Kaleb

The kitten wakes me by licking my nose with his rough tongue. Vibrations reverberate through his chest as he lays across my neck, almost cutting off my trachea. I push the creature away, which earns me a minor scratch across my collarbone. An expletive slips between my lips, and when I sit up, the thing is sitting on Mel's shoulder, his head cocked to the side. He yawns, showing off his fangs, and then continues to stare at me. His greenish-yellow eyes are full of innocence as he lays down, burrowing himself in the crook between Mel's neck and shoulder.

"Fucking cat," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Careful not to wake Mel, I slide out of bed and head for the bathroom, flashing the middle finger behind me. I'll cut the kitten some slack. He is cute. But he's still an annoying thorn in my side. Somehow, he knows I dislike him. Which encourages him to cuddle with me. Whenever I'm watching TV or tending to my skates in the living room, he'll lay across my lap, purring like he owns the place. Other times, he'll lay on my shoulders while I'm walking around the house, either cleaning or gathering my belongings for a road trip.

After reliving myself and finishing my usual morning routine, the kitchen is calling my name. As is freshly brewed coffee. Which I can smell as I saunter down the stairs. My bare feet stick to the cool hardwood floor as I walk, the sun reflecting off of the white walls. I squint against the brightness, droplets of water sliding down the nape of my neck.

In the kitchen, the lights are dim, but the sun shines bright through the bay window. Shadows and streams of light patterns the grey hardwood, counter, and appliances in the kitchen. Near the fridge, Mel stands before the coffee machine. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun and she's wearing a baggy black T-shirt that slips just past her ass, stopping above mid-thigh. My name and number are on the back.

Jones. 21.

Leaning against the entryway, I cross my arms and smile at the floor. Soon, that T-shirt will be accurate. Mel has already clarified that she wants my last name, and I think it's an absolute honour. Despite it being a patriarchal tactic embedded in our history, Mel, just like Brenna, believes it's an expression of love. Not a requirement.

If I'm being honest, I offered to take her last name first. Changing mine from Jones to Johnston wouldn't make a difference. I'd still be KJ, and the league could've dealt with making me a new jersey and shit. But Mel insisted; she wants to be Melody Jones.

My heart does a funny flip, and I glance at Mel again. From my viewpoint, I can see two red ceramic mugs on the counter before her. The kitten is also present, continuing to wind its way around her legs. When the sound of liquid being poured into a mug fills the room, the kitten pauses and glances up. He meows.

"I'm pouring coffee," Mel coos. "Coffee is Kal's favourite morning drink. He can't function without it." Her voice is shy of a whisper, but it changes when she says, "I can feel your gaze on me, Kal."

Grinning, I rub my jaw. Stubble scratches the palm of my hand. "Hard not to stare, Mel."

The cat then jumps up onto her shoulders. She glances over her shoulder, returning the grin. "Right? Isn't Jones cute?"

My expression turns into a scowl. She's talking about the kitten. If Shea and Brenna naming their cat KJ or Kaleb Junior wasn't enough, then Mel wanting to continue the teasing charade by naming our kitten Jones sure is. I'll never understand the fascination with teasing me, but they pounce on any opportunity they can get.

"His name is not Jones," I grumble, pushing past Mel and the cat.

From the fridge, I withdraw the cream and the oat milk. I'll never pour oat milk in my coffee, but Mel swears by it. She makes this knock-off iced brown sugar oat milk latte—that thing she usually buys at Starbucks. It's too complex for my taste buds. I like a good old coffee with two splashes of cream and no sugar.

When I join Mel at the counter, she's already poured our coffees. Mine is in a chipped mug that says 'Reading is Sexy.' It's an inside joke between Mel and I. During our second date, we got into discussing novels. I had noticed a book sticking out of Mel's purse, and she told me she always carries a book with her no matter where she's going. I thought making myself seem like an avid reader would make Mel think I was cool. She saw right through my act. For a full hour, she strung me along, letting me think we were discussing the characters and plot of a bestseller.

In reality, Mel had made the series up.

And I played along like a fool. After that conversation, I had to admit I used to be an avid reader. Hockey takes up the majority of my time. I'll squeeze in a book or two when I can, but unless I have the summer off, forget about it. 

Smiling, I pull my mug in front of me, careful not to let the hot liquid slosh over onto the marble countertop. I add my two splashes of cream and then return it to the fridge.

Coffee ready, I lean against the counter and watch as Mel constructs her specialty. While she was at university, Mel worked as a Starbucks barista. Technically, her drinks aren't a knock-off. Calling them a knock-off irks her, so I use that term to tease her. She can make every drink off of the menu.

