Page 119 of Puck Your Feelings
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.
CHAPTER 32
Becker
3 A.M. IS a special kind of hell.
Not late enough to be considered morning, not early enough to be considered a respectable time to still be awake. It's the hour where your brain decides to replay every embarrassing thing you've ever done while simultaneously convincing you that your entire life is a dumpster fire that will never, ever stop burning.
I'm wandering the training compound like some kind of ghost, haunting the silent walkways between cabins. The moon's hanging low and fat in the sky, casting everything in that weird blue-silver light that makes even normal things look like they belong in a horror movie.
I woke up twenty minutes ago to a quiet cabin. No Kane. No soft breathing from the bunk below mine. No occasional shift of weight or rustle of sheets. Just... nothing.
Where he went isn't my business anymore. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. Kane is no longer my... whatever the fuck he was. Hookup? Almost-boyfriend? The guy who made me come so hard I saw constellations that haven't been discovered yet?
