Page 87 of Puck Your Feelings
"No. You show up. You're patient. You give him room to breathe." Groover heads back to his weights. "And maybe, just maybe, you accept that not everything is about you and your need to fix it immediately."
Ouch. Direct hit to the ego.
I flip him off. "When did you get so wise, oh ancient one?"
"Mateo," he says simply, smiling. "That man has the patience of a saint and the emotional intelligence of a therapist. It's rubbing off."
I grab a towel, wiping sweat from my face. "Well, it's annoying as fuck."
"You're welcome."
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "Hey, Grooves?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you were here."
He smiles. "Go fix your shit, Becker."
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? Tomyreputation?"
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."