A cool breeze trickles in through the open window, promising the bite of a damp winter in the coastal region. It smells of cedar wood and musk with a hint of damp earth. Today, the sky is clear, but the afterglow of a rainstorm lingers in the atmosphere. But the reflection of the sun across Mel's face makes up for the lack of warmth.

Her face is void of any makeup, and although there are soft shadows beneath her eyes (we were up late last night), she looks vibrant and ready to conquer the day. Though, I'd rather we stay home and spend the day with each other. Sadly, we both have to work. Mel has a long shift to cover at the hospital. I have practice and then time with the media. I also have to arrive early with two coffees and a bright smile for Dave, the security guard I'm friends with. We need to have a discussion about obtaining a copy of the security footage.

There's no way in hell Mikael is getting away with this. I'm surprised Shea hasn't murdered him yet. Or me. Watching Mikael goad Shea infuriates me. Mikael knows neither of us can react without risking being reprimanded by coaching staff or the bigger guns.

Shea's too busy worrying about Brenna and the baby. He tried to convince me I didn't need to do this. But Brenna is my friend, and I would not be a good ally if I continued to live my life knowing what happened to her without trying to do something.

"Ready for today?" Mel asks. With the lid closed tightly, Mel gives her cup a good shake. The noise of ice clinking against plastic and liquid sloshing fills the kitchen for several seconds, giving me time to process the question.

Despite knowing Dave, I'm nervous. Asking him to give me a copy of confidential footage puts his job and my job at risk. I also don't want him thinking asking for favours is why I befriended him. He's a genuine person who loves to joke about shitty plays and talk about his granddaughters and their achievements in school. Asking this of him might be too much.

I run a hand through my hair, watching as the cat stares at me. His expression seems judgemental. I wrinkle my nose and bare my teeth, making a hissing noise. The kitten's eyes dilate and his ears flatten against his tiny head. When he bares his teeth and copies my hissing noise, Mel shakes her head. The movement spooks the kitten; it jumps down and scurries away from the kitchen.

"You two are childish," Mel chuckles. "You'll eventually love each other. Mark my words."

She takes a long sip of her iced coffee, her eyebrows raised.

It's difficult to prevent myself from smiling. "Don't be naïve, Mel. You know how I am with cats. Especially when they're named after me." We both laugh, mine ending with a sigh. I rub the back of my neck. "It's nerve-wracking, but it needs to be done."

"Or else I will end up committing a felony that will land me in jail for the rest of my life," she nods.

I don't take her words with a grain of salt. Although she's joking, there's a hint of seriousness in her voice. Mel is ruthless when she's defending the people she loves. If there's a run-in between Mel and Mikael, Mikael should be scared. He'll have a black eye or a broken nose. Or no balls. I can imagine Mel kicking the shit out of them, and it makes me wince.

Which Mel misreads.

"You'll be okay, Kal," Mel smiles. She reaches out and squeezes my arm. "Dave will understand. You're not trying to cast his job in a negative light. Any person should realize the importance of supporting a woman that's been sexually assaulted. We can vouch for him. And if things go wrong, we can come up with something to help Dave." She glances outside, her eyes crystal clear with determination. "No one deserves to be punished for doing the right thing."

I join Mel by her side, slinging an arm around her shoulders. Then I press a kiss to her temple.

She rolls her shoulders back, stretching the muscles in her back. There's a pained expression on her face.

"You okay?" I ask.

She rubs her left arm. "Yeah, my arm's been bothering me the last few days. I think it's from unpacking the last of the boxes."

Panic twists in my gut. Judging by Mel's tone, it sounds like she's trying to make an excuse. "How are the headaches?"

"Better," she nods.

Some relief finds its way into my chest. This time, there's confidence in her voice. Plus, her posture is relaxed. "Okay," I nod. An uneasy smile finds its way across my lips. "If anything aches again, let's be proactive, okay? We know what's on the line, Mel."

She shifts to her tiptoes and wraps her arms around my neck. "I know, Kal. Everything'll be okay. We're not letting cancer ruin our future. We fought for this, and we deserve it."

I don't bother correcting Mel. While I fought my internal issues during Mel's treatments, she did most of the fighting. That's who Mel is. A fighter. Without her strength, I would've crumbled while she was going through treatment. There's nothing worse than feeling helpless while watching the person you love endure hell.

