CHAPTER 31
Becker
I'VE HAD ONE hell of a day, and all I want is to face-plant onto the floor and not think about Kane's stupid face for at least five consecutive minutes. Is that too much to ask from the universe?
I swing open the door to Wall and Petrov's cabin, already shrugging off my hoodie, when I freeze mid-motion.
"What the actual fuck?"
Twenty-two gigantic hockey players and one Mateo are crammed into the tiny space like the world's most intimidating can of sardines.
Ace is perched on one of the desks. Washington's leaning against the far wall.
Petrov's sitting cross-legged on the top bunk.
And Mateo is standing next to Groover with his arms folded, looking way too serious for someone wearing a shirt that says "Anthropologically Speaking, You're All Idiots. "
"Surprise," Groover says flatly.
I take a step backward. "Nope. Whatever this is, I'm out."
I pivot to leave, but Wall materializes in the doorway, all six-foot-four of him blocking my escape like the world's most judgmental bouncer.
"Sit your ass down," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is happening."
"This is an intervention," Groover adds helpfully from somewhere in the sea of hockey players.
"An intervention for what, exactly?" I ask, even though I already know. "I don't have a problem."
Snooze snorts from where he's wedged between Hammer and the mini-fridge. "Yeah, and I don't have a collection of ceramic frogs."
Everyone turns to stare at him.
"What? They're cute. My niece gets me one every Christmas."
"Focus, people," Washington says, using his Dad Voice?. "Becker, sit."
I reluctantly perch on the half-empty bottom bunk, ready to bolt if Wall so much as blinks. "This is ridiculous. I don't need an intervention. I'm fine."
"You're about as fine as that time Petrov tried to cut his own hair," Wall says.
Petrov's hand flies to his head. "That was two years ago! Let it go!"
"Never," Wall and I say in unison.
"The point is," Groover interrupts, stepping forward, "you're being an idiot."
"Wow. Thanks for that insightful analysis. Problem solved. Can I go now?"
Mateo rolls his eyes. "You've been moping around for three days like someone ran over your puppy, except the puppy is your love life, and you're the one driving the car."
"I don't mope," I protest. "I brood. Moodily. There's a difference."
"You've been listening to Taylor Swift's 'All Too Well' on repeat," Ace points out. "The ten-minute version."
"How do you—"
"The cabin walls are thin, and you sing along. Badly."
I cross my arms. "It's a masterpiece of storytelling, and I won't apologize for appreciating art."
"You cried into your protein shake yesterday," Wall adds.
"I had something in my eye!"
"Yeah, tears."
I glare at him. "I thought you were supposed to be my friend."
"I am your friend," Wall says. "Which is why I'm telling you that you're being a dumbass. Go talk to Kane."
I flinch at the name. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Right," Groover drawls. "That's why you've been walking around looking like someone stole your favorite hockey stick and beat you with it."
"Poetic," I mutter.
"Look," Cap says, pushing off the wall. "Whatever happened between you two, it's affecting the team."
"Nothing happened," I lie.
"Then why are you sleeping here instead of your own cabin?" Mateo asks, eyebrows raised.
"Because... the air quality is better."
"The air quality," Wall repeats. "In the cabin where Petrov keeps his collection of shakers that he never washes."
Petrov looks offended. "I rinse them!"
"Guys," Cap interrupts again. "Focus."
"Look," I say, standing up. "I appreciate the concern, but this is none of your business. Kane and I are fine. Everything's fine. The team is fine."
"You missed three open passes to Kane during practice today," Ace points out.
"And you've been checking your phone every five minutes like you're waiting for a kidney transplant," Petrov adds.
"And you drew a little heart next to Kane's name in the team roster," Wall says.
My head snaps up. "I did not!"
Wall grins. "No, but your reaction just confirmed everything."
Fucking Wall.
"So what if something happened?" I finally burst out. "It's over now, and we're moving on. Like adults."
"Adults don't hide in other people's cabins and pretend their problems don't exist," Groover says.
"No, they repress their feelings until they develop ulcers and die alone," I counter. "It's the hockey player way."
Mateo sighs. "As the only person here with any emotional intelligence—"
"Hey!" several players protest simultaneously.
"—I'm telling you that whatever Kane did—"
"What makes you think he did something?" I interrupt.
"Because you're here, and he's not," Mateo says simply.
I deflate a little. "It's complicated."
"Isn't it always?" Groover says, and there's understanding in his voice that makes me want to crawl under the couch and die.
"Look," I say, rubbing my hand over my face. "I appreciate... whatever this is, but—“
"Well, whatever it is, it ends now," Wall says. "Because you're moving out."
I blink. "What?"
"You snore," Wall says. "Like a chainsaw having an asthma attack."
"I do not!"
"And you leave your wet towels on the floor," Petrov adds.
"I picked that up!"
"The point is," Wall says, "you can't stay here anymore."
I look around the room, hoping to find at least one sympathetic face. There isn't one.
"Where am I supposed to go?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Back to your cabin," Washington says. "Where your roommate is."
"Kane," I say flatly.
"Kane," everyone echoes.
"This is mutiny," I mutter.
"This is friendship," Groover corrects. "Now go get your shit and fix this."
I glare at each of them in turn. "Some friends you are."
"The best," Wall agrees. "Now get out of my cabin."
I stomp to the corner where I'd stashed my duffel bag, shoving my clothes in haphazardly. "Fine. But when Kane murders me in my sleep, I'm haunting all of you. Especially you, Wall."
"I'll leave out some chains for you to rattle," he says.
"And you," I point at Mateo. "I expected better from the supposed adult in the room."
Mateo shrugs. "Sometimes the tribe needs to unite against the stubborn idiot for his own good."
"Your shirt is right," I grumble. "You are all idiots."
