#Political Party Discipline

[jovialbasementbouquetblr]

1957: VI Rightist Critiques of Party Members, Organization, Bureaucracy, Tyranny and Privilege

In this part of the translation from the 1958 Renmin University compendium of ‘rightist’ criticisms from the 1957 Hundred Flowers mandatory criticism of the Party (please criticize us to help us improve!!) the focus is on the role of the Communist Party. Criticisms include the rapid deterioration in the quality of the average Party member after Party’s rapid expansion after taking power in 1949,…

[townpostin]

JMM Initiates Anti-Defection Proceedings Against Rebel MLA Lobin Hembrom

Party takes stern action after Borio legislator contested Lok Sabha polls as independent Hembrom’s suspension highlights JMM’s zero-tolerance policy towards election rebels. RANCHI – The Jharkhand Mukti Morcha (JMM) has initiated anti-defection proceedings against Borio MLA Lobin Hembrom under the 10th Schedule before the Speaker’s Tribunal. This move comes after Hembrom contested the 2024 Lok…

[crookedfandomquill]

This is very situational, and sadly may not be realistic for everyone, but I need y’all to understand that a very important part of political activism is fucking talking to your conservative or moderate friends and family.

My dad voted for Trump in 2016. He’s a middle class white evangelical from Arkansas. He raised me with conservative Christian values, just like his parents raised him. When he voted Trump, he was holding his nose, but he didn’t feel too bad about it, and went on to vote red down the ticket in the 2018 midterms, as well.

But I started college in 2017. Higher education and independence changed everything for me, and I went home over holidays and summers with fire in my belly and a thousand arguments ready at the drop of a hat, to my father’s dismay.

I remember crying in my room after emotional, intense arguments with him. I told him over and over that I felt betrayed by his choice to vote for a man who admitted to sexually assaulting women, who built his platform on dehumanizing immigrants and the disabled, who spread overtly-racist rhetoric, who flouted the values of kindness and self-discipline that I’d been raised on. And my dad always had some justification about the “greater good”: fighting against abortion, bolstering the economy, getting other Christian politicians into office.

But over time, as we grew further apart and I lost my will to discuss anything with him at all, he softened. He started asking me why I thought the way I did about the things we disagreed about. He would listen to my answers without interruption, and mull them over afterward instead of expressing his own opinion. And all the while, he watched the Trump presidency become cruel and absurd and devastating.

The first time he openly expressed regret to me, I had come home for a weekend after Kavanaugh was confirmed to SCOTUS. My dad realized he had helped elect a man who preyed on women… and that man had opened the door to more predators. I can’t tell you what it felt like for him to admit that he’d made a mistake, not just in voting for Trump but in defending him for so long. We kept arguing, but it was more debating than fighting. I knew he was capable of seeing my side of things, even if it took a while, and he knew I wasn’t just a sensitive college student with shallow new ideas about the world.

And then 2020 hit. Specifically, George Floyd was murdered, and the events that followed played out on the national stage. My dad was incredibly shaken by it. He asked me if I had any books from college about racial issues. I loaned him The New Jim Crow, one of the required readings for my Race and the Law class. Then I gave him Just Mercy. Then he watched the documentary 13th. Then he joined a racial harmony group he learned about through one of the few Black families at our church and insisted our whole family come. He held up signs at a protest against Confederate monuments in our conservative southern town. In three years, he went from defending Trump’s comments about “Black-on-Black crime” to publicly advocating for racial justice and opposing the death penalty.

We went together to vote in the 2020 primaries. I couldn’t help asking who he’d voted for; I didn’t even know if he’d asked for the Republican or Democratic ticket. He admitted he’d voted for Bernie. fucking. Sanders, then made me promise not to tell my grandma he’d voted liberal. When the election rolled around in November, he voted Biden. I’m sure he held his nose to do it, just like he held his nose voting in 2016. But I know he doesn’t regret it.

I am, of course, unbelievably lucky to have a parent who loved me enough, and was empathetic enough, to choose his relationship with me over his strongly-held opinions. He kept searching for truth because, as much as he’ll deny it, he’s a very smart and curious person. No degree of intelligence or curiosity makes you immune to propaganda, especially if you were raised not to question the party line. It’s easy to dismiss our conservative, conspiracy-pilled loved ones as stupid, hypocritical, and cruel. Sometimes they are. But sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes they will bend to keep their relationships from breaking. Sometimes, if they can be made to understand that their beliefs and actions are harming someone they love, they will make concessions. And sometimes they just need one person in their life to put a foot down, to be vulnerable and assertive and argumentative, to bring the impact of their politics close to home.

As the most important election of our lifetimes approaches, do not put peace over progress. If you have someone like my dad, someone who is good-willed and smart and loves you more than their own opinions, tell them how you feel. Tell them what their choices will mean for you, for your friends, for your community. Tell them what they could lose: your trust, your affection, your respect. Don’t avoid conflict if it could be productive. Because my conflict with my dad didn’t just win him over–it won over my moderate mom and one of my conservative brothers. And it put us in community with other like-minded people and led my parents to a healthier and kinder faith.

All of this to say, there is hope in conflict. There is hope in our relationships with people who think differently from us. There is hope in exposing your fear and anger and pain to people you love. And hope is a form of activism.

[tbaluver]

Can you write the guys reaction to having a baby girl as their first child? (I'm a sucker for papa's little princesses)

Thank you and your works are the best and comforting!

Papa's Little Princess- The Love And DeepSpace Men

synopsis: when your first child is a girl! genre: fluff fluff a/n: omg this was such a cute idea i wish they were real (╥﹏╥) and thank you so much! i hope my works can continuing being comforting for you and anybody else <3 i hope this was okay and that you enjoy this! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

His little star

A gentle father. He's the type to never yell at his daughter but he'll provide positive disciplining strategies with you.

He wants to be in every part of his daughter's life in any way he can. He wouldn't really know how to do his daughter's hair but he was willing to try ! He would watch you tie her hair, braid, and put many accessories in her hair and he would be confused on how you did all that. He tried looking up how to do her hair and his first time wasn't the best.....but after some practice with you, he would be a pro just like you!

Do NOT let these two bake together especially with the easy bake ovens. Nearly set the kitchen on fire attempting to make cookies for you. He couldn't say no to her when she wanted to cook or try baking with him. You don't know how but it ended up burnt or with the weirdest toppings ever and a broken easy bake oven.

Nap time is serious business with these two. They are not to be disturbed. She's either asleep on his chest or in his lap. Whenever you take walks and she gets too tired, he'll carry her around on his back. She'll rest her head on the crook of his neck while he holds onto her tightly.

She would have all the plushies, toys, and snacks she wants! He'll do his all to get her the plushies in the claw machine to make his little angel jump up and down in joy. She could never have enough

Loves to join her in her imaginative play whether she wants to be a princess or an astronaut. It makes playtime full of joy and adventure

Zayne:

You two would have the most polite, well mannered, and kindest daughter ever.

Loves to participate in playing house with her. He'll sit on the floor or the tiny chairs from the tea party set you gotten for her. He'll play the role with no complaints and tell her that the tea is delicious even though there is absolutely no tea in the plastic cup.

He's a doctor but he can't help but sneak a few sweet treats for her. If she wants some before lunch or dinner then she can have at least one before she eats her meal and then she'll have plenty more after. These two would have cavities later on.

He would make her all the mini snowmen and other things she wants from his evol. He finds her reaction to be adorable each time, it never gets old.

If your daughter mentions a boy, he would tell her she can have a boyfriend around 30. She would be happy and so was he. Mainly because she has no concept of time and age yet.

Your daughter loves to hear him read. Even though she was still very very young and didn't grasp everything just yet, he would read her stories and explain them with care and patience, aiming to entertain and nurture her curiosity. She loves to sit on his lap and sometimes she'll fall asleep on him.

He would let her pick any flower she wants to grow in your garden at the backyard. You would all start a small garden together and he would teach her how to care for them.

Rafayel:

Takes playing house a little too seriously. Whatever role his daughter gives him, he's giving it his all.

Oh he was so excited when your daughter first held a crayon. He colors with her a lot and eventually will introduce her to paint. He would tell her that she's doing so well even if they were just blobs. She's going to be an artist just like her papa. He'll even add some of her artwork on his so he can point it out to her if he were to have another exhibition tour.

First time at the beach with his daughter was such an emotional day for him. Hearing and seeing her squeal when her little feet touched the water warmed his heart. He held her so tightly and tenderly, reassuring her that she won't float away because her papa's got her. He teaches her a lot about how some fishes are friendly and one day he'll meet some of his fish friends.

He'll eventually tell her all about Lemuria whenever it was time for bed and he thought it's so cute whenever she wanted to hear more about it.

Would absolutely love to play dress up with her. Sometimes he'll pick some of her clothes out and he would think she is beautiful just like her mama. They'll make a little runway and model the outfits.

He would keep all the little milestones she has made and any memories. He'll keep all the photos, drawings, and any mementos to look back at the treasured memories.

Sylus:

The second person who will ever see his soft side is his daughter. You being the first.

He is protective over his daughter and with you. If anyone were to look at either one of you wrong? Sleep with one eye open.

He does not have fragile masculinity! He will let her apply as much toy makeup as she wants on his face. He'll play dress up with her as much as she wants no matter how obscure the outfits are! He has no complaints, anything to make his little angel smile and happy.

She loves hearing him sing lullabies. It puts her to sleep immediately but sometimes she'll sing or hum along with him.

If you tell your daughter no to something then she'll ask Sylus. He can't say no to his sweet baby girl. Just don't tell mom. He doesn't know what true fear is until he meets a mothers anger.

Loves to spoil her just like how he loves to spoil you. Not to the point where she's a brat though, you two would teach her to be better than that. "Just because" gifts to make her feel special without any special occasions

Anytime he would be away for business, he'll always bring you two something back. Something that you both either love or reminds him of you two or maybe both.

BONUS (All): They would all be patient fathers overall. They would never yell if your daughter showed any emotions especially if their daughters were to cry. They’re offering their own patience, love, and comfort in their own way. They would be there for your daughter emotionally as they were with you.

[grison-in-space]

Has Biden actually done anything at all? There's evidence going around and I think it's compelling, the alternate to voting is instead doing actual social work and participating in protests and organizing political action, which is a good idea i think

1) Yes. Inarguably this has been the most effective progressive domestic administration since I have been alive, and I'm in my thirties. What in the fuck are you talking about? It's not perfect, but it's better than we've seen in fifty years: Obama tried, but Democratic Congressional organization was just not yet used to working with a completely obstructionist GOP Congress in the wake of the tea party.

Even in terms of foreign policy, this is also pretty much as good as US involvement gets. Sorry. Our foreign policy has been shaped by monsters for decades, and that's even without dealing with our huge and active branch of Christian doom cultists. There ain't a candidate in the world that could stop the entire accumulated momentum of geopolitics with a snap of the finger, and I'm not really willing to pretend that Biden is particularly notable for not managing to fix Israel/Palestine relations.

2) In your own words, anon, what precisely does organizing political action entail without participating in the political process? Do you think that abstaining from the part of the gig where you, the citizen, get to say which official gets the job somehow makes your opinions matter more to your elected public officials? Have you ever organized to get so much as a municipal one-time library project budget expanded? Are you perhaps only skilled at political argument with people who already agree with you on the Internet?

What is your leverage, and could it reasonably be described as "extortion" or "blackmail" or "political corruption?" Because those are pretty much the only things on the table that can work more effectively to drive an elected official than a disciplined coalition of political allies (who can be purchased with, you guessed it, votes) or a reliable bloc of voter support. Your vote matters less than the ones you bring with you, sure. Do you think that not voting yourself somehow helps people organize to drive more votes? Have you perhaps replaced your complex reasoning skills with a rapidly dying jellyfish?

3) Holy passive vagueness, Batman! "Evidence is going around." What a masterpiece of a sentence! How it suggests everything while providing nothing! What evidence? Who collected it? Who is talking about the evidence "going around?" Who is listening? How many of them are there? What did they think before? The more I think, the more questions I have, and damn if they ain't predisposing me to be even less charitable.

Like, this is so catastrophically poorly supported that I have to confess that I not only believe this is probably an ask in bad faith (i.e. by someone who is expecting to piss me off or otherwise engage with me adversarially, probably spammed to a whole host of blogs at once with no expectation of response) but I actively hope that it is. The alternative is to have to grapple with the reality that some people are so uncomfortable with the responsibility of moral agency that they're willing to release useful levers of legal and social power just so that they never do anything problematic with that power. Much better, of course, to wash one's hands of anything that might have the stink of responsibility clinging to it. Might fall from the membership of the Elect if you actually get yourself all muddy by doing things, I reckon.

I don't even believe that voting is the only lever we have when it comes to our elected officials or that votes are necessary to secure change, and I am certainly not talking about the presidential ticket alone when I talk voting. What I do believe is two things: one, that voting is a potential lever of power on the emergent chaos of the society in which we live. And two, that anyone telling me to leave a lever of power on the ground without a damn good reason is either incompetent, malicious, or both.

[twinsimming]

Boarding Schools Skill, Career, & Trait Additions by Twinsimming 🏀🎶🏐🎻🎥

The boarding school feature from The Sims 3: Generations wasn't updated to include any new skills, careers, or traits from subsequent expansion packs, so I originally made this mod to fix that.

Then I realized that there were also some base game traits and careers missing, as well as most of the hidden skills, so I added those too!

This is a tuning mod that can be placed in your Overrides folder.

Requirements

This mod requires The Sims 3: Generations.

Skill, Career, & Trait Additions

Additions are in bold.

Removals are struck through.

Prep School

School Traits: Ambitious, Snob, Charismatic, Schmoozer,  Genius, Bookworm, Perfectionist, Proper

Offensive Traits: Couch Potato, Slob, Easily Impressed, Inappropriate, and Rebellious

Learnable Skills: Logic, Writing, Charisma, Chess, Homework, Golfing, Social Networking

Recommended Occupations: Business, Political, Medical, Journalism, Writer, Education

Military School

School Traits: Neat, Handy, Good, Brave, Disciplined, Computer Whiz

Offensive Traits: Loser, Slob, Couch Potato, Over Emotional, Clumsy, Insane, Party Animal, Inappropriate, Rebellious

Learnable Skills: Homework, Logic, Athletic, Martial Arts, Handiness, Inventing, Scuba Diving

Recommended Occupations: Firefighter, Military, Law Enforcement, Criminal, Private Eye, Lifeguard, Inventor, Scuba Diver

Art School

School Traits: Virtuoso, Artistic, Dramatic, Charismatic, Photographer's Eye, Natural Born Performer, Savvy Sculptor, Avant Garde

Offensive Traits: Can't Stand Art. Couch Potato

Learnable Skills: Dancing, Club Dancing, Piano, Bass Guitar, Guitar, Drums, Painting, Charisma, Sculpting, Photography, Street Art, DJ Turntable

Recommended Occupations: Music, Stylist, Interior Designer, Nectar Maker, Painter, Photographer, Sculptor, Writer, Film, PT Film, Art Appraiser

Hippy School

School Traits: Loves The Outdoors, Artistic, Green Thumb, Vegetarian, and Environmentally Conscious, Good

Offensive Traits: Mean Spirited, Hates Outdoors, Snob, Evil

Learnable Skills: Child Cooking, Gardening, Cooking, Fishing, Inventing, Nectar, Science

Recommended Occupations: Science, Culinary, PT Bookstore Clerk, Fisher, Gardener, Inventor, Nectar Maker, Fortune Teller Career, PT Grocery Store Clerk, PT Mausoleum, PT Day Spa Specialist, PT Day Spa Receptionist

Sports School

School Traits: Athletic, Loves The Outdoors, Handy, Adventurous, and Disciplined

Offensive Traits: Loser, Slob, Couch Potato, Clumsy, Hates Outdoors, and Rebellious

Learnable Skills: Athletic, Handiness, Martial Arts, Foosball, Homework, Trampoline, Blocks, Golfing, Skating, Snowboarding, Ping Pong, Bowling

Recommended Occupations: Professional Sports, Law Enforcement, Criminal, Firefighter, and Sports Agent

Conflicts & Known Issues

Conflicts with any mod that edits the BoardingSchool xml file. This includes Madam Doofie's Higher Boarding School Costs mod.

