CHAPTER 24
Kane
AND JUST LIKE that, the bubble bursts.
I sigh, feeling the warm satisfaction of post-orgasm bliss battling with the dread of what I know is coming. It's like waiting for a hit during a game—you know it's going to happen and you brace for impact. But it still hurts like a motherfucker when it lands.
Becker's body is warm against mine, his skin still slightly damp with sweat. He’s perfect like that.
But now he wants to talk, and talking means thinking, and thinking means remembering all the reasons this is temporary.
I roll onto my side and wrap my arm around his chest, pressing myself against him. Maybe if I hold on tight enough, I can delay reality for a few more minutes. His heartbeat thrums steady under my palm, so unlike the chaotic rhythm of my own.
"Fine," I sigh, my breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. "What do you want to know?"
I brace for the interrogation. But then:
"What's your favorite color?" he asks, his voice light.
I laugh, the sound startled out of me. "Seriously?"
"It's pink, isn't it." It's not even a question, just Becker being Becker.
"Fuck off," I swat his chest, but I'm smiling against his skin.
He shifts beneath me, rolling until we're face to face, our noses inches apart. There's nowhere to hide now. His eyes are so blue in the moonlight, like the center of a flame where it burns hottest.
He reaches up and traces a finger along the scar that cuts through my eyebrow, the pad of his thumb impossibly gentle. "How'd you get this scar?"
"Puck," I say, then reach up to touch the small white line on his chin. "How'd you get this one?"
"High stick."
I chuckle, the sound rumbling between us. "Guess we're both predictable."
"I prefer dedicated."
I'm just starting to relax, thinking maybe we're just going to have a nice, easy conversation about nothing important, when Becker drops the bomb.
"Tell me about your father."
My smile fades. "Becker—"
"Fine. You don't have to tell me what he said. Just... tell me about him. Help me understand. Why is he so... ugh."
I can't help the small laugh that escapes. "He's not all bad."
Becker's eyebrows shoot up. "Could have fooled me."
I sigh, trying to organize my thoughts. How do you explain a lifetime of complicated love and resentment in a few sentences? "He just... needs to feel in control, I guess. We both do."
Becker doesn't push, just watches me with those too-perceptive eyes. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. It's patient.
"Twenty years ago, when he was at the peak of his career," I finally continue, swallowing hard as the memories surface, "my mom passed away. Nothing sudden, she was very sick at the end. But I think... I think all that time he thought he would be able to save her somehow. He wasn't."
My voice cracks a little on the last word, and Becker's hand finds mine under the thin blanket, squeezing gently.
"He stopped playing after that. Right after winning his first Stanley Cup. Went into media, never played again." I take a breath that shakes more than I want it to. "I think I get it after him, you know?"
Becker's brow furrows. "What?"
I let out a self-deprecating laugh that sounds hollow. "The need for control. We both need it, I guess. I control my surroundings. He controls me."
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be. Becker's hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers working small circles into the tense muscles there.
"I'm sorry," he says simply.
I force a smile. "Don't be. I've learned to manage."
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air. His eyes search mine like he's trying to read a language he doesn't quite understand yet.
Then, the question I've been dreading:
"Why'd you pull away, Jayden?"
There it is. The moment of truth.
Except I can't give him the truth. Not if I want to protect him. I need to handle things on my own.
So I lie.
"I guess I just..." I look away from his searching gaze, unable to meet it directly. "This is new to me, you know? I've never been with a guy. Never even thought about it. And now, it's all happening so quickly."
When I force myself to look back at him, the understanding in his eyes makes me want to confess everything. But I don't.
"That's okay," he says, his smile gentle. "We can take it as slow as you want. There's no rush."
I let out a sigh and move to cuddle in his arms, squeezing my eyes shut against the burn of unshed tears. His arms wrap around me, strong and sure, and I hate that he's so understanding.
I hate that he believes me.
I hate myself for lying.
Becker deserves better than this. Better than me.
But I hold him tighter anyway, greedy for whatever time I have left before it all falls apart.