Which is why I exhale deeply. "Mel. Just to ease my soul, can we get this checked out? I'm sure you're correct. You know your body better than anyone. But with your past medical experiences, I will act like the overprotective boyfriend. I'm not trying to force you, but I just think..." I trail off, biting back anxiety and a sudden onset of tears. Discussing this with Mel always makes me emotional. "I would appreciate it if you got a check-up. Just to make sure things are safe. I know it's traumatic for you. If you decide to have an early check-up done, I'll come with you if you want me there. For support."

Mel's expression softens as she looks at me, which makes me wonder what my expression is like. Not that I care. Although I can't live my life worrying about recurrence, there are days where the anxiety controls me. Today is one of them. I have a bad feeling in my gut—one I hope is proved wrong—that won't go away. Dizziness, headaches, aching limbs. That seems too close to the research I've done.

She cups my face, brushing her thumb across my cheekbone. The pad of her thumb glistens with wetness from my tears. "Kal. I'll do anything for you. If having some tests done puts your mind at ease, then I'll get some done. It's never bad to be overcautious with things like these. I'll call my doctor before heading to work today. And, yes, I want you to come with me. Your support got me through everything. Never think I don't want you there."

Another tear slips down my cheek. "You know I worry too much sometimes."

She chuckles, pulling me in for a hug. I rest my chin on her head. "It means you care, Kal."

Clearing my throat, I hug her tighter and press a kiss to her forehead. She doesn't understand how much I care. Mel is my world. Everything I do revolves around her and making sure she's happy. That's why I asked her to marry me. To spend eternity together.

And if anything goes wrong, I know it'll break me.

* * *

The wind is damp and bone-chilling as I shoulder my way through the door into Rogers Arena. Two coffees are in my hand while my hockey bag is slung over my shoulder. My hockey sticks are hanging out of the bag, ready to fall. The carpeted hallway is long and stuffy, and the walls are white with stripes of blue and green. The stripes give me a sense of tunnel vision, making my head a little dizzy. As much as I like the colours of our jerseys, they don't belong on walls.

Not that I care.

What I care about is making a good impression with Dave and helping him understand why this needs to be done. Without making him think I'm using him. Or trying to put his job on the line. What my mind is trying to do is distract me from my nerves.

Yeah, good luck, Jones.

I suppress a sigh, adjusting the strap of my bag by shrugging my shoulders. Some coffee sloshes over the edge of the paper travel mug, which causes me to curse. The hot liquid has burned the side of my hand, and it makes me feel like a fool. Why did I think I'd be able to make my way inside without collateral damage being done to the building or myself? I'm Kaleb Jones. Despite not being clumsy, I cause problems without intending to.

Like the time I wasn't able to record Connor Watt admitting to the bet. The fucking sound was off. Or when I forgot Shea was lactose intolerant and had cream added to his coffee instead of cashew milk. I was hungover when I ordered those drinks. My mind wasn't functioning.

I'm a colossal fuck-up most of the time, but I like to consider myself a good person who cares too much.

At the end of the hallway, I take a left instead of a right. Before attempting to push through the door, I discard my hockey bag and sticks, leaving them behind in the hallway. As per usual, Dave's door is unlocked. He's hunched over his desk, dressed in his black security uniform. There are several monitors before him, the glow of the screens highlighting the wrinkles on his face and the peppery undertones of his hair and beard.

He looks up from behind his circular glasses. Smiles. "Jones! What can I do for you?"

I flash him my best smile, holding up the coffees. "Thought you could use your morning shot of caffeine before an influx of media events."

Dave takes the coffee, expressing his gratitude. After a couple of sips, he says, "I'm guessing you're on the panel today? Probably to discuss that shitty loss and the lack of chemistry between you and Smith."

I take a sip of my coffee, chuckling. Having over one cup of coffee is never beneficial for me. The influx of caffeine will give me a burst of energy, then cause me to crash. Coffee aside, I'm amused by Dave's point. Smith and I had a shitty game the other day. It happens every so often, which results is us having to bullshit our way through questions with the media.

"I am, and it'll be the same old, same old," I laugh. "We'll bullshit our way through with humour and lots of 'y'knows' and 'uhhhs.'"

Dave's eyes twinkle with amusement. "The typical hockey player approach." He leans back in his swivel chair and knocks his foot against the leg of the dark oak desk. Behind him, pinned to the wall, is a collage of photos. They're of his granddaughters and family. My favourite one is of me, Dave, and Shea. There are also several little kids from BC Children's Hospital. Dave dressed up as Santa for a Christmas fundraiser we did, and the kids were overjoyed. "But something tells me you're not here to chit-chat about the media. What can I do for you?"