Credits

EA/Maxis for The Sims 3, s3pe, and Notepad++

If you like my work, please consider tipping me on Ko-fi 💙

Download @ ModTheSims

[read-marx-and-lenin]

Was it antifascist when the USSR only ever allowed less than 10% of the population to vote for the one candidate the dictatorship put forward for each role?

Why did you deactivate your last account? Were you upset that you looked so foolish? You don't look any less foolish creating multiple alternate accounts to send anon hate with. I don't even have anon asks turned off.

The Soviet Union had universal suffrage. Every voting-age adult was allowed to participate in the elections, besides felons and those who were incapable of voting due to mental disability. All ballots were secret (at least, after 1936. Oftentimes elections prior were done by show of hands, but this became problematic.)

If you are referring to the election of the Presidium or the appointment of the Premier by the elected representatives of the Supreme Soviet, I would consider that more democratic than the election of the President of the United States, since not only was the Presidium a council of multiple people in and of itself instead of one singular person at the head of the government, but the election of the Presidium was undertaken by representatives who were directly elected by the people, as opposed to the electors of the Electoral College in the United States who are appointed by party officials.

If you are referring to the election of the General Secretary of the Communist Party by Communist party members, then that position was not a governmental one. While the General Secretary did indeed have significant political influence due to their role as leader of the vanguard party, they were not a dictator and the position did not confer any state powers.

Not only were the Supreme Soviet and the Presidium composed of many different people who collectively decided upon state actions, many powers and duties were constitutionally delegated to regional councils and soviets. The federal government never held supreme power.

As for the idea that there was only "one candidate" for office during elections, the so-called "single-slate ticket" decried by the West, it betrays a fundamental misunderstanding about how communist politics works. Competitive tickets were not impossible, although party discipline prevented them from occurring at any high level. Rather, the single-slate ticket arose because prior to the printing of any ballots, there was a period of discussion to determine who would be the candidate in the first place. So it was not a case of people being told by the party "here is your candidate, now you must vote for them". The people and the party worked together to find candidates who had public support in the first place. In addition, not only could voters simply vote "no" and reject a candidate (and any candidate who did not receive a majority of "yes" votes would be rejected,) but all elected officials were subject to recall at any time if they were found to be deficient in their responsibilities by the electorate. Candidates were not forced on the Soviet people by faceless party bureaucrats.

If you want to know more, I recommend checking out "Soviet Democracy" by Pat Sloan (I should note that that particular work forms most of my knowledge on Soviet democracy, so take all of that with a grain of salt for anything past 1937 when the book was written) and pretty much anything written by Anne Louise Strong, although I would recommend "In North Korea", in particular Chapter 3 which goes into detail on pre-war DPRK elections and includes a very enlightening passage on how the North Korean voters at the time viewed single-slate tickets. Suffice it to say, they did not at all feel disenfranchised.

I can understand why you would be misinformed as to how the Soviet government worked. But to decry the Soviet Union as undemocratic, let alone fascistic, is absurd.

[wilwheaton]

Republicans are not the victors of a tumultuous campaign week that saw President Joe Biden flub his first debate and former President Donald Trump win a landmark Supreme Court ruling — the oligarchy is, a new analysis contends. Slate writers Dahlia Lithwick and Mark Joseph Stern presented an alternative Wednesday to the predominant political narrative that Biden’s campaign is nosediving while a newly disciplined Trump reaps the benefit. Rather than look at the face of the political parties, they raise the specter of Supreme Court rulings they say demonstrate a cataclysmic governmental shift. “Make no mistake about it,” the pair write, “When a court that has been battered by near-weekly reports of undisclosed oligarch-funded vacations (and gifts and super yachts and tricked out RVs and secret conferences with high-paying Koch supporters getting access to justices) decides to make it easier to bribe public officials—as it did in Snyder v. U.S.—that’s a very public signal that the conservative supermajority does not care what you think.”

'Make no mistake about it': Op-ed warns an elite 'supermajority' has already won 2024

The thoroughly corrupt MAGA 6 must be impeached and removed from the court. Democrats must take off the gloves, and fight as dirty as the other side. Literally everything is at stake.

[lee-laurent]

Romeo and Juliet - Jack Hughes

Summary: Jack falls for the new owner of the Devils' daughter

content: reverse of a slowburn (they move really fast)

wc: 14k

notes: requested!! i'm sorry this took sooooo long! school is kicking my ass :(( but i really liked writing this! i rewrote it like twelve times until i finally found an angle i liked and i hope you guys enjoy it too! keep on sending in requests :))

Remi Bouchard stood awkwardly behind her dad, arms crossed and weight shifting from one foot to the other, as he talked to his new team, droning on and on about his expectations. She'd heard this speech before--different team, same lines. Discipline. Effort. Respect. Her dad always delivered it like he was audtioning for a role in a sports movie, with the same rehearsed authority and clipped tone.

Behind his back, she rolled her eyes. This time, though, she wasn't sitting in the bleachers or tucked away in the family section. No, this time, he'd insisted she stand behind him, a silent reminder to everyone in the room that he was not only their new coach, but also her father. Like she needed that.

Her gaze drifted lazily across the room. Players filled the chairs, leaning back like they'd heard their fair share of speeches too. A few were older, veterans whose faces she vaguely recognized from highlight reels. The rest were younger--fresh-faced rookies and players just hitting their stride.

Her eyes landed on a guy near the back, sitting with one ankle propped on his knee. His light brown hair was messy in a way that looked accidental but wasn't, and a lopsided grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he whispered something to the guy beside him. Whatever it was must've been funny, because the other guy was fighting to keep a straight face.

Interesting.

Remi tilted her head, letting her gaze linger a second longer than she should have. She'd always been good at reading people--better than her dad, anyway--and something about him stood out. He didn't look nervous or overly respectful like some of the others. He looked... comfortable. Like he knew exactly who he was and didn't feel the need to apologize for it.

Her dad's voice snapped her back to reality.

"And remember, gentlemen, this season isn't just about talent--it's about discipline. Off the ice as well as on. That's what wins cups."

She fought the urge to groan. Discipline was her dad's favourite word, and he'd wielded it like a weapon her entire life. No late nights. No parties. No distractions. Her curfew in high school had been earlier than the local diner closed. Even now, at 19, he still acted like he needed his permission to make a decision.

But that was the thing about being 19. She didn't need anyone's permission--not anymore.

When her dad finally wrapped up his speech, he turned to her with a rare, tight-lipped smile. "Remi, why don't you introduce yourself?"

Her stomach twisted. She'd spent most of her life being introduced as "Phil Bouchard's daughter," and it didn't look like that was changing anytime soon. Still, she managed a polite smile, the one she'd perfected after years of playing nice for her dad's sake.

"Hi," she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs in the room. "I'm Remi. My dad's the coach--obviously. But don't let him fool you; he's not that scary."

There was a ripple of polite laughter, but her eyes were fixed on the guy in the back. His lopsided grin had widened into a full-on smirk now, and for the first time, she felt her own smile shift into a real one.

~~

The players were filing out, some offering polite nods to her dad as they passed. Remi stayed in the corner, checking her phone out of habit, when a voice grabbed her attention.

"So, Coach's not that scary?"

She looked up to find the guy from earlier standing a few feet away, hands shoved in the pocket of his Devils branded sweatpants, the same smirk on his face. Up close, he was even more annoyingly attractive.

"Not unless you cross him," she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

"Good to know." He extended a hand. "Jack Hughes."

"Remi Bouchard," she replied, shaking it. His grip was confident and lingered long enough to make her heart skip.

"I figured," Jack said. "Your dad's been saying 'my daughter' every five minutes."

She laughed despite herself. "Yeah, he's good at that."

"Is he good at coaching too, or should I be worried?"

Remi hesitated for a beat, then leaned in slightly, her voice dropping low enough to make him lean in too. "Let's just say... don't expect to sleep in."

Jack's laugh was genuine, bright, and made her stomach flutter.

"Noted," he stood up straight. "Guess I'll see you around, Bouchard."

And with that, he was gone, leaving her standing there, slightly breathless and entirely annoyed at how much she'd enjoyed that.

The locker room emptied quickly after that. Remi stayed put, scrolling aimlessly through her phone as her dad exchanged a few last words with his assistant coaches. She didn't need to look up to know he was shooting her occasional glances, making sure she wasn't doing anything embarrassing.

When the other coaches finally left the room, her dad turned to her, his expression shifting into something softer, but no less authoritative.

"Thanks for sticking around today, kid," he placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Didn't really have a choice, did I?" she replied, her tone just sharp enough to sting.

Phil frowned, his grip tightening slightly before he let go. "I just want you to understand what's at stake here. This team is a fresh start for me--and for us. I'm counting on you to make a good impression. That means no antics, Remi. No sneaking around, no hanging out with the players, no late nights."

Her jaw tightened. The rules. Always the rules. No matter where they moved or how many teams he coached, her dad never let up. She was 19 years old, a legal adult, and he still talked to her like she was a teenager that couldn't be trusted.

"Got it," she said flatly, shoving her phone into her pocket. "Are we done?"

Phil's frown deepened, but he nodded. "Go home. I'll meet you there after meetings."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out, her heart pounding with anger. The hallway leading out of the arena was dimly lit, her footsteps echoing loudly in the empty space. Her dad's words replayed in her mind, each one sharpening her resentment like a knife.

No antics. No hanging out with players.

The absurdity of it made her laugh under her breath. Like she couldn't handle herself. Like she wasn't already smarter, sharper, and more aware of the world than he gave her credit for.

The truth was, she'd been good for too long. For years, she'd followed his rules, played the perfect daughter, sat quietly by the sidelines of his career. And what had it gotten her? A suffocating shadow she couldn't escape.

She paused at the edge of the parking lot, looking back at the arena. Most of the players were gone by now, but a few stragglers were still lingering by their cars. Her eyes scanned the lot until they landed on him. Jack Hughes.

He was leaning against the driver's side door of his car, his stupid smirk still on his face. His posture was relaxed, lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

He's exactly the kind of guy Dad would hate me hanging out with.

The thought struck her with startling clarity. Jack wasn't just charming and attractive--he was off-limits. A walking, talking rebellion waiting to happen. And the best part? Her dad had basically handed her the idea on a silver platter.

She could hear the protests in his voice already. Stay away from him, Remi. You're going to embarrass me. You don't know what you're doing.

A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. Maybe she didn't know exactly what she was doing yet, but she knew enough. She wasn't going to sit around and let her dad dictate her life any longer. If he wanted her to stay away from Jack Hughes, well, that was exactly who she'd be spending her time with.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her attention. Her best friend, Talia, was texting her.

Talia: how's hockey prison? are you surviving?

Remi smirked, fingers flying across the screen.

Remi: barely. but i've got a plannnn. stay tuned

She glanced at Jack again. This wasn't just about pissing off her dad--it was about proving, to herself and to him, that she was in control of her own life. And Jack Hughes? He was going to help her do exactly that.

She walked over to him, smoothing down her hair and tugging at the hem of her jacket, wanting to look like she wasn't psyching herself up to do this.

Jack didn't notice her approach until she was a few feet away. He glanced up, his face shifting to surprise, then to a lazy grin that had her weak in the knees.

"Didn't think I'd see you again tonight," he said.

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Figured I'd say hi before you forgot about me."

"Not a chance. Coach's daughter isn't exactly forgettable."

Her laugh came easily, and she stepped closer, leaning against the car beside him. "Well, that's reassuring. So, what's the team's golden boy still doing here? Everyone else has cleared the fuck out."

Jack tilted his head. "Golden boy? That's a stretch."

"Come on," she teased, bumping her shoulder against his. "Don't play humble with me. I saw you back there, all comfortable and confident. You're not like the others."

"Is that a good thing?" he smirked.

"That depends. Do you live up to the hype?"

Jack chuckled, the sound warm and low. "Guess you'll have to stick around and find out."

For a split second, her resolve wavered. It would be so easy to fall into this, to let herself believe this wasn't just a game she was playing. But she couldn't afford that--not now. She had a point to prove, and he was the perfect way to do it.

"So," she said, smoothly changing the subject, "is this how you always spend your Friday nights? Hanging out in parking lots and scrolling through Instagram?"

Jack leaned back, crossing his arms. "Only when I'm waiting for someone interesting to show up."

"Oh?" she arched a brow. "And did they?"

"Yeah," he held her gaze. "They did."

The flutter in her chest was stronger this time, and she quickly buried it beneath a playful grin. "Well, I hate to disappoint, but I'm not that interesting."

"Not buying it," he shook his head. "I've got a feeling you're full of surprises."

"Maybe you'll find out."

Jack pushed off his car, standing just a little closer than before. "Guess I'll have to stick around, then," he teased.

Remi glanced up at him, her heart pounding. This is working. She didn't need to push too hard--just enough to keep him hooked, to let him think this was real. It almost felt real. And that was the dangerous part.

"Well," she stepped back just far enough to break the moment, "don't let me keep you here all night."

Jack hesitated, then pulled his car keys from his pocket. "Alright, Bouchard. But don't be a stranger, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied, her voice light and breezy as she turned and walked away.

When she reached her car, her phone buzzed with another text from Talia.

Talia: details. now.

Remi: step 1: complete. he's hooked

As she hit send, she glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Jack's car pulling out of the lot. This was just the beginning.

~~

Remi leaned against the railing of the bleachers in the practice rink, her legs crossed casually as she scrolled through Instagram to see what her friends back in Toronto were up to. The team was midway through drills, her dad barking instructions from the bench, his voice echoing through the room.

But when she was looking up, her attention wasn't on her dad. It was on him.

Jack was mid-drill, skating backward as he tracked a pass, his stick carrying the puck across the ice. He made it look so easy--like he was born to do this. The precision in his movements was almost hypnotic.

When the whistle blew, signaling a break, Jack skated toward the bench for water. He looked upward--just for a second--and locked eyes with her. Remi played it cool, offering him a small wave and a teasing smirk.

Jack raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a grin that was equal parts amused and intrigued. He didn't break their eye contact as he lifted the water bottle, taking a long sip like he was trying to show off to her in the oddest way.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. Subtlety clearly wasn't his strong suit.

As the players began to scatter for the next drill, Jack skated over to the boards near where she stood. Leaning his forearms casually on top of the plastic, he tilted his head up at her.

"Didn't realize this practice was open to spectators," he teased.

"It's not," she replied, moving down a couple rows. "I'm special."

"Special, huh?" He smirked. "Is that why you're standing up there, judging my every move?"

