CHAPTER 34
Kane
THE WHISTLE SCREAMS through the rink, and my body moves before my brain registers.
Muscle memory takes over—feet finding edges, stick finding puck, body finding position.
The game erupts around me in a chaos of shouts and skate sounds and the crack of sticks meeting rubber, but it all feels distant, like I'm watching everything through frosted glass instead of actually participating.
My father's watching. Somewhere out there in the digital void, among the thousands of viewers streaming this game, he's watching.
Ace carries the puck up the right wing. I read his trajectory before he commits, angling my body to cut off the passing lane. He tries to thread it through anyway—ambitious, stupid—and my stick intercepts with a satisfying thwack.
"Nice read!" Becker calls from somewhere behind me, and the sound of his voice grounds me in my body again.
I push the puck up ice, find Petrov breaking toward the blue line, make the pass. Don't wait to see if it connects—already pivoting back, covering the defensive zone because that's my job. That's what I do.
The first period dissolves into a blur of motion. I'm playing well—I know I am because my body knows what to do even when my head's a fucking mess. Every hit I take, every pass I make, every play I execute—it all happens on autopilot while my mind spins.
The buzzer sounds. First period over.
I skate to the bench, accept water from Coach Martin without really seeing him. My hands are shaking, so I grip the bottle tighter. Nobody can know I'm terrified. Nobody can see the cracks.
"How many?" I ask.
Mateo glances at the numbers. "Seven-fifty. Climbing."
Not yet. Not enough. We can do better.
"You good?" Becker appears beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush.
I nod.
He studies me for a second, those too-observant eyes seeing more than I want them to. Then he just bumps his shoulder against mine again—a silent I've got you—and skates back out.
The second period is harder. My autopilot's failing, thoughts bleeding through.
Every time I touch the puck, I'm aware of the cameras.
Every time I make a play, I'm aware my father's watching, probably on his tablet in his home office, probably already composing the text he'll send after—critiquing my positioning, my decision-making, my entire goddamn existence.
Wall makes a spectacular glove save that has Coach and Mateo shouting commentary about "the wingspan of a fucking pterodactyl," and despite everything, I almost smile.
Groover scores on a wraparound that's both skill and dumb luck. His celebration involves pointing at Mateo in the stands and blowing a kiss that nearly costs him a penalty for delay of game.
The buzzer sounds again. Second period over.
This is it.
My legs feel like they're made of something heavier than bone as I skate toward the streaming booth.
Every eye in the rink tracks my movement.
Mateo's already holding out the wireless mic when I reach him, like he's been waiting.
"Eight hundred thousand," he says quietly.
I take the mic. It's heavier than it should be, or maybe my hands are just shaking that badly.
The paper's in my pocket. Becker helped me write it last night. Every word carefully chosen, workshopped, perfected. I pull it out with fingers that don't feel like mine, unfold it with hands that are definitely trembling now.
The rink's gone silent. Players scattered across the ice, all staring at me. Coach Martin's stopped talking mid-sentence. Even the cameras seem to hold their breath.
I clear my throat. The mic crackles.
"Hi, Dad." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "I know you're watching. You'd never miss my game, even if it's just a scrimmage."
The paper crinkles in my grip. I look down at the carefully crafted words. The diplomatic phrasing. The polished assertiveness. The most creative way to say fuck off.
My eyes burn.
Then I fold it back up and shove it in my pocket.
Fuck that.
"Because you love me." The words crack halfway through, my voice breaking like I'm fifteen again. "I know you do."
Silence. Complete, suffocating silence. I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, as sweat slides down my spine despite the ice rink's chill.
"Listen, Dad. As you can see, I'm doing quite alright. We're even winning—" I pause, turn to look at my teammates scattered across the ice. "Are we winning?"
"We're winning," Groover confirms.
"You're winning," Wall corrects, looking distinctly unhappy about it.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest—inappropriate, slightly hysterical—but I swallow it down.
"We're winning," I repeat into the mic, turning back to face the camera Mateo's pointing at me. "And I will do everything I can to continue to win. Here. With the Wolves."
My throat's closing up. I force the words through anyway.
"Because I'm happy here, and I'm here to stay. And Becker's staying too." I don't look at him. Can't look at him. Not yet, or I'll lose my nerve entirely. "And nothing bad's gonna happen to him as long as I'm around. That's how it's going to be, whatever your opinion is."
Breathe. I need to breathe.
"I know you love me, and I love you too." The admission costs me something. It feels like peeling back skin, exposing raw nerve. "But Dad?"
I turn, find Becker in the crowd of players. He's standing near center ice, completely still, eyes locked on mine. His expression's unreadable, but his hands are clenched at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from skating over.
"You're not the only person I love."
Back to the camera. My father.
"And you'll just have to find a way to live with it. I know you will. Somehow. Eventually."
I could say more, but I'm done explaining myself. Done defending my right to be happy.
"Well, folks." I clear my throat. "You're tuning in to Ice Cold Takes. Now back to regularly scheduled programming. Peace."
I lower the mic.
For exactly two seconds, nothing happens.
Then the entire rink explodes.
The team rushes me—Groover first, slamming into me with enough force to knock me back a step, followed by Petrov, then Ace, then Wall abandoning his net to join the pile.
