Page 118 of Puck Your Feelings
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 calledVolcanic Rushbut 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 hefinally 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.