"Who says I was judging?" she shot back. "Maybe I was admiring."

Jack blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but quickly recovered. "Careful, Bouchard. Keep talking like that and I'll start thinking you're here just to see me."

She grinned, "Maybe I am."

The whistle blew again, cutting through their moment. Jack glanced back at the ice, where the rest of the team was already setting up for the next drill.

"Duty calls," he said, skating backward to keep his eyes on her. "But don't go anywhere. I'll be looking for you when we're done."

"I'll think about it," she sassed, turning to leave.

~~

The smell of sweat hit her as the players filtered into the locker room, chatting as they pulled off their gear. Remi stood near the wall, pretending not to notice the attention her presence was drawing.

Jack was one of the last to come off the ice, his jersey slung over one jersey and his sweat damp with sweat. When he spotted her, his pace slowed, his grin widening as he veered her way.

"You know," he said, stopping just a little to close, "if you keep showing up like this, people are going to start talking."

"Talking about what?" she asked innocently, batting her eyelashes.

"About how the coach's daughter has a thing for the team's centre," he replied, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Remi raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smirk. "Who says I don't?"

Jack blinked, his confidence faltering for a fraction of a second before he let out a soft laugh. "You're dangerous, you know that?"

"Am I?" she deliberately took a step closer.

"Definitely," his voice dropped even lower.

Before he could say more, the sound of her dad's voice calling her name echoed down the hall. Jack immediately straightened, stepping back like a kid caught his hand in the cookie jar.

"Don't worry," she whispered, brushing past him. "I won't tell."

As she walked away, she glanced back over her shoulder just in time to catch the look on his face--amusement and exasperation. It sent a thrill racing through her, and for the first time, she realized how much she was enjoying this.

~~

Remi wandered through the small crowd, her dad occupied with his assistant coaches on the other side of the lounge. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Jack, who was standing by the snack table with a few teammates.

When their eyes met, his face lit up, and he excused himself, weaving through the crowd to meet her halfway.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft and warm. "You didn't come down to congratulate me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she teased, crossing her arms. "Do you require special acknowledgment for doing your job?"

Jack laughed, shaking his head. "I thought you might be impressed."

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. "I guess you were okay."

"Okay?" he repeated, placing a hand over his heart like he'd been mortally wounded. "Tough crowd."

"Don't worry," she said, her smile turning mischievous. "I'll be sure to send you a participation ribbon."

Jack leaned in slightly, his grin becoming more genuine. "How about dinner instead?"

His tone, his expression--there was nothing calculated about it. He was just... sincere. And that made her next move feel all the more like a game.

"Maybe," she took a step back. "If you're lucky."

She walked away, leaving Jack standing there, shaking his head with a smile that said he was already hooked.

~~

Remi laughed softly as she collapsed onto Jack's couch, kicking off her sneakers and tucking her legs under herself. His apartment was a reflection of him--casual, but inviting, with a lingering smell of cologne that was distinctly Jack.

She'd finally taken him up on his dinner offer and it had been the most fun she'd had in a long time.

"You're way too good at losing track of time," Jack said, joining her with two beers in hand. He offered her one, his knee brushing against hers as he settled beside her.

"Time's a construct," she quipped, taking the bottle, glad he had already removed the cap. She leaned back, letting her head rest against the cushion. "And I was having fun."

Jack gave her a crooked smile. "Fun, huh? Is that all I am to you?"

"Oh, don't fish for compliments," she teased, knocking his shoulder with hers. "You're more than fun. You're..." She pretended to think, her smile widening as his expression grew mock-serious. "Moderately entertaining."

Jack rolled his eyes, setting his beer down on the coffee table. "Moderately entertaining? Guess I'll have to up my game."

Before she could reply, he leaned in, his hand sliding along her jaw as his lips found hers. The kiss was warm and confident, tasting of beer and italian food, deepening quickly as he tilted her head back. Remi melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair as he pressed closer, his weight shifting to pin her against the couch.

The outside world melted away, leaving only the heat of his hands as they pulled her shirt up and the intoxicating way he kissed her--like she was the only thing that mattered. His hands roamed over her waist, her thighs, pulling her against him with a hunger that made her heart beat faster. They quickly stripped down to their underwear, shifting to lay on the couch.

She pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, "I'm gonna ruin you, Hughes."

He laughed softly, his forehead resting against hers. "Pretty sure it's the other way around."

Remi reached into the pocket of her discarded jeans, pulling out a case containing a neatly rolled blunt. She held it up between them, her lip pulled between her teeth. "Wanna test that theory?"

Jack raised an eyebrow, but propped himself up on his elbows, watching as she lit the blunt with practiced ease. She took a slow drag, blowing the smoke out in a lazy swirl before handing it to him.

"D'you always carry these around?" he asked, taking it from her and mimicking her movements.

"Only when I'm feeling inspired," she replied, slipping out from under him and onto the floor, patting the space beside her. "Come on. The couch is overrated."

Jack joined her, body sprawling out beside hers as they passed the blunt back and forth. The room filled with the soft haze of smoke, and the tension that had been simmering between them shifted into something more intimate.

"What's your biggest secret?" she asked suddenly, her head turned to look at him.

Jack exhaled a puff of smoke, his brows furrowing as he thought. "Biggest secret? Probably that I suck at cooking."

Remi laughed, elbowing his side. "Come on, Hughes. You can do better than that."

"Alright... I hate how much I care about what people think of me. On the ice, off the ice. It's exhausting sometimes."

Remi blinked, surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. She handed him the blunt, her tone gentler. "Well, for what it's worth, I think you're doing just fine."

Jack smiled, taking a drag. "Your turn. Biggest secret."

"I don't think I've ever really been myself," she admitted. "Not around my dad, not around anyone. It's like... I'm always trying to be what people expect."

Jack reached over, his fingers brushing hers. "You're pretty damn great as you are."

The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache, and for the first time, she wondered if she'd underestimated him.

~~

Jack hovered nervously by the back door, his hoodie pulled low over his head, scanning the dark backyard like they were in a spy movie. "I still think this is a terrible idea."

"That's because you're boring," Remi whispered back, pulling her house key from her pocket. The lock clicked softly, and she pushed the door wide with a grin. "See? Easy."

Jack stepped inside hesitantly, wincing when the hinges creaked. "If he catches me--"

"He won't," she cut, turning to grab his hand. Her fingers were warm, steady, and the quick squeeze she gave his palm sent a shiver up his arm. "He's been passed out for hours. I'd know--I checked."

"That's reassuring," he muttered, letting her pull him forward.

The house was dark and still, the only sound the faint hum of the refridgerator in the kitchen. Jack couldn't help but glance around as they moved through the house, his grip on her hand tightening every time the floorboards creaked under their weight.

"This is ridiculous," he hissed when they reached the staircase. "Your dad's not just anyone, Remi. He's my coach. My fucking boss."

She paused mid-step, turning to look at him with a smirk that made his pulse quicken. "And yet you're the one who keeps following me."

He opened his mouth to argue but snapped it shut when she tugged on his hand again, pulling him up the stairs. His heart hammered as they passed the closed door to what he could only assume was her dad's bedroom, the faint sound of snoring filtering through the wood.

When they finally reached her bedroom, Remi pushed him inside, locking the door behind them. Jack leaned back against it, exhaling hard as he ran a hand through his hair. "You're gonna get me benched."

She rolled her eyes, stepping closer until her body was pressed against his. "You're too good. He'd never bench you."

"You sure about that?" he mumbled, his voice dropping as his hands slid instinctively to her hips.

"Positive," she replied, tipping her head back to meet his gaze. "Besides, you'll be worth it."

His breath caught, her confidence making him forget how bad of an idea this was. She was dangerous, magnetic, and impossible to resist.

"God, you're reckless," his voice was rough as he leaned down to kiss her.

Her reply was lost against his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hoodie as they stumbled toward the bed.

~~

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of their heavy breathing. Remi lay sprawled across the sheets, her bare skin still warm from Jack's touch. His arm was draped lazily across her waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her ribs as he stared up at the ceiling.

"You okay?" he asked almost hesitantly.

She turned her head to look at him, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. "Better than okay."

Jack laughed under his breath, pulling her closer. "Good. 'Cause I don't think I'll survive your dad murdering me."

She shook her head, leaning up to press a kiss to the faint red marks she'd left along his collarbone. "Relax. He doesn't need to know."

But as her hand slid across his chest, his fingers gently caught her wrist. His gaze turned serious, searching hers. "You're sure about this? About us?"

For a split second, she hesitated. The way he looked at her--like she was something precious, something worth risking everything for--made her chest tighten in a way she wasn't used to. But she pushed the thought aside, flashing him a toothy grin. "I'm sure."

Jack smiled, leaning down to kiss her again, and the warmth of his hand on her waist made her forget everything else.

~~

Remi slipped into the kitchen the next morning, a slight ache in her muscles and a satisifed smirk on her lips. She was pouring a cup of coffee when her dad walked in, his expression already tense.

"Morning," she said lightly, leaning against the counter.

Phil frowned, eyes narrowing as he studied her. "What's on your neck?"

She instinctively lifted a hand to cover the faint bruise Jack had left just above her collarbone. "Nothing," she lied, turning to grab her mug.

"Don't 'nothing' me," he snapped, stepping closer. "That's a hickey. Who were you with?"

"I don't think that's any of your business," she said, her tone sharper than she intended.

Phil's jaw clenched, his frustration spilling over. "It is my fucking business, Remi. I know boys. Most of them are players who don't care about anything but themselves. I'm not letting you ruin your life for some--"

"I'm not ruining anything!" she snapped, slamming her mug onto the counter, coffee sloshing over the side. "God, Dad, I'm not a kid anymore! You can't control who I spend my time with."

~~

The parking lot was empty except for a few scattered cars. Jack leaned against the driver's side door of his car, his hockey bag tossed in the backseat.

"You waiting for me again?" Remi asked, stopping a few feet away.

"Maybe. Can you blame me?"

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the edge of his jacket. "Not really."

The space between them disappeared as he pulled her in, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was hungry, insistent. Her hands slid up his chest, tangling in the collar of his coat as she pressed herself against him.

Jack groaned softly, his hands gripping her waist as he slid his tongue into her mouth. The cool night air was forgotten, replaced by the warmth of her body and the breathy sounds she made against his mouth.

But the sound of footsteps nearby made them both freeze. Jack pulled back, his heart hammering as he glanced over his shoulder. A security guard was walking along the far side of the lot, his flashlight swinging lazily across the pavement.

"Shit," Jack whispered, running a hand through his tangled hair. "We need to be more careful."

Remi smirked. "Scared, Hughesy?"

He shook his head, exhaling a shaky laugh. "No, just trying not to get caught."

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "Where's the fun in that?"

~~

Jack adjusted the collar of his jacket as he led Remi down the familiar hallway to his apartment. He'd suggested they grab dinner at his place after practice--a casual way for her to meet someone close to him. Remi had agreed, though the idea of meeting Luke like this had left a gnawing pit in her stomach.

"Relax," Jack said, glancing back at her as they stopped outside the door. "Luke's chill. He'll be excited to meet you."

"Oh, I'm sure," Remi replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Your teammate-slash-brother who's seen me sulking around the rink for weeks? I bet he'll have no questions."

Jack smirked, unlocking the door. "You're overthinking it."

The door swung open, revealing Luke in a Devils hoodie and sweats, his hair damp like he'd just showered. His eyes flickered between Jack and Remi, surprise flashing across his face before he smiled.

"Hey. You actually did bring someone."

"Funny," Jack said, clapping his brother on the shoulder as he walked past. "Remi, this is Luke. Luke, Remi."

Remi extended a hand. "Nice to finally meet you outside of the rink."

Luke shook her hand. "You too. I, uh, I've seen you around a lot. Heard even more."

"Good things, I hope," she replied, shooting Jack a pointed look.

"All good," Luke said quickly, though his smile was tight. She could tell he was connecting the dots in his head.

Remi Bouchard. Coach's daughter. And now... whatever she was to Jack.

They moved into the living room, Jack dropping onto the couch and gesturing for Remi to join him. Luke disappeared into the kitchen, returning with beers. He handed one to Jack and set one on the table in front of Remi.

"So, how'd this happen?" he asked, sitting in the chair opposite them. His tone was casual, but his were sharp, darting between the two of them.

"What, you think I can't pull someone like her?" Jack teased.

"I didn't say that," Luke said quickly. "Just... isn't it... complicated?"

Remi stiffened slightly, but Jack just laughed, taking a swig of his beer. "Not as complicated as you'd think."

Luke's expression didn't change, and the weight of it made Remi shift uncomfortably. She could tell he wanted to ask more--probably about her dad, about how much he knew--but he held back, choosing to make small talk instead.

The evening passed with relative ease, though there was a tension lingering below the surface. Luke was polite, funny, but Remi couldn't shake the feeling that he was analyzing her every word. When they finally left, she let out a sigh she hadn't even realized she was holding.

On the car ride back to her place, Jack was unusually quiet, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Remi glanced at him, the city lights casting soft shadows across his face.

"You okay?" she asked., s

He nodded. "Yeah. Just... I'm glad you properly met Luke."

"Why?" she asked, her voice light, though the question felt heavier than she intended.

Jack's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Because I really like you. And if this... if we're gonna be something, I want the people I care about to know you."

Guilt prickled at the edges of her thoughts. She forced a smile, reaching over to rest her hand on his thigh. "You're sweet, Hughes. You know that?"

He laughed softly, his shoulders relaxing as he placed a hand over hers. "Don't let it get around. Gotta protect my image."

Her smile didn't waver, but her stomach churned. She wasn't sure if it was guilt, the thrill of rebellion, or something else entirely. All she knew was that Jack Hughes was nothing like she'd expected--and that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

~~

Jack sat in his stall, sipping water as he wiped the sweat from his face with a towel. Across the room, Nico and Luke were talking about dinner plans, their voices blending into background noise.

The sound of Phil's sharp whistle cut through the chatter, snapping everyone to attention. Jack tensed, his eyes flickering to the entry where Phil stood, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

"Alright, listen up," Phil began, his voice carrying the kind of authority that demanded silence. "I've been watching you guys these past few weeks, and while I'm mostly happy with what I've seen on the ice, I need to remind you all of something."

The room was silent, every pair of eyes fixed on the coach. Jack shifted uncomfortably, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine.

"This team has one goal: to win," Phil continued, pacing slowly in front of the group. "And that means focus. Discipline. No distractions--on the ice or off."

Jack's stomach twisted. Phil's tone was calm, measured, but the words hit like a warning shot. He couldn't help but glance toward Nico, who raised an eyebrow in silent confusion.

"I've been in this game a long time," Phil said, stopping to look directly at the group. "I know what happens when players lose sight of what's important. You think one bad decision won't cost you? Think again. Whether it's partying too much, chasing the wrong kind of attention, or getting involved with the wrong people--it will catch up with you."

Jack swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep a neutral expression. He told himself that Phil didn't know anything, that the speech was just a coincidence. But the way his coach's eyes swept over the room, lingering on him longer than anyone else, made his chest tight.

"That's all," Phil said finally. "Think about what kind of player you want to be--and act like it. See you tomorrow."

The room remained silent as Phil walked out, the door swinging shut behind him. It wasn't until he was gone that the players began to murmur, exchanging confused glances.

"What the hell was that about?" Dawson muttered, leaning toward Jack.