I sigh. "What I'm about to ask of you is a lot, Dave. I don't want you to think I'm trying to buy you out or anything by bringing you a coffee this morning. Or the extra tickets Shea gave you last month."

Dave chuckles. "Don't need tickets or coffee, Jones. Your hospitality has been enough. Smith's too. What do you need me to do for you?"

I sigh again. "What are your policies for handing out security camera footage?"

He rubs his peppered beard. "Security footage is supposed to be kept confidential." He cocks an eyebrow. "Unless there is a safety issue that I feel needs to be addressed. What's going on? Cut to the point."

Discussing this feels wrong, despite Brenna giving me permission. It makes me uncomfortable. I run my fingers along the grain of the desk, taking a deep breath. The air smells like fresh cotton and coffee. A major improvement compared to the sweaty stench in the locker room.

"One of my teammates sexually assaulted Brenna Smith the other day. In the middle of the hallway outside of the locker room. Shea and Brenna tried to make their case, but there wasn't enough evidence. I wanted to see if you could help us out. Mikael needs to pay for what he's done, otherwise it will continue to happen to women."

"Prick," Dave mutters under his breath. He's already leaning forward, his hand on the mouse as the screen turns on again. Keys on the keyboard clack, and then he's logged into his account. "I'm surprised Smith didn't clobber him."

"Me too," I reply, surprised at the honesty in my words. Shea can have a temper and be impulsive, which are not good factors to combine. Which rarely happens. But there is the odd time where they'll get the best of him. I've seen it twice. Once, when he got into a fight with Connor. The other when Shea beat the shit out of his dad. Both pricks deserved it, and Shea was mortified after the fights ended.

"What's the date we're looking for?"

After relaying the information to Dave, I lean against the wall behind him while he scrolls through old data. With each passing second, the tension in my nerves worsens. Several things are running through my mind. Mel. Brenna. My hockey bag sitting outside the door. Shea. My hockey bag.

God, I'm a fucking idiot. If a teammate walks in, they'll see my bag and wonder why the hell it's there.

My stress level is through the fucking roof.

"Here we go," Dave says.

My eyes flick to the screen, and I watch as David speeds the time until Brenna is visible in the frame.

"There," I say. "Right there."

He returns the video to normal time, and we watch as the scene unfolds.

She's walking down the hallway with Shea's skates. The laces are tied in a knot, which is hanging from her hand. They sway with each step she takes.

When she arrives at the locker room door, she extracts her phone from her pocket and texts Shea. Then she slips her phone back in. While she's waiting, she paces the space outside the locker room, stopping when she seeing Mikael walking towards her.

Seeing his slimy ass makes my gut clench with anger. Next time I see him, I'm fucking that man up.

On the screen, Mikael stops before her. We can't see his face, so I'm unsure of his expression, but cockiness radiates from his posture. His body language is too casual, as if he thinks he had Brenna wrapped around his finger.

Brenna flashes him a fake smile before glancing at the door. She looks uncomfortable, and that becomes more prominent when Mikael steps closer to her, trapping her between his body and the wall.

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Brenna slaps his hand away, frowning. She says a few words, but is cut off when Mikael's hand finds her chest.

Brenna freezes in the frame, and her expression makes me look away. Hopelessness and fear aren't emotions that she typically shows. But I can see the hopelessness in her posture and the fear in her eyes while Mikael gropes her breast. I have to set my coffee down and take several deep breaths to prevent myself from puking.

Then Shea exits the locker room. Before I know it, Mikael is on the floor and Shea is comforting Brenna. Brenna buries her face in Shea's chest while his arms wrap firmly around her. Shea looks furious as he spits words at Mikael. I can see Brenna's shoulders shaking.

"Fuck," I mutter. "Turn it off, Dave. I can't watch anymore."

I can't watch anymore because I know Shea did nothing. When he entered the locker room with Mikael behind him and his skates in hand, we all figured they'd run into each other. We were all wrong.

Mikael assaulted Brenna. Shea couldn't do anything. And then Brenna had to walk out of there alone.

Dave looks at me. He looks guilty, but not as guilty as he is upset. "You don't have to ask, Jones." From the middle drawer in the desk, he removes a USB, which he plugs into the computer. After dragging the file to the USB and then ejecting it, he hands me the device. "Take that bastard down."

I close my fist around the USB. A simple thank you sits on my tongue, but I can't speak. There's a foul taste in my mouth. A feeling of unease living in my gut.

All I can do is nod at Dave.