Someone's yelling, someone else is laughing, and I'm pretty sure that's Coach Martin shouting something about "best goddamn television I've ever seen. "
Becker's there suddenly, pushing through the crowd, and his bright with something that might be tears.
"You absolute fucking idiot," he says, and then he's kissing me.
Right there. On the ice. In front of eight hundred thousand viewers and counting.
And somewhere out there, my father's watching.
Let him watch.
I'm done performing for an audience of one.
***
Becker
THE POST-GAME pile-on's still happening when I finally extract myself enough to breathe.
Groover's got Kane in a headlock that's more affectionate than aggressive, Petrov's yelling something in Russian that sounds celebratory, and Ace is attempting to start a chant that approximately nobody's joining.
Kane looks like he's been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure.
His eyes are glazed, movements mechanical as Groover releases him and slaps his shoulder. He blinks slowly, like he's trying to remember where he is.
"Who won?" he asks, voice flat.
Wall, who skated all the way from his net to join the celebration despite being on the losing side, stares at Kane like he's grown a second head. "Were you not there?"
"Give him a break," Petrov cuts in, grinning. "He's solving daddy issues. More important than the game."
"Nothing's more important than the game," everyone says in unison—including Mateo.
Kane's still standing there looking shell-shocked, so I skate closer, grab his jersey, and tug him toward me.
"Kane," I say, quiet enough that only he can hear over the chaos. "Hey. Look at me."
His eyes focus on mine, pupils blown wide.
"I love you too."
Something shifts in him—the shock cracks, and underneath is something raw and real and so fucking vulnerable it makes my chest ache.
"Yeah?" His whispers.
"Yeah, you dramatic off-script idiot." I pull him in and kiss him.
The team erupts into fresh whoops and hollers. Someone—Wall—yells, "Get a room!"
We break apart, Kane's face the color of a fire hydrant, and start skating toward the exit. My hand finds his, fingers threading together because fuck it, we just officially came out to eight hundred thousand people. Holding hands is nothing.
A cluster of journalists hover near the tunnel like vultures circling roadkill, phones out, recording everything. Some I recognize from press conferences. Others look like they crawled out of tabloid hell specifically to make Kane's life a spectacle.
Kane’s grip on my hand tightens, and his shoulders go rigid in that way they do when he's about to shut down completely.
Not happening. Not today.
I plant myself between Kane and the reporters, still holding his hand, and plaster on my best I'm-about-to-make-your-job-very-difficult smile.
"Welcome," I address them with exaggerated politeness. "Lovely to see you all. Great turnout. Really appreciate the support."
"Riley, can you comment on—" one starts.
"Nope."
"Is Kane's father aware—"
"Didn't you just watch the same stream as everyone else?"
"What does this mean for the team dynamic—"
"It means we're going to keep winning games and looking hot doing it. Next question."
A woman in the front—I think she writes for one of the sports blogs—tries a different angle. "Kane, how are you feeling about your father's potential response?"
Kane opens his mouth, and I squeeze his hand.
"Here's the thing," I cut in before he can speak. "You want the inside scoop, the exclusive details, the behind-the-scenes drama?" I pause for effect. "Tune into the podcast."
"The podcast," someone repeats sarcastically.
"Ice Cold Takes," I confirm. "Available on all streaming platforms. Subscribe, rate, review. We accept fan mail and baked goods. Kane's particularly fond of those protein cookies, if anyone's feeling generous."
"Riley—" Kane starts, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
"We're not doing press today," I continue, addressing the crowd. "You want our story? You get it the way we tell it, on our terms. So." I spread my arms wide. "Tune in, fuckers."
"You can't just—" the blog woman protests.
"Can and did. It's called controlling the narrative. Kane here just taught me that." I glance back at him. "Right, babe?"
His ears go red at the pet name, but he's definitely smiling now. "Right."
"Excellent. Glad we had this chat." I start walking backward, pulling Kane with me. "Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell your weird aunt who comments on all your Facebook posts. We're going viral, baby!"
Wall's voice carries from somewhere behind the journalist cluster: "You’re already viral, you dramatic bitch!"
"Even more viral, then!" I shout back. "Super viral! The viralest!"
"That's not a word!" Groover adds.
"It is now!"
Kane's laughing now, and it's the best sound I've heard all day. Better than the buzzer, better than anything.
We make it through the tunnel, leaving the reporters behind, and Kane stops, turning to face me.
"You didn't have to do that," he says.
"Do what? Advertise my podcast? That's just good business."
"Shield me from them."
I shrug. "Yeah, well. You handled your dad. Figured I could handle some nosy journalists."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he leans down and kisses me again, slow and sweet and perfect.
"Thank you," he murmurs against my mouth.
"You're welcome. Now can we please go? My ass is freezing, and I need to check if we broke the internet."
We walk toward the locker room, still holding hands, and I pull out my phone with my free hand.
"We definitely broke the internet," I report.
Kane looks over my shoulder at the screen, and his smile gets wider. "Good."
"Good," I echo.
Behind us, the team's still celebrating on the ice, their voices echoing through the rink. Ahead of us, the locker room door's propped open, warm air spilling out into the cold tunnel.
And beside me, Kane's hand is warm in mine.
Yeah. We won.