"No idea," he replied quickly. He stood up, grabbing his bag. "I'll catch you later."

As he left the locker room, Jack couldn't shake the feeling that Phil's warning had been aimed directly at him.

~~

Remi stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully brushing her hair into place when she heard her dad's voice call her name from the hallway. She sighed, setting the brush down as she turned to face the door.

"Yeah?" she called back, already bracing herself for whatever lecture was coming.

Phil appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression as story as she'd expected. His eyes flickered briefly to her neck, where the faint shadow of a hickey still lingered despite her best efforts to cover it with makeup.

"Who's the guy?" he asked bluntly, his tone clipped.

Remi's heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face neutral, crossing her arms to mirrow his stance. "What guy?"

"Don't play games with me, Remi," Phil snapped, stepping further into the room. "I'm not blind. You've been sneaking around, coming home late, and you've got another..." He gestured vaguely toward her neck. "You think I don't know what's going on?"

Remi arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a defiant smirk. "Maybe you don't."

Phil's jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I don't have time for this, Remi. You're my daughter, and I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?" she shot back. "Living my life? Making my own decisions? God forbid I do anything you don't approve of."

"This isn't about approval!" he barked. "It's about respect--for yourself and for this family. You're running around with some guy who clearly doesn't care about you--"

"How would you know?" Remi interuppted, stepping closer. Her eyes flashed with anger. "You don't even know who he is."

Phil's face darkened. "And I don't want to know! Whoever he is, he's not worth it. Guys like that only think about themselves."

Remi laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. "Wow, Dad. You're so sure you're right about everything, aren't you? Maybe the problem isn't who I'm seeing. Maybe the problem is you."

Phil stared at her, stunned into silence. For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

"You don't get it, do you?" he said finally, his voice lower but no less tense. "This isn't just about you. The choices you make reflect on me--and on this team. I won't let you ruin what we've worked for."

Remi's anger gave away to something colder. "You mean what you've worked for. God forbid I do anything for myself."

Without waiting for a reply, she pushed past him, her steps echoing down the hall as she headed for her room. She slammed the door shut behind her, leaning against it as her heart pounded in her chest.

Her dad didn't know. He couldn't know. But the weight of his words still lingered, settling like a stone in her stomach.

~~

The room was quiet, Jack lay sprawled across the bed, his body still covered in a sheen of sweat. The sheets were a tangled mess beneath him, and the scent of sex and Remi's perfume lingered in the air.

Remi had slipped into the bathroom a few minutes ago, the sound of running water muffled by the door. Jack stared at the ceiling, a smile tugging at his lips as he replayed the way she looked down at him--wild and unguarded, like he was the only person in the world that mattered.

His reverie was interrupted by the sharp buzz of her phone on the nighstand. It vibrated again, and again, lighting up the screen with notifications.

Jack hesitated, glancing toward the bathroom door. Don't man. Just leave it.

But the buzzing didn't stop, and before he could talk himself out of it, he reached over, turning the phone toward him. The messages were from a group labeled "Bad Bitches Only," the preview showing snippets of texts that made his brow furrow.

Talia: did you see him tonight?

Carmen: yeah, she's got him wrapped around her finger

Talia: rem is a mastermind. her dad's gonna lose it when he finds out

The words hit Jack like a slap to the face. He knew he shouldn't--but his curiosity was like an itch he couldn't ignore.

His thumb hovered over the screen, and then he guessed. Her passcode was simple--her birthday. His pulse quickened when the phone unlocked, revealing the full thread.

Talia: how's it feel to be breaking all daddy's rules?

Remi: better than i thought. he has noooo idea

Carmen: does jack know you're just using him or does he actually think you're like into him?

Remi: oh, he thinks it's real. poor guy's falling HARD

Talia: and when phil finds out?

Remi: that's the best part. let him stew

His chest felt like it had caved in, the air sucked from the room. The words blurred, but their meaning was crystal clear.

The bathroom door opened, and Remi walked out, wrapped in a towel, her damp hair framing her face. She stopped short when she saw him sitting up on the bed, her phone clutched in his hand.

"What are you doing with my phone?" she asked, her tone sharp, but there was a flicker of something else--panic--in her eyes.

Jack stood, his grip on the device tightening as he turned to face her. "What the hell is this, Remi?" His voice was low, dangerously quiet.

"What are you talking about?"

"This," he snapped, holding up the phone. "This whole... game you're playing. Using me to get back at your dad? To prove some point? Is that what all this was?"

Her eyes widened, and she stepped forward, hands raised. "Jack, it's not like that--"

"Don't," he interrupted, his voice cracking. "Don't even try to lie. I read the messages."

Remi's mouth opened, then closed like a fish, her face pale. "You shouldn't have done that," her voice trembled.

Jack let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "That's what you're worried about? That I invaded your privacy? Jesus Christ, Remi. I thought you actually cared about me."

"I do!" she blurted out. "Jack, I--"

"Don't," he cut her off again, backing away. "You don't get to say that. Not after this."

She reached for him, but he jerked his arm away. "Jack, please. Just let me explain."

"Explain what?" he snapped, his eyes blazing. "How you pretended to give a shit about me? How every kiss, every touch, was part of some sick plan to piss off your dad? Do you even know what you've done? How I--" His voice broke, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair.

"Jack," she whispered, her voice thick with desperation. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Bullshit," he spat, spinning to face her. "That's all this was. Hurting me, hurting him. None of it was real, was it?"

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. The truth was written all over her face.

Jack exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. He tossed the phone onto the bed and grabbed his shirt, pulling it on with shaking hands. "You know what? You're just like him."

Her breath hitched. "What?"

"You manipulate people to get what you want," he said, his voice hollow. "You don't care about anyone but yourself."

Remi flinched like he'd slapped her, her eyes glassy. "That's not fair."

Jack's jaw clenched, but he didn't reply. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door, his steps heavy with anger and heartbreak.

"Jack, wait!" she called, her voice breaking. "Please, just--"

The door slammed behind him, cutting her off. The sound echoed through the silence, leaving Remi standing in the middle of her room, her chest heaving as tears spilled down her cheeks.

For the first time, the weight of what she'd done hit her with full force. She sank onto the bed, staring at her phone like it was a bomb that had just gone off.

~~

The silence in the room was deafening. Remi sat on the edge of her bed, her legs curled up to her chest as she stared at her phone lying on the crumpled sheets. The screen was dark, but the words Jack had read were burned into her mind. Her chest felt hollow, her breath shallow as her thoughts raced, tears spilling from her eyes.

I thought you actually cared about me.

His voice haunted her, raw and broken, the weight of his anger hitting her like a punch to the gut. She wrapped her arms around herself, the sting of his words cutting deeper and deeper. For someone who'd always prided herself on control, on being untouchable, she felt exposed--like every carefully constructed wall she'd built had come crashing down in an instant.

Her phone buzzed on the bed beside her, and she grabbed it, hoping--praying--it was Jack. But it was just a text from Talia.

Talia: what happened? you okay??

Remi's fingers hovered over the keyboard, but she couldn't bring herself to reply. Instead, she set the phone down again, her gaze drifting to the messy sheets, the imprint of where Jack had been laying not even half an hour before. She reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric, and a fresh wave of regret crashed over her.

None of it was real, was it?

The question hung in her mind, heavy and suffocating. And for the first time, she realized the answer wasn't as simple as she'd thought. At first, she'd convinced herself it was all part of the plan--a way to rebel, to defy her dad in the most calculated way possible. But somewhere along the line, something had shifted.

Her favourite moments with Jack began playing in her mind, uninvited.

They'd sprawled on the floor of his apartment, the faint haze of smoke curling in the air between them. Jack had been tracing patterns on the rug with his finger, his voice soft as he opened up about his fears--about letting people down, about never living up to expectations.

"You know," he'd said, glancing at her with a shy smile, "I don't think I've ever been this honest with anyone before."

Her chest had tightened at the vulnerability in his voice. "Maybe that's because you don't let people in."

He'd laughed, shaking his head. "And yet, here I am. Letting you in."

At the time, she'd brushed it off, teasing him about being sappy. But now the memory hit her differently, the weight of his trust making her throat feel raw.

Jack had taken her to a quiet overlook just outside the city, the twinkling lights stretching out before them like a sea of stars. He'd sat beside her on the hood of his car, their shoulders touching as they took in the scene in front of them.

"This is where I go when I need to clear my head," he'd said, his voice low. "Figured you might like it."

She'd turned to look at him, surprised by his soft expression. "Why'd you bring me here?"

He'd shrugged, but his eyes had been earnest. "Because you're different. You get me."

Then, she'd smiled, but now the memory felt bittersweet. You're different. His words had meant something then--something she'd ignored.

She'd always loved the way he looked at her, like she was the only person in the room. Whether they were stealing kisses in a quiet corner, or sharing laughs over takeout, his gaze had been steady, warm, and full of something she hadn't wanted to name.

But now, as she replayed those moments, she realized what it was. He'd looked at her like he loved her.

And the truth hit her like a freight train: She'd fallen for him, too.

She sucked in a shaky breath, pressing her palms to her eyes as tears spilled over. How had she let it get this far? How had she been so blind? The very thing she'd been trying to avoid--caring too much, being vulnerable--had happened anyway. And now she'd lost him.

The regret sat on her chest, suffocating her. She grabbed her phone, unlocking it with trembling hands, and opened her messages.

jack, i'm so sorry. please, let me explain

She stared at the screen, the cursor blinking accusingly. She hit send, her heart pounding, and followed it with another.

i never meant to hurt you. you mean more to me than you know

The texts went unanswered. She tried again, dialing his number. It rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

"Jack," she said, her voice cracking as she struggled to hold back tears. "Please. Just... call me back. I know I screwed up, but I need you to know that I--" She stopped, biting her lip to keep from sobbing. "I care about you. I care about you so much, and I-- I'm sorry. I'll explain everything. Just... please."

She ended the call, staring at the screen like it might magically light up with a reply. But nothing came.

The days passed into agonizing silence. Jack didn't respond to her texts or her voicemails, and each unanswered message felt like another nail in the coffin.

She barely slept, barely ate, her mind consumed with guilt and the aching emptiness he'd left behind. Her friends' attempts to cheer her up fell flat, and even her usual rebellious streak lost its spark.

She felt truly alone.

~~

Jack didn't feel like himself. Not on the ice, not in the locker room, not even at home.

The hurt and anger churned inside him like a storm he couldn't shake. He'd barely slept since the night at Remi's, and when he did, he woke up angry all over again. Her words, her actions, her texts--they played on a loop in his mind, taunting him.

You don't care about anyone but yourself.

His own voice echoed in his head, laced with the same bitterness that had been clawing at him ever since he stormed out of her room. He hated that he'd said it. But more than that, he hated that she'd made him feel that way.

The buzzer sounded, snapping him back to the present. He was at practice, the familiar hum of the arena doing little to calm the chaos in his mind. Jack skated hard, pushing himself past the point of exhaustion, but the frustration remained, clawing at him like a weight he couldn't shake.

During a drill, he lost the puck to Nico, who darted past him with ease. Normally, Jack would've shrugged it off, but today it felt like salt in the wound. He slammed his stick against the boards, muttering a curse loud enough for Nico to glance back in confusion.

"You good, man?" Nico skated closer.

Jack waved him off, not trusting himself to answer. The rest of practice passed in a blur of misplaced passes and uncharacteristic mistakes. He felt every set of eyes on him, but he didn't care.

~~

By the time the puck dropped for their next game, Jack's head was still far from clear. His anger simmered just beneath the surface, ready to boil over.

He started the game strong, channeling his frustration into speed and aggression. But as the minutes ticked by, his emotions got the better of him.

A harmless shove from an opposing player turned into a cross-check, earning him two minutes in the box.

When he returned to the ice, it happened again--a poorly timed hit that left his teammates scrambling to recover. This time, the refs weren't as forgiving.

"Two for boarding!" the ref barked, gesturing him off the ice.

Jack skated to the penalty box, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Luke caught his eye from the bench, his expression confused and concerned.

The final straw came in the third period. An opponent chirped him during a faceoff, something innocuous, but it set Jack off. Before he knew it, he was swinging, his gloves hitting the ice as he grabbed the guy by his jersey.

The refs blew the whistle, chaos breaking out around them. Jack barely felt the punches before they were pulling him away, ejecting him from the game.

~~

He sat alone in the locker room, his head in his hands. His knuckles throbbed, his chest heaving as he replayed the fight in his mind.

The door swung open, and Luke stepped in, his skates still on, his eyebrows furrowed.

"What the hell was that, Jack?" Luke demanded, dropping onto the bench across from him.

"Not now, Luke," Jack muttered, not looking up.

"No, now," Luke snapped, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "What's going on with you? You're acting like a complete idiot out there. First penalities, now getting tossed from a game? You're better than this."

Jack's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.

"Talk to me, Jack. Is it about Remi?"

The mention of her name felt like another insult to injury. Jack's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "Stay out of it, Luke."

"Jack--"

"I said stay out of it!" Jack barked, slamming his fist against the bench. The sound echoed through the room, but Luke didn't flinch.

"I'll take that as a yes," Luke said quietly. "What happened?"

Jack stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. "Nothing. Just drop it."

"You're full of shit," Luke shot back, standing now too. "You haven't been yourself for like a week now. You're angry all the time, you're screwing up on the ice, and you can't even look me in the eye."

"Luke--"

"And you know what else?" the youngest Hughes interrupted. "I haven't seen her around the rink lately. She used to be here all the time, hanging out, waiting for you. But now? Nothing. So either you tell me what's going on, or I'm going to have to go Phil and tell him about whatever the hell's been going on between you two."

Jack froze. "You wouldn't."

"Try," Luke said, crossing his arms. "I'm not gonna let you self-destruct over some girl. So tell me the truth."

Jack exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the weight of Luke's words settle over him. Finally, he sank back onto the bench, his head in his hands.

"She was using me," he said quietly, his voice strained. "It was all some stupid plan to piss off Phil. I was just a pawn."

"Jack..."

"I thought she cared about me," Jack continued, his voice breaking. "But it was all fake. Every kiss, every--" He stopped, shaking his head. "God, I'm so fucking stupid."

"You're not stupid," Luke said firmly, getting up to sit beside him. "You just... cared about the wrong person."

Jack laughed bitterly. "Yeah. Well, it doesn't matter now."

Luke placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You don't have to deal with this alone, you know. Whatever happens, I've got your back."

Jack nodded, though the ache in his chest remained.

~~

Every word that Remi texted Jack felt inadequate, like she was trying to patch up a sinking ship with duct tape. She knew she'd screwed up--more than screwed up. She'd hurt someone who didn't deserve it, someone who'd been nothing but good to her.

Her dad was downstairs on the phone, talking loudly about hockey. Probably complaining about something that had happened at the game that night. She hated hearing him talk about hockey even more now--it just made her think of Jack.

She opened her phone, scrolling through Instagram for any content that could help distract her. But it was useless, the Devils account was the first one that came up. It was a picture of the guys hugging after the win. She clicked on the comments and her heart stopped.

Jack had been ejected from the game. She had to find the clip. She turned to Twitter, scrolling until she found it. She watched as he started a pointless fight, throwing his gloves to the ice. The refs blew the whistle and a beyond pissed Jack was escorted off the ice.

"Damn it, Jack," she whispered, wiping the single tear that had fallen onto her phone screen.