***
Kane
THE CABIN FEELS haunted.
Not with actual ghosts, but with the ghost of what could have been. What was, for about five minutes, before I took a sledgehammer to it like the world's biggest loser.
I sit on the edge of my bunk, staring into space. Becker's been gone for less than three days, but the cabin already feels wrong without him. Too quiet. Too still. Too goddamn tidy.
Actually, that one’s a lie.
It's still a disaster zone because Becker's shit is everywhere—socks draped over the desk chair, protein bar wrappers that missed the trash can by a mile, a half-empty energy drink that's probably fermenting into something that could fuel a rocket.
He's physically gone, but his chaos remains, which somehow makes this whole situation even more fucking torturous.
My eyes land on a white tank top peering at me from the edge of Becker's bunk. I recognize this one—he wore it to bed a few nights ago, before everything went to shit.
Without thinking, I reach for it. The fabric is soft, worn thin from too many washes. I bring it to my face before I can talk myself out of it, inhaling deeply.
It smells like him. There’s that ridiculous body spray he uses that's supposedly called Volcanic Rush but really just smells like citrus. And underneath that, just him. Just Becker.
The door swings open.
I jump so violently my vision turns black for a second, dropping the tank top like it's on fire. Heat floods my face as I look up, praying it's literally anyone other than—
Becker stands in the doorway, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, staring at me with an expression I can't read.
Fuck.
For a split second, I think he's going to say something about catching me sniffing his clothes like some kind of deranged stalker. But he just walks in, drops his bag on the floor, and heads to the bathroom without a word.
I stand frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free. He's back. Is he back? Why is he back? Did he forget something? Is he here to tell me off properly?
The bathroom door opens some twenty minutes later, and Becker emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing basketball shorts and nothing else. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends the way it does when he doesn't bother to dry it.
I open my mouth, but the words die in my throat. What the hell am I supposed to say?
Sorry I broke us?
I miss you even though you're literally standing right there?
Please put on a shirt because I can't think straight when your abs are doing that thing?
Becker doesn't look at me as he climbs up to his bunk, the mattress creaking under his weight. He doesn't say goodnight. He doesn't say anything at all.
The silence is worse than if he'd screamed at me. At least then I'd know what he was thinking. This quiet, contained version of Becker is so wrong it makes my skin crawl.
I force myself through my own nightly routine, acutely aware of his presence.
The bathroom feels like a minefield of memories that somehow made their way back into the present.
His toothbrush next to mine in the holder.
His ridiculous collection of hair products he claims he doesn't use but definitely does.
The damp towel he's left on the floor because hanging things up is against his religion.
When I return to the main room, the lights are already off. I can hear his breathing from the top bunk—not quite the deep rhythm of sleep, but getting there.
I slide into my own bunk, staring up at the springs supporting his mattress.
How many nights have I lain here, listening to him talk about everything and nothing until he finally ran out of words and drifted off?
How many mornings, with him hanging upside down from the top bunk, his face inches from mine, already mid-sentence about some ridiculous dream he had?
Minutes stretch into an hour. Becker's breathing has evened out, the occasional soft snore telling me he's finally asleep.
My own slumber is nowhere in sighs.
With a frustrated sigh, I reach for my laptop. If I'm going to be awake, I might as well do something productive. Or at least try to understand things.
I open a browser and type "Kane Marcus Sr." into the search bar.
My father's face fills the screen—dozens of images from his playing days, his broadcasting career, charity events, hockey clinics. The public face of Kane Marcus Sr.: hockey legend, respected commentator, devoted father.
What a fucking joke.
I scroll through articles, interviews, highlight reels. Nothing I don't already know. Nothing that explains why he is the way he is—controlling, manipulative, willing to destroy his own son's happiness to maintain his idea of the perfect hockey legacy.
I click through to images, scanning the endless photos of my father in suits, on the ice, behind microphones.
There he is, at some gala or another, shaking hands with Mike Chen.
The timestamp on the photo is from last year.
That can't be right.
I click on the image, which takes me to an article about the event. My eyes scan the text until I find Chen's name.
"...sports journalist Mike Chen, who recently retired from hockey coverage to focus on environmental activism..."
Wait. Retired?
He’s be retired. My father got him fired.
But here he is, smiling next to my father at a charity event, described as someone who chose to leave hockey journalism, not someone who was forced out.
My heart rate picks up as I open a new tab and search for "Mike Chen journalist climate."
Dozens of results pop up—articles by Chen about climate change, his social media profile where he describes himself as a "former hockey stalker, current climate activist," interviews where he talks about choosing to shift his career focus after twenty years covering the NHL.
No hint, not even a whisper, that he was pushed out or blacklisted.
With shaking hands, I open another tab and search for "Coach Patterson NHL fired."
The first result is an article from three years ago: "Veteran Coach Patterson Steps Away After Skiing Accident."
I click through, reading about how Patterson had suffered a compound fracture while skiing in Aspen, requiring multiple surgeries and ultimately leading to his decision to retire from coaching.
The article mentions that Patterson remains a respected figure in the hockey community, occasionally consulting for teams and appearing as an analyst during playoffs.
My breath comes faster as I open tab after tab, searching for every name I remember my father mentioning.
A referee who retired to spend more time with his family after his wife's cancer diagnosis.
A team executive who left hockey to start his own business venture.
A player who transitioned to a coach before he even turned thirty.
Not one of them fired. Not one of them blacklisted. Not one of them with a career that ended because of my father.
It was all bullshit.
Every single threat. Every example he gave me of his influence and power. All of it—lies.
I close my laptop with trembling hands.
Above me, Becker snores softly, oblivious to the fact I’m on the verge of passing out.
Oblivious to just how much I truly fucked up.