart. This is a phase you'll get over. His career is permanent. You're protecting him by ending it now before he gets in too deep."
My throat tightens. "By lying to him?"
"By being realistic. You've known him what, two weeks? You'd destroy his future for two weeks?" He starts the car, the conversation clearly over. "Twenty-four hours. Decide."
***
THE MEMORY DISSOLVES, leaving me sitting alone in the dark cabin with a headache pounding behind my eyes.
What the fuck do I do?
I can’t tell Becker. He'll want to fight back. That's who he is—chaos and defiance wrapped in a hockey jersey. He'll confront my father, and his career will be over before the season starts. If I end things without explanation, he'll be hurt. But at least he'll still have a future.
Sacrifice his heart to save his career.
Some fucking choice.
I open my laptop, the blue light harsh in the darkness. My fingers hover over the keyboard before typing: Riley Becker stats.
His profile fills the screen. Five solid seasons with the Wolves. Not a superstar, but consistent, reliable. The kind of player teams need to win championships. The kind of player who could have another decade in the league if nothing derails him.
I click to another tab: Ice Cold Takes podcast. Clips of Becker's animated face fill the screen, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughs. Comments plentiful below each video:
This guy is the most entertaining thing in hockey right now
Finally someone who isn't afraid to be real
Becker and Kane are the duo we didn't know we needed
I click on one of our joint videos, watching the way we play off each other. The way he draws me out of my shell with relentless, good-natured prodding. The way I can't help responding to him, like a plant turning toward sunlight.
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. But it’s a sad one.
***
Becker
THE WALK BACK from the gym takes me twice as long as it should. I'm deliberately dragging my feet, taking the scenic route like I'm some deep-thinking philosopher instead of a sweaty hockey player with boy problems.
Give him space. Groover’s words echo is my brain.
Easy for him to say. He and Mateo communicate so well they practically finish each other's sentences—in two languages, since Mateo's been teaching him Italian. Meanwhile, Kane and I can't even manage basic English without everything turning into a disaster.
But fine. Space. I can do space.
I'm a goddamn astronaut of emotional distance. Neil Armstrong has nothing on me.
I open the cabin door as quietly as possible, expecting darkness and Kane's rhythmic breathing from the bottom bunk.
Instead, I find him wide awake, sitting at his desk, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen, casting harsh shadows that make him look like he's starring in some noir film about a tortured detective.
He glances over his shoulder when I enter, and his eyes—those fucking eyes that I can usually read like hockey stats—dart away so fast it's like looking at me physically hurts.
"Hi," he says, voice so faint it barely qualifies as sound.
And just like that, my astronaut credentials are revoked.
I can't do this.
I physically cannot stand in this room and pretend everything's fine when he won't even look at me. Groover's advice circles the drain of my non-existent impulse control, and I last exactly three seconds before I'm shutting the door behind me and leaping inside.
"Okay, we're talking. Now."
Kane's shoulders tense, but he still won't turn around. "I told you, there's nothing to talk—"
"Bullshit." The word explodes from me like it's been waiting all night. "Complete and utter bullshit, Kane. Yesterday you couldn't keep your hands off me. Today you won't even look at me. That's something."
He stands abruptly, moving things around on his desk, rearranging pencils, straightening papers. Classic Kane stress behavior, but it only makes me angrier because he still won't fucking look at me.
"I just..." he starts, voice tight. "I think we're moving too fast."
I let out a laugh that sounds more like I'm choking. "Too fast? Are you shitting me right now? What happened with your father? What did he say to you?"
"This isn't about him!" He spins around so suddenly I almost take a step back. His eyes finally meet mine, blazing with something that looks like anger but feels like panic. "Why can't you accept that maybe I just don't want this?"
The words hit like a blindside check—unexpected, brutal, knocking the wind out of me. But I'm not buying it. Not for a second.
"Because I don't believe you," I say, stepping closer until we're practically chest-to-chest. I see the pulse jumping in his neck. "You want this. I know you do."
"You don't know anything." His voice drops, dangerous and low. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and I can feel the anger coming off him in waves.
But it's not real. None of this is real. I've seen Kane angry. This isn't that. This is fear wearing anger's jersey.
"Then prove it," I challenge, tilting my chin up. "Push me away. Do it."
The moment stretches between us, tight as a skate lace. We're both breathing hard, the only sound in the cabin besides the gentle hum of his laptop. I'm not backing down. And for once, I don't think Kane knows what to do with that.
His hand comes up—slowly, almost in slow motion—and I can't tell if he's about to shove me away or grab me and pull me closer.
Either way, I'm not moving an inch.