~~

"Remi, you have to stop," Talia said through the phone, sitting criss-cross on her bed.

"I can't," Remi replied, pacing her room. "I can't just leave it like this. He--he means too much to me."

"Does he, though?" Talia raised a brow. "Because last time I checked, this was all about pissing your dad off."

Remi stopped, turning to glare at her friend through the screen. "That's how it started. It's not what it is now."

"Really?" Talia challenged, crossing her arms. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're just upset because you got caught."

"That's not true," Remi snapped, her voice rising. "You don't understand. He's--" She stopped, pulling at the roots of her hair. "I care about him, Talia. I--"

"You what?" Talia interrupted, her eyes wide.

Remi hesitated. The words felt too big, too raw, but they were there, clawing their way out.

"I love him," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

Talia just blinked, her mouth falling open.

"I didn't mean to," Remi continued, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "But I do. And now he hates me, and it's all my fault."

"Ugh, girl. I wish I could give you the biggest hug... but you really screwed this up, huh?"

"Yeah. Big time."

~~

She stood outside the apartment door, her hands trembling as she knocked. She'd rehearsed what she was going to say with Talia at least a dozen times, but now, standing there, her chest felt tight and her mind went blank.

It had been two weeks since she'd seen Jack, and the silence had been unbearable. She couldn't take it anymore. She had to talk to him, even if it meant facing his anger head-on.

The door opened after a few moments, and Luke appeared, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to immediate hostility when he saw her.

"Hell no," Luke said, his tone flat and unwavering. "He doesn't want to see you."

"Luke, please," Remi begged. "I just need five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

"No," Luke said firmly, stepping back like he intended to close the door in her face. "You've done enough. Go home, Remi."

"What's going on?" Jack's voice came from inside the apartment, faint but growing louder as he approached.

"It's nobody," Luke called back, throwing a glare in the girl's direction. "They've got the wrong place."

Remi's heart sank, but before she could say anything, Jack appeared behind his brother, his brow furrowing as he looked past Luke.

The moment their eyes met, Jack's face hardened, his jaw clenching. "You've got be fucking kidding me," he muttered, stepping past Luke to block the doorway.

"Jack," Remi said, her voice trembling. "Please. Just let me explain. I need to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about," Jack replied coldly, crossing his arms. "You made it pretty clear how you feel."

"Jack, come on," Luke interjected, his tone softer but still protective. "You don't have to do this."

Jack held up a hand to silence his brother, his eyes never leaving Remi's. "What could you possibly have to say that I'd want to hear?"

She swallowed hard, shrinking under the weight of his anger. "I know I hurt you," she said quietly. "I know I screwed up. But I need you to hear me out. Please."

Jack stared at her for what felt like hours, his expression unreadable. Finally, he stepped back, his voice sharp as he turned to Luke. "It's fine. I've got this."

Luke hesitated, his face screwing up as he looked between the two of them. "I'll be in my room," he said finally, walking off but not before shooting Remi one more death stare.

Jack stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound impossibly loud in the heavy silence that followed.

He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter with a posture that screamed frustration. "You've got five minutes," he said curtly.

Remi took a deep breath, searching her head to find the right words. "I don't even know where to start," she admitted, her voice shaking.

Jack let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "That's a great sign."

"Jack, please," she said. "I know I don't deserve it, but you have to know that I never meant for things to end up like this."

He raised an eyebrow, his anger simmering just below the surface. "Oh, so you accidentally used me to piss off your dad? Is that what you're saying?"

Remi winced. "That's how it started. But it's not what it became. I swear to you, Jack, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Didn't mean to?" he repeated. "Do you even hear yourself? You played me, Remi. You lied to me, over and over again. And for what? To prove a point?"

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You're right. I lied. I was selfish. I was awful. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about my dad and started being about you."

Jack scoffed, turning away from her. "Yeah? And when exactly did that happen? Before or after you told your friends I was just a pawn?"

"I don't know!" she cried. "I don't know when it happened. But it did, Jack. I care about you. I--" She stopped, her throat closing up. "I love you."

Jack froze, his back still turned to her. The silence that followed was deafening, and Remi's chest heaved as she took deep breaths to calm herself.

"You don't get to say that," Jack said finally, his voice low and filled with pain. He turned to face her, his eyes now also glossy. "You don't get to use me, break me, then tell me you love me like it makes it all okay."

Remi took a shaky step forward, her hands clasped like she was begging. "I know it doesn't fix anything," she said. "But it's the truth. I love you, Jack. And I'll do whatever it takes to make this right."

He stared at her, his jaw ticking as he tried to process her words. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

"I can't do this right now."

Remi's heart sank, but she nodded, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Jack turned away again, walking toward the hallway without another word. She stod there for a moment, her chest heaving with sobs, before letting herself out.

She'd said what she needed to say, but the bottomless pit in her stomach told her that it wasn't enough.

~~

Remi felt like she was at a school dance with the glittering lights, clinking glasses, and people huddled in groups. Players mingled with donors and fans, their tuxedos adding to the air of sosphistication surrounding the event. Remi stood near the edge of the room, her strapless black dress hugging her figure perfectly. She'd only come because her dad had insisted--demanded, really--after their most recent fight.

"Try not to embarrass me for once," he said, his words like a harsh slap.

So, there she was, a forced smile on her face, a flute of champagne in her hand. She didn't bother hiding her trips to the bar. No one noticed, and even if they did, they wouldn't dare say anything to Phil Bouchard's daughter.

The alcohol warmed her from the inside out, dulling the sharpness of her dad's disapproval. But even with the champagne flowing, she couldn't stop her gaze from darting across the room, searching for him.

She spotted Jack near the far corner, his dark suit fitting him perfectly, his tie slightly loosened as he laughed at something Nico said. Her chest tightened at the sight of him, her fingers gripping the stem of her glass.

She should leave him alone. But the pull was magnetic.

Jack noticed her before she reached him, his smile fading as their eyes met. His posture stiffened, but he didn't move, watching as she approached.

"Hey," she said softly, stopping a few feet away.

"Hey," he replied, his voice guarded.

"What are you drinking?" she gestured to his glass.

"Does it matter?" He looked down at the whiskey in his hand.

Remi winced at the edge in his tone but pressed on. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Yeah, well," he said, looking at her champagne flute, "I work for the team. I didn't know you'd be here."

She swallowed hard, her confidence faltering under his cool demeanor. But then she noticed the slight flush on his cheeks, the faint glassiness in his eyes. He wasn't completely sober either.

"I miss you," she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Jack's grip on his glass visibly tightened. "Don't."

"I mean it," she insisted. "Jack, I--"

"I'm serious, Remi," he interrupted. "You don't get to prance over here, say you miss me, and expect everything to be okay."

Her chest ached, but the alcohol flowing through her veins made her bold. "I don't expect everything to be okay," she said. "I just--I needed to see you."

Jack sighed. "You think a few words are gonna fix what you did? We've already had this conversation. You think I'm just gonna forget--"

"I love you."

He stared at her, his lips pursed, letting her words hang in the air.

"Say something," she whispered.

Jack shook his head. "You're impossible."

And then he looked around to make sure nobody was watching... and he kissed her.

Their kiss was fiery, weeks of unresolved tension compressed into a single moment. Jack's hands gripped her waist, pulling her tight against him as she squeezed his forearms.

"Come with me," he mumbled against her lips, his voice rough.

The stumbled down a hallway, their steps hurried and uneven. Jack pushed open the door to the bathroom, pulling her inside before locking it behind them.

"Jack," she breathed, her back hitting the counter as his lips found her neck.

"Shut up," he muttered, hands roaming her body as he tried to make up for lost time.

Her dress slipped down her body, his pants hitting the floor as their kisses grew more frantic. All the hurt, all the anger, dissolved into urgency, their bodies together as if they'd been starved of each other.

~~

Remi woke up in her room, her head pounding from the champagne. She sat up, memories of the night flooding back in vivid detail. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of her bathroom rendezvous with Jack. She reached for her phone, and there was already a text waiting for her.

Jack: We need to talk. Call me when you're up

He'd never been one for small talk, and the tone of his text felt heavy, deliberate.

Her fingers hovered over the call button. He answered after two rings.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"About last night--"

"We need to have a serious conversation," he cut her off.

"Oh, um, okay."

"Is your dad home this afternoon? I'll come by later." Before she could even respond, the line went dead.

Whatever Jack had to say, she knew it wasn't going to be easy.

~~

Remi sat on the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. Jack had said he'd come by, and now every passing second felt like an eternity. Her mind raced with what he might say. As soon as there was a knock at the door, she bolted up, straightening her shirt as she walked to the door.

Jack was standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweats, his expression serious. He walked past her into the living room, standing near the coffee table, his posture tense.

"About last night... I'm sorry if--"

"Don't," Jack held up his hand. "Don't start with sorry. I've heard that before."

Remi flinched, but she nodded. "Okay. Then... what do you want to say?"

"Last night... it happened so fast. And I don't regret it. But we can't just go back to how things were."

"I don't want that either. I want to fix this. Fix us."

Jack's eyes flashed with hope, but he kept his tone firm. "If we're going to do this, things have to change, Remi. You have to change."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do. This isn't just about what happened. It's about everything. The games, the rebellion, the lying. You can't keep doing things just to piss off your dad or to prove a point."

Remi opened her mouth to respond, but he kept going. "Do you even know what that did to me? Knowing I was just some pawn in whatever battle you're fighting with him?"

"That's not what you are to me. Not anymore."

"Then prove it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean show me that you're serious. Show me that this isn't another game for you. Because I can't go through this again, Remi. I can't keep wondering if I'm enough or if you're just going to throw me under the bus when it's convenient."

Her chest ached at the pain in his voice, the vulnerability he was letting her see. "I'll do whatever it takes, Jack. I swear."

"Then start with being honest. Not just with me, but with your dad. Stop sneaking around, stop playing these games. If you want this to work, it has to be real--all of it."

The idea of facing her dad, of owning up to everything, sent a jolt of fear through her. But as she stared at the man she loved, the weight of his words sank in. If she didn't do this--if she didn't prove she was serious--she'd lose him for good.

"Okay... I'll tell him."

"And no more lies," he added. "No more excuses. If I'm in this, I need to know that you are too."

"I am. Jack, I am."

"Then we'll see."

Remi nodded, tears streaking her cheeks. "I'll prove it to you. I promise."

For the first time since he'd walked in, Jack smiled. "You better."

As he turned to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back at her. "One step at a time, Remi. We'll figure it out."

~~

Phil sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in hand as he scrolled through his tablet, his posture rigid as ever. Remi stood in the doorway, her palms clammy as she steeled herself. Her nerves felt like they were on fire, her hands shaking.

"Dad."

"Hm?"

"Dad."

"What is it, Remi?"

She took a deep breath, gripping the back of a chair for support. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to actually listen to me."

He frowned, setting down his tablet. "Go on."

"I'm seeing someone. And before you say anything, I know you're going to be mad, but--"

"Who?" Phil interrupted.

She hesitated, but there was no point in lying. "Jack."

Phil gripped his mug so tightly that Remi thought it might crack from the pressure. "Jack who?"

"You know who."

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You're joking."

"I'm not!" she stood up straight. "I love him."

"Love him? You've lost your goddamn mind, Remi. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I haven't done anything wrong," she retorted. "I'm not a kid, Dad. You don't get to control who I have feelings for."

"This isn't about control," he began to pace the kitchen. "This is about respect--something you clearly don't have for me or my job."

"This has nothing to do with your job!" she threw her hands up.

"It has everything to do with my job!" Phil barked, slamming his hand down on the table. "I trusted Jack. I treated him like a professional, and he goes behind my back to... to--"

"To care about your daughter? Yeah, real betrayal there."

Phil pointed a finger at her, his voice deadly calm now. "This ends today. You're done seeing him."

"You can't stop me," she said defiantly, though her voice wavered.

"Watch me. You're banned from games, practices, and anything to do with this team. And Jack--he's going to learn what happens when you cross a line."

Her stomach dropped. "You can't punish him for this," she panicked.

"Like hell I can't! If he wants to act like an amateur, he can work twice as hard to prove he still deserves his spot."

Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You're being unfair."

"I'm being a father. And you're too young to understand what that means."

"I'm not a child," she whispered.

"Then stop acting like one."

~~

True to his word, Phil enforced his ban swiftly. The next morning, security at the rink had a list with her name on it, and when she tried to text Jack about meeting him after practice, he replied curtly.

Jack: Can't

Remi: why not? :(

Jack: Your dad's got us running drills nonstop. I'm wiped

Remi: i'm sorry, j. this is all my fault

The three little bubbles appeared, then disappeared. No reply came.

Remi felt trapped, helpless. Her dad's wrath was affecting not just, but Jack as well. And that hurt almost as much as not being able to see him.

~~

Jack stood on the ice, his legs burning as Phil barked orders from the bench. It was their third round of line rushes, and he wasn't sure he had it in him to finish.

"Move faster, Hughes!" Phil yelled. "You think you're tired? You think the other team's gonna care? Again!"

Jack bit down hard on his tongue, forcing his body to keep moving. He could feel his teammates' eyes on him, some confused, others sympathetic. But none of them dared to ask what was happening.

"Want to tell me what that was about?" Luke asked, collapsing onto the bench next to his brother.

Jack shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. Why's Phil riding you harder than anyone else? What's going on?"

Jack didn't answer, staring at his shaking hands.

"It's about her, isn't it?"

Jack still didn't speak.

"Jack, I get it. You really like her. She's stunning and super sweet. But this thing with her and Phil? It's a disaster waiting to happen."

"You think I don't know that?" Jack snapped, finally looking up at him. "You think I'm not already dealing with it?"

Luke held up his hands in surrender. "Alright. Just... don't let him break you over her, okay?"

Silence.

~~

Phil had always been a disciplinarian, but lately, his need to control his daughter felt suffocating. She felt it in the way he scrutinized her every move, every conversation.

The final straw came one evening when he caught her lingering outside the rink after practice, talking to Luke.

"Hand it over," he demanded when they arrived home, his hand outstretched.

Remi frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Your phone. I'm not an idiot, Remi. You think I don't know you're still talking to him? You're done. Give it to me."

"Dad, this is ridiculous--"

"Now!"

Reluctantly, she handed him her phone, her stomach sinking as he walked away with it.

~~

Deprived of her usual means of communication, Remi turned to one of the few people who could help her: Luke.

It started with a simple note slipped into his car window, written hastily on a scrap of notebook paper.

Luke,

Please get this to Jack. I need him to know I'm not ghosting him.

Luke, initially hesitant, agreed after some convincing from Jack, who pleaded with his younger brother to help them stay in touch.

From then on, he became their unofficial carrier pigeon.

He delivered folded notes in his hockey bag. He passed them off casually after practice, muttering "You dropped this" to avoid suspicion. Once, he even hid a letter in a water bottle, smuggling it onto the bench during a game.

The notes became their lifeline, filled with promises, apologies, and small updates:

Remi, I miss you. Today was brutal. Your dad's riding me harder than ever, but thinking about your little notes makes it bearable.

Jack, I miss you too. I wish I could be there to make things easier. This is such bullshit.

~~

One evening, Phil barged into Remi's room unannounced, his expression stormy. "Why've you been talking to Luke?"

She barely had time to react before he noticed the small stack of papers peeking out from beneath her pillow.

"What's this?" he snatched them before she could stop him.

"Dad, don't--"

But it was too late. His face turned bright red as he read the letters, steam practically coming from his ears.

"Unbelievable! You've been sneaking around still! And using one of my other players to do it? Do you have any idea how fucking stupid this is?"

"It's not stupid! I care about him."

He held up one of the letters. "You care about him? Enough to sleep with him, apparently."

Her face flushed, her heart pounding.

"You didn't think I'd find out? I continue to give Jack a shot because I thought he had potential. That he's professional. Turns out, he's just as reckless as you are!"

~~

The next practice was brutal. Jack knew something was wrong the moment he stepped onto the ice. Phil barely looked at him, but his commands were clipped, his critiques harsher than ever.

When the starting lineup was announced, Jack's name was glaringly absent.

"Coach," he said after practice, jogging to catch up with Phil in the hallway. "What's going on? Why am I not playing?"

Phil turned to him, his expression cold. "Disciplinary reasons," he said like it was the simplest thing ever.

"I... I haven't done anything wrong."

"Oh, haven't you? I trusted you, Jack. You're an alternate captain. I'm here to help you, and this is how you repay me? By crosing every line I've set?"

"With all due respect, sir, my personal life doesn't affect my performance on the ice."

"It does when it distracts you and causes chaos within the team. You're lucky I haven't gone to the GM."

~~

That night, Remi was lying in her bed, when a faint tapping sound drew her attention. She frowned, pulling off her warm covers and walking to the window.

Jack was standing in the backyard, his hands cupped around his mouth. "Remi!" he hissed.

Her heart leapt to her throat, and she quickly opened the window. "What are you doing here?"

"Let me in," he said, gesturing toward the tree by her window.

She hesitated for a second before nodding. Jack climbed up with surprising ease, swinging himself onto the ledge before stepping into her room.

He was breathless, his hair a mess. "Your dad's lost his fucking mind. He's cutting my ice time, and he's blaming me for everything."

"Jack, I'm so sorry--"

"I don't care about me," his eyes searched hers. "I care about us. I don't know how much longer I can do this, Rem. He's making my life a living hell."

"We'll figure it out. I promise."

"Remi! Is there someone in there?"

She froze, the voice coming from the other side of her bedroom door, heavy with suspicion.

"Remi?" he asked again. "What's going on in there?"

"Under the bed," she whispered urgently, shoving him toward the narrow space.

"Seriously?" he hissed, his voice incredulous.

"Do you have a better idea?" she asked, already grabbing the edge of the duvet to shield the gap.

Jack didn't argue any further, dropping to his knees and sliding under the bed just as her doorknob jiggled.

The door creaked open, and her dad did a quick sweep of the room. "What's going on in here? Is everything okay?"

"Nothing," her voice was too quick, too high-pitched. "Why are you even in here?"

"I... I thought I heard voices."

"From the TV," she nodded to her laptop on her bed, where Netflix played quietly. She gestured toward it dramatically. "See? I couldn't sleep, so I turned something on."

Phil pulled her into a hug, smoothing down her messy bed hair. "You've been sneaking around, Remi. If you're hiding something--"

She pulled away. "I'm not. I'm trying to relax. You can't just barge in every time you get paranoid."

"Keep it down," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "And don't test me, kid. You're already on thin, thin ice."

The moment his footsteps retreated back down the hallway, she bent down to lift the duvet.

"Jack," she whispered. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, sliding out from under the bed. His face was flushed and his hair even messier than before. "That was fun."

She giggled. "Sorry, babe."

"You're good under pressure, I'll give you that."

"Not bad yourself," she scrunched up her face as he pressed a kiss to her nose.

"So..."

"What do we do next? Run away? Get me a burner phone and live off the grid?"

Jack laughed despite himself. "I don't know. I just... I'm not gonna lose you, Rem."

"You won't. I love you, Jack."

"I love you more."

"We've got this."

"I hope you're right."

~~

Another fight with Phil had left Remi rattled, and she'd stormed out of the house to clear her head. A walk through the neigbourhood usually helped, but the slippery sidewalk--coated with frost--proved to be dangerous when walking as fast as she was.

Her foot slipped from under her as she turned the corner, her arms flailing as she tried to keep her balance. Instead, she went down hard, her ankle twisting painfully beneath her as she hit the pavement.

"Shit," she hissed, clutching her leg. The sharp, stabbing pain told her something was wrong, and she felt like puking at the sight of her already swelling ankle.

She fumbled for her phone, but of course, it wasn't there. Her dad still had it, leaving her with no way to call for help.

The sound of a car engine approaching made her look up, and relief flooded her when she recognized Jack's car pulling to a stop.

"Remi?" his face screwed up as he cut the engine.

"Jack," she gasped, tears falling as he crouched beside her.

"What happened?" he asked, examining her ankle.

"I slipped. I think it's sprained? I'm... I'm not really sure."

Jack didn't hesitate. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her effortlessly. "I've got you, baby."

He stayed by her side the entire time, his hand never leaving hers as they waited for a doctor in the ER. He helped fill out paperwork, fetched water when she needed it, and even cracked a few horrible jokes to distract her from the pain.

When the doctor confirmed it was a pretty bad sprain, Jack insisted on picking up her medication and made sure she had crutches before they left. By the time they got back to her house, night had fallen. He helped her inside, careful with every step as he guided her to the couch.

"You don't have to say," she mumbled sleepily, though she didn't mean it.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replied firmly, adjusting the ice pack on her foot.

Their peace was broken by the door slamming shut. Phil's heavy footsteps entered the living room, his face scrunched up as soon as he saw Jack sitting there.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Remi winced, trying to push herself up straighter. "Dad, I--"

"You have some nerve," Phil snapped, his glare fixed on Jack. "I told you to stay away from her."

Jack stood, hands clenched at his sides. "She was hurt. She needed help."

"And that gave you the right to defy me? You've disrespected me and the team time and time again, Hughes."

"Dad, stop! He didn't do anything wrong! I fell, and he was there. If it wasn't for Jack, I'd probably still be sitting on the sidewalk."

Phil's gaze flickered to her, his face softening slightly, before he turned back to Jack. "You're off the team. Effective immediately."

"Dad, no!"

"Wait. You can bench me, cut my ice time, try to kick me off the team... but that's not going to change how I feel about her."

Phil narrowed his eyes, but Jack didn't falter.

"I care about her. More than anything. And I know you hate this, but I'm not going to walk away just because it's inconvenient for you. I love her too much for that."

Phil sighed, running a hand over his face. "You're not going anywhere tonight."

Jack blinked, caught completely off guard. "Sir?"

"She's injured," he said gruffly. "Someone has to keep an eye on her. You're already here--might as well make yourself useful."

"Dad--"

"I'm not saying I approve," he held up a hand. "But... maybe I've been a bit too harsh."

~~

Jack's days became a balancing act. Mornings were for practices, where he pushed himself harder than ever, determined to prove to Phil--and himself--that he could handle the demands of both his hockey career and his personal life. Evenings were for Remi, where he'd show up at the house with groceries, helping her navigate her life on crutches.

Phi, ever watchful, made his presence known whenever Jack was around.

"Door stays open," he'd said the second night Jack came to help. He leaned against the doorframe, looking between the two young adults. "And no funny business."

"Yes sir," Jack replied, biting back a smile as he helped Remi prop up her injured leg on a pillow.

"And I meant it. No going into the bathroom together, no sneaking around, no--"

"Dad, we get it," Remi rolled her eyes. "We're not thirteen."

Phil shot her a look, but didn't say anything more.

Jack leaned in with a grin. "Well, that went better than expected."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Don't get too comfortable. He's probably listening right now."

Jack chuckled but kept his hands firmly on the heating pad he was adjusting on her ankle.

~~

Phil observed them quietly for the next week or so. One evening, he sat in the living room, pretending to read a book while Jack and Remi played cards at the kitchen table. He glanced up occasionally, watching as they laughed and teased each other, the room filled with an ease he hadn't seen in his daughter in... years.

"Jack," she giggled. "You're terrible at this game."

"I'm letting you win because you're injured," Jack shot back with a smirk.

"Oh please," she scoffed, re-shuffling the deck. "You're just bad."

Phil watched as Jack leaned in, whispering something that made Remi burst into laughter, her cheeks glowing.

It hit him then--how much Jack truly scared for her. The way he looked at her, like she was the most important thing in the room. The way he balanced his career and her injury without a single complaint. The way Remi never stopped smiling around him.

He sighed, setting down his book. "Jack," he called, drawing their attention.

"Yes, sir?"

Phil cleared his throat, the words getting stuck halfway. "You... you've been good to her."

Jack's eyes widened, but he nodded. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't make me regret saying that."

His acceptance just grew from there, marked by small moments of trust and understanding. Though he kept his rules in place--like the open door policy and no PDA--he began to soften, joining them for dinner occasionally or offering Jack advice after games.

One day, after a particularly good win, Phil even clapped Jack on the back, a rare gesture of approval. "You played well out there," he said, his tone almost warm.

Jack grinned. "Thanks, Coach."

And while it wasn't a happily-ever-after, it was a start.

[max1461]

I think that the average internet Marxist is actually not much of a materialist at all, in fact in their behavior and rhetoric they seem very concerned with moral purity, the redemptive power of suffering, and the ability of narrative to shape the actual world. As myriad as the senses of the word "materialist" have come to be, none of this would seem to comport well with any of them. This all feels very Christian.

In some cases I really do think there is a latent Christianity in it, but I think the stronger source of this trend is simply the leftist emphasis on sloganeering. Somewhere along the line, maybe with the Bolshevik policy of democratic centralism or maybe somewhere else, the importance of the slogan, the party line, the supreme power of the speech act seems to have been elevated for many leftists above all other concerns. From this follows the kind of disingenuous, obviously fallacious argument you so often see from the online ML left. The point is to say the magic words that have been carefully agreed upon, the magic incantation that will defeat all opposition.

Whether it's "I don't want to vote for a candidate who supports any amount of genocide" or "The Is-not-rael Zionist entity is on the edge of collapse!" or whatever else, a rational person can recognize the impotence of these words. They don't do anything. They're just words. But the feeling seems to be that once the perfect incantation is crafted—the incantation that makes your opponent sound maximally like a Nazi without engaging with their position in good faith, or the incantation which brushes aside all thoughts of defeat, or whatever else—once the perfect incantation is crafted, all that is left to do is say it and say it and say it, and make sure everyone else is saying it too.

This is not a materialist way of approaching politics. This is a mystical way of approaching politics.

I think it's also worth saying that this tendency in Marxism seems old, it certainly predates the internet. Lots of Marxists today are vocal critics of identity politics, of what they see as the liberal, insubstantive, and idealist Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion framework. I share this criticism to a significant degree, but I'm not very eager to let Marxists off the hook here. The modern DEI framework evolved directly out of a liberal/capitalist appropriation of earlier academic ideas about social justice from such sources as Queer Studies, Black Studies, academic Feminism and so on. I say this as a neutral, factual description of its history which I believe to be essentially accurate. In turn, disciplines like Queer Studies, Black Studies, and academic Feminism each owe a great intellectual dept to academic Marxism, and likewise to the social movements of the 1960s (here in the Anglosphere), which themselves were strongly influenced by Marxism.

Obviously as the place of these fields in the academy was cemented, they lost much (most) of their radical character in practice. To a significant degree however, I think their rhetorical or performative radicalism was retained, and was further fostered by the cloistered environment of academia. In this environment the already-extant Marxist tendency to sloganeering seems in my impression to have metastasized greatly. And so I think the political right is not actually wrong, or not wholly wrong, when they attribute the speech-act-centrism of modern American (and therefore, online) politics, its obsession with saying things right above doing things right and its constantly shifting maze of appropriate forms of expression, at least in part to Marxism.

Now I should say that I don't think the right is correct about much else in this critique, and I also don't think this is wholly attributable to Marxism. But I think there's plainly an intellectual dept there.

More than anything else, this is my genuine frustration with both Marxism as it exists today and with its intellectual legacy as a whole. I fundamentally do not believe in the great transformative power of speech acts, I do not believe in the importance of holding the correct line, I do not believe that the specifics of what you say or how you say it matter nearly as much as what you do. I do not think there is much to be gained from playing the kind of language games that Marxists often like to play, and I do not think that playing language games and calling it "materialist analysis" is a very compelling means of argument.

[millyh23]

Lonely Nights Part 1

word count: 1k

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The Arsenal training facility, transformed into a haven of festive cheer for the annual Christmas party, hummed with the soft strains of holiday music. Strings of fairy lights draped over every surface twinkled against the warm, fragrant air, suffused with the scent of pine and mulled wine. Laughter and cheerful exchanges punctuated the room, where teammates and staff mingled, sharing intimate moments with their partners in a tableau of connection and joy.

Y/N stood apart near the drinks table, a glass of sparkling water in hand. Her choice, long removed from alcohol, symbolized the discipline that had carried her to this point—an illustrious career punctuated by Champions League triumphs, Ballon d’Or nominations, and records with Arsenal and her national team. On paper, she was the epitome of success.

Yet, as her gaze drifted across the room, a subtle disquiet settled over her. Katie leaned casually, her arm draped around Caitlin’s shoulders as they laughed at Kyra's story. Leah twirled her girlfriend on an impromptu dance floor, their faces alight with shared delight. Even Lina lingered in a private corner with her wife and kids, their quiet intimacy a stark counterpoint to the festive clamor.

Y/N sipped her water and turned her attention elsewhere, managing a polite smile as Beth waved her over. “Enjoying yourself?” Beth asked as she settled beside her.

“Always,” Y/N replied lightly. “You?”

Beth’s face softened as her gaze drifted to Viv, animated in conversation with Lia. “It’s nice to unwind, especially with Viv leaving. This year’s been… challenging but I'm just glad she's home for a while”

“I’m glad you have her,” Y/N said, her sincerity unblemished by the peculiar ache the sentiment left behind.

Beth’s smile lingered, though her scrutiny deepened. “And you? Anyone special waiting under the mistletoe?” she teased, nudging Y/N with playful insistence.

Y/N’s laugh came easily, but her response betrayed nothing. “Just me, myself, and I.”

Beth’s humor dimmed into faint concern, but before she could probe further, Viv called her over. Y/N waved her away, maintaining her outward cheer as Beth departed. The hollowed quiet that followed left Y/N pondering her solitude.

Relationships, once peripheral, now loomed in sharper relief. She had known fleeting affections, impermanent and inconsequential. Football’s supremacy in her life had obviated deeper bonds, and she had convinced herself that her singular focus sufficed. Yet, surrounded by the tactile, tangible affections of her teammates, the absence of such intimacy struck a discordant note.

Seeking solace, she wandered to the expansive window overlooking the frost-tinged training grounds. Reflected in the glass was the image she had cultivated over years: poised, resolute, and self-sufficient. Yet, in the faint shimmer of unshed tears, she glimpsed a vulnerability that had eluded her reckoning.

The frost-dappled grass outside seemed to mirror her inner state, serene yet cold, beautiful yet devoid of warmth. Memories of her youth surfaced—days spent running drills with unrelenting fervor, nights studying game footage while her peers pursued youthful indiscretions. Every sacrifice had carved her path to greatness, but at what cost? The accolades lining her shelves were mute witnesses to a life devoted to singular ambition, but now, they felt hollow without someone to share in their glory.

“You alright?” Leah’s voice, uncharacteristically subdued, interrupted her reverie.

Y/N turned, her practiced composure quickly restored. “Just needed a moment,” she said, her tone carefully modulated.

Leah joined her at the window, her posture relaxed but her concern evident. “It’s a lot sometimes, isn’t it? All the… togetherness.”

Y/N’s laugh was faintly sardonic. “Not exactly my area of expertise.”

Leah’s expression softened. “You’ve got us, though. Don’t forget that.”

“I know,” Y/N replied quietly. “And I’m grateful. But sometimes it feels like I’ve spent so much time chasing dreams that I’ve forgotten to leave space for anything else.”

Leah remained silent, then offered a gentle nudge with her shoulder. “You’ve got time. And we’ve got faith in you. Maybe this is just the beginning of something new.”

For the first time that evening, Y/N smiled with unguarded warmth. “Maybe.”

The night unfolded with renewed vigor. Y/N allowed herself to be drawn into the festivities, her laughter genuine as she engaged with her teammates. She joined a spirited debate over Christmas trivia, shared a dance with a giggling Beth, and even let Katie convince her to wear a ridiculous Santa hat for a group photo. Yet, as she returned to her quiet flat that evening, the stillness carried an unfamiliar weight. Facing her reflection once more, she resolved to confront the void she had long ignored.

The days that followed saw subtle shifts in Y/N’s demeanor. At training, her focus remained sharp, but there was a new openness in her interactions. She lingered in conversations, laughed more freely, and even joined a team lunch unprompted. Still, the nagging sense of incompleteness lingered.

Two days later, in the locker room after training, the team launched their ambush. Katie, her grin equal parts mischief and determination, crossed her arms as she delivered the proclamation. “Y/N, we’ve decided to set you up on a date.”

“What?” Y/N asked, her incredulity evident.

“You don’t get a say,” Leah interjected, her stance casual but her tone resolute. “We’ve seen you moping, and we’re not having it.”

“I don’t mope,” Y/N protested, her reddening cheeks undermining her argument.

Beth raised an eyebrow, her skepticism plain. “Right. Look, you’ve mastered football, but even the best need someone to share it with. Trust us on this.”

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flickering across the eager, teasing faces of her teammates. Their camaraderie was infectious, their concern genuine. For years, she had prided herself on her independence, but in that moment, she realized that accepting help didn’t diminish her strength—it complemented it.

“You’re relentless.”

Katie smirked triumphantly. “So, that’s a yes?”

After a long pause, Y/N exhaled a resigned sigh. “Fine. One date. But if it’s a disaster, I’m never listening to any of you again.”

The room erupted in cheers, and Katie clapped her hands. “Oh, it won’t be. We’ve got someone perfect in mind.”

As the team dissolved into excited scheming, Y/N couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh. Perhaps relinquishing control, for once, might yield something worthwhile. The prospect of exploring a new chapter, however uncertain, brought an unexpected lightness to her step as she left the locker room, her teammates’ laughter echoing behind her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End of Part 1

[jovialbasementbouquetblr]

1957: Hundred Flowers Criticisms of Party and State, Part II -- Democratic Dictatorship, Centralism, Law...

The Hundred Flowers speaking frank campaign transcripts and summaries of students and faculty of the 888-page Renmin University September 1958 book Selected Rightist Speeches from Institutions of Higher Education published by the Office of Socialist Ideology Education, Communist Party Committee, Renmin University of China 【高等学校右派言論选編 中共中国人民大学委員会社会主义思想敎育办公室】give us the full spectrum of views the…

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Conservatives are fringe outliers - and leftists could learn from them

The Republican Party, a coalition between Big Business farmers and turkeys who’ll vote for Christmas (Red Scare obsessed cowards, apocalyptic white nationalists, religious fanatics, etc) has fallen to its bizarre, violent, noisy radical wing, who are obsessed with policies that are completely irrelevant to the majority of Americans.

As Oliver Willis writes, the views of the radical right — which are also the policies of the GOP — are wildly out of step with the US political view:

https://www.oliverexplains.com/p/conservatives-arent-like-normal-americans

The press likes to frame American politics as “narrowly divided,” but the reality is that Republicans’ electoral victories are due to voter suppression and antimajoritarian institutions (the Senate and Electoral College, etc), not popularity. Democrats consistently outperform the GOP in national races. Dems won majorities in 1992/6, and beat the GOP in 2000, 2008, 2012, 2016 and 2020. The only presidential race the GOP won on popular votes since 1988 was 2004, when GW Bush eked out a plurality (not a majority).

But, as Willis says, Dems “act like it is 1984 and that they are outliers in a nation of Reagan voters,” echoing a stilted media narrative. The GOP’s platform just isn’t popular. Take the groomer panic: 71% of Americans approve of same-sex marriage. The people losing their shit about queer people are a strange, tiny minority.

Every one of the GOP’s tentpole issues is wildly unpopular: expanding access to assault rifles, banning immigration, lowering taxes on the rich, cutting social programs, forcing pregnant people to bear unwanted children, etc. This is true all the way up to the GOP’s coalescing support for Trump as their 2024 candidate. Trump has lost every popular vote he’s ever stood for, and owes his term in the Oval Office to the antimajoritarian Electoral College system, gerrymandering, and massive voter suppression.

Willis correctly points out that Dem leaders are basically “normal” center-right politicians, not radicals. And, unlike their GOP counterparts, politicians like Clinton, Obama and Biden don’t hide their disdain for the radical wing of their party. Even never-Trumper Republicans are afraid of their base. Romney declared himself “severely conservative” and McCain “put scare quotes around ‘health of the mother’ provisions for abortion rights.”

The GOP fringe imposes incredible discipline on their leaders. Take all the nonsense about “woke capitalism”: on the one hand, it’s absurd to call union-busting, tax-dodging, worker-screwing companies “woke” (even if they sell Pride flags for a couple of weeks every year).

But on the other hand? The GOP leadership have actually declared war on the biggest corporations in America, to the point that the WSJ says that “Republicans and Big Business broke up”:

https://www.wsj.com/articles/republicans-corporations-donations-pacs-9b5b202b

But America is a two-party system and there are plenty of people who’ll pull the lever for any Republican. This means that when the GOP comes under the control of its swivel-eyed loon wing, the swivel-eyed loons wield power far beyond the number of people who agree with them.

There’s an important lesson there for Dems, whose establishment is volubly proud of its independence from its voters. The Biden administration is a weirdly perfect illustration of this “independence.” The Biden admin is a kind of referee, doling out policies and appointments to its competing wings, without any coherence or consistency.

That’s how you get incredible appointments like Lina Khan at the FTC and Jonathan Kanter at the DoJ Antitrust Division and Rohit Chopra at the Consumer Finance Protection Bureat — the progressive wing of the party bargained for these key appointments and then played their cards very well, getting incredible, hard-charging, hyper-competent fighters in those roles.

Likewise, Jared Bernstein, finally confirmed as Council of Economic Advisers chair after an interminable wrangle:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2023-06-16-team-biden/

And Julie Su, acting labor secretary, who just delivered a six-year contract to west coast dockworkers with 8–10% raises in the first year, paid retroactively for the year they worked without a contract:

https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/statements-releases/2023/06/14/statement-from-president-biden-on-labor-agreement-at-west-coast-ports/

But the Biden admin’s unwillingness to side with one wing of the party also produces catastrophic failures, like the martyrdom of Gigi Sohn, who was subjected to years of vicious personal attacks while awaiting confirmation to the FCC, undefended by the Biden admin, left to twist in the wind until she gave it up as a bad job:

https://doctorow.medium.com/culture-war-bullshit-stole-your-broadband-4ce1ffb16dc5

It’s how we get key roles filled by do-nothing seatwarmers like Pete Buttigieg, who has the same sweeping powers that Lina Khan is wielding so deftly at the FTC, but who lacks either the will or the skill to wield those same powers at the Department of Transport:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/11/dinah-wont-you-blow/#ecp

By refusing to stand for anything except a fair division of powers among different Democratic Party blocs, the Biden admin ends up undercutting itself. Take right to repair, a centerpiece of the administration’s agenda, subject of a historic executive order and FTC regulation:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

Right to Repair fights have been carried out at the state level for years, with the biggest victory coming in Massachusetts, where an automotive R2R ballot initiative won overwhelming support in 2020:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/11/13/said-no-one-ever/#r2r

But despite the massive support for automotive right to repair in the Bay State, Big Car has managed to delay the implementation of the new law for years, tying up the state in expensive, time-consuming litigation:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/26/nixing-the-fix/#r2r

But eventually, even the most expensive delaying tactic fails. Car manufacturers were set to come under the state right to repair rule this month, but they got a last minute reprieve, from Biden’s own National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, who sent urgent letters to every major car manufacturer, telling them to ignore the Massachusetts repair law:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/m7bbkv/biden-administration-tells-car-companies-to-ignore-right-to-repair-law-people-overwhelmingly-voted-for

The NHTSA repeats the car lobby’s own scare stories about “cybersecurity” that they blitzed to Massachusetts voters in the runup to the ballot initiative:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/03/rip-david-graeber/#rolling-surveillance-platforms

The idea that cybersecurity is best maintained by letting powerful corporations gouge you on service and parts is belied by independent experts, like SecuRepairs, who do important work countering the FUD thrown off by the industry (and parroted by Biden’s NHTSA):

https://securepairs.org/

Independent security experts are clear that letting owners of high-tech devices decide who fixes them, what software they run, etc, makes us safer:

https://www.schneier.com/essays/archives/2022/01/letter-to-the-us-senate-judiciary-committee-on-app-stores.html

But here we are: the Biden admin is sabotaging the Biden admin, because the Biden admin isn’t an administration, it’s a system for ensuring proportional representation of different parts of the Democratic Party coalition.

This isn’t just bad for policy, it’s bad politics, too. It presumes that if some Democratic voters want pizza, and others want hamburgers, that you can please everyone by serving up pizzaburgers. No one wants a pizzaburger:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/23/narrative-warfare/#giridharadas

The failure to deliver a coherent, muscular vision for a climate-ready, anti-Gilded Age America has left the Democrats vulnerable. Because while the radical proposals of the GOP fringe may not enjoy much support, there are large majorities of Americans who have lost faith in the status quo and are totally uninterested in the Pizzaburger Party.

Nowhere is this better explained than in Naomi Klein’s superb long-form article on RFK Jr’s presidential bid in The Guardian:

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/jun/14/ignoring-robert-f-kennedy-jr-not-an-option

Don’t get me wrong, RFK Jr is a Very Bad Politician, for all the reasons that Klein lays out. He’s an anti-vaxxer, a conspiracist, and his support for ending American military aggression, defending human rights, and addressing the climate emergency is laughably thin.

But as Klein points out, RFK Jr is not peddling pizzaburgers. He is tapping into a legitimate rage:

a great many voters are hurting and rightfully angry: about powerful corporations controlling their democracy and profiting off disease and poverty. About endless wars draining national coffers and maiming their kids. About stagnating wages and soaring costs. This is the world — inflamed on every level — that the two-party duopoly has knowingly created.

RFK Jr is campaigning against “the corrupt merger between state and corporate power,” against drug monopolies setting our national health agenda, and polluters capturing environmental regulators.

As Klein says, despite RFK Jr’s willing to say the unsayable, and tap into the yearning among the majority of American voters for something different, he’s not running a campaign rooted in finally telling the American public “the truth.” Rather, “public discourse filled with unsayable and unspeakable subjects is fertile territory for all manner of hucksters positioning themselves as uniquely courageous truth tellers.”

We’ve been here before. Remember Trump campaigning against a “rigged system” and promising to “make America great again?” Remember Clinton’s rejoinder that “America was already great?” It’s hard to imagine a worse response to legitimate outrage — over corporate capture, declining wages and living conditions; and spiraling health, education and shelter costs.

Sure, it was obvious that Trump was a beneficiary of the rigged system, and that he would rig it further, but at least he admitted it was rigged, not “already great.”

The Democratic Party is not in thrall to labor unions, or racial equality activists, or people who care about gender justice or the climate emergency. Unlike the GOP, the Dem establishment has figured out how to keep a grip on power within their own party — at the expense of exercising power in America, even when they hold office.

But unlike culture war nonsense, shared prosperity, fairness, care, and sound environmental policies are very popular in America. Some people have been poisoned against politics altogether and sunk into nihilism, while others have been duped into thinking that America can’t afford to look after its people.

In this regard, winning the American electorate is a macrocosm for the way labor activists win union majorities in the workplaces they organize. In her memoir A Collective Bargain, Jane McAlevey describes how union organizers contend with everything that progressive politicians must overcome. A union drive takes place in the teeth of unfair laws, on a tilted playing field that allows bosses to gerrymander some workers’ votes and suppress others’ altogether. These bosses have far more resources than the workers, and they spend millions on disinformation campaigns, forcing workers to attend long propaganda sessions on pain of dismissal.

https://doctorow.medium.com/a-collective-bargain-a48925f944fe

But despite all this, labor organizers win union elections and strike votes, and they do so with stupendous majorities — 95% or higher. This is how the most important labor victories of our day were won: the 2019 LA teachers’ strike won everything. Not just higher wages, but consellors in schools, mandatory greenspace for every school in LA, an end to ICE shakedowns of immigrant parents at the school-gate, and immigration law help for students and their families. What’s more, the teachers used their unity, their connection to the community, and their numbers to get out the vote in the next election, winning the marginal seats that delivered 2020’s Democratic Congressional majority.

As I wrote in my review of MacAlevey’s book:

For McAlevey, saving America is just a scaled up version of the union organizer’s day-job. First, we fix the corrupt union, firing its sellout leaders and replacing them with fighters. Then, we organize supermajorities, person-to-person, in a methodical, organized fashion. Then we win votes, using those supermajorities to overpower the dirty tricks that rig the elections against us. Then we stay activated, because winning the vote is just the start of the fight.

It’s a far cry from the Democratic Party consultant’s “data-driven” microtargeting strategy based on eking out tiny, fragile majorities with Facebook ads. That’s a strategy that fails in the face of even a small and disorganized voter-suppression campaign — it it’s doomed in today’s all-out assault on fair elections.

What’s more, the consultants’ microtargeting strategy treats people as if the only thing they have to contribute is casting a ballot every couple years. A sleeping electorate will never win the fights that matter — the fight to save our planet, and to abolish billionaires.

If only the Democratic Party was as scared of its base as the Republicans are of their own.

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/16/that-boy-aint-right/#dinos-rinos-and-dunnos

[Image ID: The title page of Richard Hofstadter's 'Paranoid Style in American Politics' from the November, 1964 issue of Harper's Magazine. A John Birch Society pin reading 'This is REPUBLIC not a DEMOCRACY: let's keep it that way' sits atop the page, obscuring the introductory paragraph.]

[sky-scribbles]

You know what I really appreciate about Kaidan's character arc? He gets a story about finding self-acceptance and letting himself let go and feel things - but at the same time, he still gets to be an introvert. He still gets to be, in his words, someone who isn't 'the life of the party, who has a lot of friends'.

I mean - in ME1, Kaidan fully admits to a romanced Shepard that he doesn't feel human. When he killed Vyrnnus, he became someone Rahna was afraid of, someone she saw as dangerous... so he holds himself to nigh-impossible standards. 'You never let yourself lose control,' Shepard tells him. He's very, very indirect in a lot of his conversations with Shep, because he's trying so hard not to be too direct, too forward; he's constantly polite and disciplined and professional because he can't be a problem. He can't let anyone see him as unpredictable or dangerous because that's when they start seeing you as terrifying. That's when people you love look at you like you're not human.

But Shepard can encourage him to let himself feel, and show it - 'I might need to loosen up. A little,' he admits, sheepishly - and when you see him again on Horizon, he lets his feelings be open and messy and a Problem. By ME3, he's completely embracing his nature as a biotic, gleefully letting everyone know at the Citadel party that he can Reave now, joining in with the other biotics roasting James in the 'biotics vs strength' argument. He's accepted himself, he knows his friends accept him, and he's letting himself laugh and drink and dance like a complete dork, and he's grown so much, and yet -

And yet, he's still a fundamentally quiet, self-contained person. Maybe I'm just jaded from all the media where introverted characters get told to loosen up, and then they suddenly realise that they do want to be the life of the party now actually. But Kaidan? Kaidan hangs out in the observation deck, perhaps the quietest part of the Normandy - the same place where Samara spent her time, a place where no other characters are present. (Ashley, in comparison, spends a lot of time hanging out in the bar, where there are constantly other characters around). Kaidan's Citadel hangout with Shepard? He doesn't head out onto the Silversun Strip with you like many of the other characters; his ideal evening is cooking a meal for his friend/partner and having a chill time with the two of you. A lot of the conversations you have with him on board ship are quiet, introspective. His hangout place on the Citadel is a quiet Presidium cafe.

It's just... comforting to me. He grows, but he doesn't have to change who he fundamentally is, y'know? ME3 Kaidan is more confident and sociable and (despite everything) happy than ME1 Kaidan, but he's still a guy who's not fond of too much lights or noise or crowds, who's soft-spoken and sensitive, who gets caught up in his own thoughts sometimes. I just really appreciate that.

[bimboficationblues]

I'm interested in your thesis that liberalism is related to desire for security. To me it seems completely counter-intuitive since conservativism is the primary political ideology that is characterised by desire for rules-based security, and liberalism with its eponymous focus on "freedom" is more of a counter-movement to that. We may have different definitions of liberalism (I'm in Europe) and I haven't read any of the authors you listed, so I dont quite understand where you're coming from. If you'd like to expand on that a bit - especially how you'd place conservativism in that analysis - I'd like to read it. :)

ty for the question it's a helpful one! hopefully I can actually spell out the broad strokes without just starting to write the book. (I'm not sure I can.) this is all preliminary tracings so I welcome comments, questions, criticisms.

let me cut it to the size of a paragraph: my view is that "security," construed broadly, is the implicit or explicit value underlying basically all of liberal political philosophy and statecraft; this claim is fundamentally linked with my reading of liberalism as a form of legalistic, technocratic aristocracy (literally: "rule of the best"), which wears the skin of democracy as long as its rule is not at risk.

okay, so, working definitions of terms.

What do you mean by liberalism? What about conservatism, isn't that a better example of what you've identified?

Liberalism is a bunch of different things falling under an umbrella term. I find the term "ideology" slippery, so I'm going to try and avoid it here.

When I use the term I am referring to a particular lineage within the history of political thought. That includes a lot of different political actors - philosophers and writers, workers and activists, domestic and international statesmen. Liberalism is not just a particular structure of belief or self-identification held by people or political parties. Rather, I see liberalism as the organizational principles of global capitalism, the mode of thought proper to capitalism's sustenance via the management of the modern state.

My view is that the two things you've highlighted are the broad, self-justifying narratives of these different modes of political thought. "Liberalism is about guarantees of equality, rights, and freedoms, and conservatism is about stability through the preservation of social tradition and culture." I will note that when spelled out in the abstract like this, these things are not actually in inherent contradiction with each other. When you break them down in practice or dig through the details of thought, you find a very different picture. Liberal political thought's values, on investigation, are only about freedom and equality and democracy insofar as those things secure property and the rule of capital. Instead, the substantive values of liberalism are revealed as security, private property, aristocracy (i.e. that "the best" should rule), expansionist empire, "the defense of civilization."

The distinction I would draw, if I wanted to distill the two down, is that conservatism demands obedience as an absolute condition of authority, that the possession of the authority is sufficient justification for obedience (the power wielded by earthly authorities, or perhaps capital itself, being a microcosm of the power wielded by a god). Liberalism demands obedience because it claims that existing in society entails a procedural buy-in; the justification for soliciting obedience is grounded in appeals to reason and practicality. (John Locke's notion of "tacit consent," JS Mill's claim that despotism is an acceptable form of governance for "barbarians," or John Rawls' claim that "outlaw states" can be disciplined by liberal democracies for their alleged cultural failings.)

What about security?

If we step back from the ways in which the concept is historically and morally loaded (and Neocleous makes a convincing case why we shouldn't), we can conceive of security as an affect of predictability. We might think about it as the ability to wake up each day and not be worried about how you're going to feed and reproduce yourself, or that you might be hurt or killed or get sick, or that whatever projects you're investing your time and attention and values in will be taken away from you. This sort of risk-calculation can be on an individual or collective level: thinking about the people you surround yourself with, or that live in a given place, or potentially the whole planet as one integrated system.

On one level you might say life is inherently insecure by virtue of our relatively equal vulnerability to harm or death. There's always the hypothetical possibility that you could get really sick or freak weather could ruin your surroundings or you could fall in a hole and die. However, if the place you live is surrounded by holes, that's a very different type of insecurity, and your risk-calculation and predictions are suddenly vastly different from random events; even more so if there is some kind of agent, will, or specific force that can be identified as the cause of the insecurity.

When I say security is the central liberal category, that's not to necessarily say that actually having "security" is bad. Experiencing emotional security might be good (though maybe not ideal if you are actually extremely insecure); likewise, feeling "insecure" does not necessarily imply the actual absence of security. What's relevant is how liberalism defines security and its absence.

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My position is that liberalism, and its antecedent political economy, has a fundamental worry - conscious or unconscious - that class society (or "civilization") is inherently insecure or unstable, and offers specific answers for resolving that tension.

What I mean by "inherently insecure" is that the struggle between classes consistently generates a mass of people that have little to nothing, and a minority of people that have everything. See J.S. Mill, bemoaning this as a problem in Considerations on Representative Government:

In all countries there is a majority of poor, a minority who, in contradistinction, may be called rich. Between these two classes, on many questions, there is complete opposition of apparent interest. We will suppose the majority sufficiently intelligent to be aware that it is not for their advantage to weaken the security of property, and that it would be weakened by any act of arbitrary spoliation. But is there not a considerable danger lest they should throw upon the possessors of what is called realised property, and upon the larger incomes, an unfair share, or even the whole, of the burden of taxation; and having done so, add to the amount without scruple, expending the proceeds in modes supposed to conduce to the profit and advantage of the labouring class?

See also Hegel, in Elements of the Philosophy of Right:

When a large mass of people sinks below the level of a certain standard of living - which automatically regulates itself at the level necessary for a member of the society in question - that feeling of right, integrity, and honour which comes from supporting oneself by one's own activity and work is lost. This leads to the creation of a rabble, which in turn makes it much easier for disproportionate wealth to be concentrated in a few hands. [...] Poverty in itself does not reduce people to a rabble; a rabble is created only by the disposition associated with poverty, by inward rebellion against the rich, against society, the government, etc. It also follows that those who are dependent on contingency become frivolous and lazy, like the lazzaroni of Naples, for example. This in turn gives rise to the evil that the rabble do not have sufficient honour to gain their livelihood through their own work, yet claim that they have a right to receive their livelihood. No one can assert a right against nature, but within the conditions of society hardship at once assumes the form of a wrong inflicted on this or that class. The important question of how poverty can be remedied is one which agitates and torments modern societies especially.

This is not a very tenable or secure long-term situation - it will lead to unpredictable confrontations between classes - unless the parties involved find some solution that makes it tenable.

In my view, liberalism offers a very adaptable solution: the modern state and legal system. Instead of the collection of scattered/inefficient/arbitrary systems that characterize pre-industrial power - heredity, honor, sumptuary codes, ritual, personal relationships, traditional obligations - we find (or rather, make) a geographically bounded, unified nation that operates on a set of general principles, a common language both literal and political.

Things like money, markets, a robust system of positive law and mechanisms to enforce it, and the potential for reform strike a balance between 1) formalized, impersonal, predictable outcomes that ensure the sanctity of property goes undisturbed and the "rule of the best" continues - contracts and elections follow the same basic principles, and evaluating harm can be boiled down to "amounts of money" or "years spent in prison" - and 2) allowing for enough adaptability to respond to new circumstances, new innovations, and new crises. For an example, see Adam Smith, in The Theory of Moral Sentiments:

Would you awaken the industry of the man who seems almost dead to ambition, it will often be to no purpose to describe to him the happiness of the rich and the great; to tell him that they are generally sheltered from the sun and the rain, that they are seldom hungry, that they are seldom cold, and that they are rarely exposed to weariness, or to want of any kind. The most eloquent exhortation of this kind will have little effect upon him. If you would hope to succeed, you must describe to him the conveniency and arrangement of the different apartments in their palaces; you must explain to him the propriety of their equipages, and point out to him the number, the order, and the different offices of all their attendants. If any thing is capable of making impression upon him, this will. Yet all these things tend only to keep off the sun and the rain, to save them from hunger and cold, from want and weariness.

In the same manner, if you would implant public virtue in the breast of him who seems heedless of the interest of his country, it will often be to no purpose to tell him, what superior advantages the subjects of a well-governed state enjoy; that they are better lodged, that they are better clothed, that they are better fed. These considerations will commonly make no great impression. You will be more likely to persuade, if you describe the great system of public police which procures these advantages, if you explain the connexions and dependencies of its several parts, their mutual subordination to one another, and their general subserviency to the happiness of the society; if you show how this system might be introduced into his own country, what it is that hinders it from taking place there at present, how those obstructions might be removed, and all the several wheels of the machine of government be made to move with more harmony and smoothness, without grating upon one another, or mutually retarding one another’s motions. It is scarce possible that a man should listen to a discourse of this kind, and not feel himself animated to some degree of public spirit. He will, at least for the moment, feel some desire to remove those obstructions, and to put into motion so beautiful and so orderly a machine.

In legal terms, liberalism entails a commitment to specific kinds of procedural guarantees (formal equality and formal liberty as guaranteed by law) that allow for different substantive content to fill in the gaps between those procedures. A philosophical way to look at it is that liberalism adopts agnosticism on what "the Good" is besides a floor-threshold of what is acceptable (rights), in order to allow for "the Good" to be worked out through time and practice.

This is something I regard as both the central strength and weakness of liberalism as a philosophy of governance: its procedural flexibility allows for the reuptake of hostile forces - anti-liberals are pushed to fight on liberal terrain or risk irrelevance - but also allows competing movements that are designed to undermine some aspect of the liberal project.

To be clear, the liberal answer is not the only possible one, it is just the one that most characterizes modernity. A different answer might be religion, or some form of arbitrary authority: your proper place is servile, but your reward will be eternal bliss in the hereafter, or the favor of your lord, or the emotional satisfaction of doing what you're meant to do. (This is what I would describe as "the traditional conservative answer.")

Another answer, that of the Hitlerites, synthesizes the liberal and the religious answer and ramps a few things up: all of existence is inherently insecure, and made even worse because we are besieged with enemies within and without. but we can secure a future for that nation, for your children, through expansion and purification. (This is the "reactionary" answer.)

A final answer says that there is no true solution that can make class society tenable: that we have reached a point in the history of class conflict where we, every day, reproduce and participate in a spiraling system that depreciates all the things it needs to function, that constantly absorbs more raw material into its maw, and while the ruling classes and the managers can shift crises around or find innovative ways of managing them, the crises themselves can never truly be resolved so long as the rule of capital is maintained. It can only end in revolutionary upheaval "or the common ruin of the contending classes."

To be clear, that's what I think the stakes are of the project: the capitalist security state is in the middle of a substantive upheaval in its priorities as climate change worsens and the hegemonic role of the USA begins to wane, manifesting in prominent battles over the family/reproductive labor and immigration. All of these are fundamentally about the modern state's sense of insecurity as a result of problems made by class struggle. The ruling classes are competing between the right-wing, who want to build extensive fortresses as a buffer against climate refugees while hyperexploiting a terrified, disciplined underclass of migrant, domestic, and third-world labor, and the "liberals," who want to figure out a techno-managerial fix like geoengineering the planet (and making decisions about who, and where, will receive the "benefits" of that "mitigation") while hyperexploiting a terrified, disciplined underclass of migrant, domestic, and third-world labor.

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to give a rough sense of those different authors, hopefully to clarify how they relate to the project:

Landa’s book The Apprentice’s Sorcerer examines the mechanics of fascist political thought and finds its direct antecedents in "economic liberalism," basically the strain of liberalism that felt its democratic/political twin had gone too far. Through the commitment to formal freedom and equality under the law, liberalism had given the masses the opportunity and language to articulate their interests, fight for those interests in government and civil society, and potentially win (in the process disrupting society and the balance of class power). In some places - particularly France, Haiti, and Russia - the masses went way, way too far for economic liberal comfort!

Fascism then enters the picture as an alternative way to direct the masses, neutralizing that insecurity produced by mass politics - to “save liberalism from itself.” While fascism would deploy the language of anti-capitalism and anti-liberalism (usually in the form of a structural anti-Semitism a la the Strasser brothers, as well as various workerisms or producerisms), in practice, it was and is all financed by the usual Junkers and industrialists as all nationalist projects, and commits to norms and goals that were and are entirely typical of liberal states. Oswald Spengler (the guy who thought Hitler didn't go far enough because he still made appeals to the public) is my favorite example: his "Prussian socialism" is literally just the doctrine that work in service of the nation's wealth makes life meaningful and that workers should be grateful to have it. In other words, what Spengler calls "socialism" is just English political economy with a Prussian nationalist twist.

Geoff Mann’s analysis of Keynes’ General Theory and Keynesianism more broadly treats Keynes as participating in an intellectual legacy (preceded by Hobbes, Robespierre, and Hegel) of immanent critique of liberalism, one that currently sets the terms for "left politics" as hesitancy and fear of a revolutionary scenario because of the insecurity it would bring. All liberalism wrestles with the fundamental insecurity of class society, but Keynes is the rare one that sees this insecurity as essentially irresolvable (though Mann admits that Keynes couldn't quite name it as such). Keynes further regards the fundamental task as saving civilization from itself while avoiding the revolutionary alternative. From In the Long Run We Are All Dead:

“If an immanent critique is one that accepts the basic principles of its object, Keynesianism is simultaneously an immanent critique of liberalism and of revolution. It is the liberalism of those who (however reluctantly) acknowledge the continued historical legitimacy of revolution but claim to render it unnecessary, to “revolutionize” without revolution. One certainly might say this is impossible, and perhaps, in the long run, that is true. But, as Keynes himself said—and his point was not metaphorical—“in the long run we are all dead.” In the endless “short run” moments of deferral between now and then, the problem of maintaining civilization itself is the most pressing task of all.”

Mark Neocleous writes extensively on the concept of security and its relationship with the state, building his work around a younger Marx's claim that "security is the supreme concept of bourgeois society." This has obvious connections to this project. However, a lot of his focus is specifically on the more overt forms of state power, specifically war and police powers - I want to take things a step further (through legal philosophy) and argue that this emphasis on security is embedded in the structure of law itself, and not merely military force or the police power.