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Chapter one

Dane

I didn’t know Leo Campbell yet. But the first time I saw him, I knew what he was: a spark looking for dry tinder.

The kind of player who could light the Lewiston Forge up—or burn the whole team down.

The locker room after the holidays hit like it always did after a break—too loud, too rank, too familiar.

Metal clanged as guys sharpened skates, sweat clung to the air like bad memories, and the sharp bite of stick tape made my eyes sting. Carver was already humming off-key while he laced up, blissfully tone-deaf.

And I’d missed it. God help me, I’d missed all of it—like breathing.

Then, I saw him—our mid-season acquisition.

Leo sprawled across the bench by my stall like it was his , flipping a puck between his fingers. He had a frame built for speed, not brute force.

His jet-black hair, still damp from warmups, stuck to his forehead in uneven strands—careless, effortless, and too fucking distracting. The sharp lines of his face were marked up from a recent fight—a scab on his jaw and a bruise curling under one high cheekbone, faint but fresh.Still, it was his eyes that fucked me up—his steady gaze pinned me to the wall.

My stomach clenched. "Punctual, I'm impressed." I dropped my bag with more force than necessary.

Leo caught the puck he was tossing without looking while his dark eyes found mine. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Just wanted to see if you looked as uptight in person."

He rolled the puck across his knuckles, voice dropping enough to force me to lean in."Not that it matters. Uptight guys always crack eventually."

The locker room's noise dropped a notch. TheGuys pretended not to watch while watching everything. It was impossible to ignore the weight of it—the team captain facing down the new problem child. He was the guy who'd gone viral for that single punch. The one that got him blacklisted in his Canadian league.

Carver broke the silence with a snort. "This should be good. Whitaker's playing babysitter this season."

"Didn't know I needed one."Leo's voice was light, but something dangerous flickered behind his eyes as he shrugged on his practice jersey.

I yanked my jersey over my pads. "Just don't fuck up."

Coach MacPherson's whistle cut through the tension before Leo could respond. "Listen up, men. Line changes for today's practice. Whitaker, you're centering the first line with Campbell on your wing."

My head snapped up. "Coach—"

"Not up for debate. In the Navy, we knew you don't have to like your crew—you only have to trust'em."Coach's expression forbade argument.

The first drill was brutal—high-speed transitions up and down the ice with no room for hesitation. I expected Leo to hang back and play it safe like most guys did during their first practice with a new team. Instead, he matched me stride for stride, anticipating my movements like we'd been linemates for years.

Pass after perfect pass landed on my tape. Each time I shifted position, he was there, reading my intentions before I could telegraph them. It was infuriating… and electric.

Tight turn. His shoulder slammed into mine harder than necessary. I shoved back. "You got a problem with personal space?"

"You got a problem keeping up?"He was breathing hard, but that smirk never wavered.

The final drill was a shootout. I went first, picking my spot and burying it top corner where Mercier, our goalie, couldn't touch it. Clean. Clinical. That was my style—a source of pride.

Leo followed, skating in with fluid grace. His shot pinged off the crossbar—a mirror of mine but with a touch more flash. He circled back, eyes locked on me, challenge written in every blink.

I held his gaze, and something dangerous sparked between us.

Coach's whistle cut through the air like a blade. "Again! And this time, try not to turn my fucking practice into fight night at the Garden."

We ran the drill six more times. Each pass between us was harder than the last, the puck a bullet ricocheting off our sticks. Leo anticipated my moves with an accuracy that pissed me off, finding the seams in my game I thought I'd sealed tight.

"Jesus Christ."TJ, my best bud on the team, caught up with me as we filed off the ice, voice low under the scrape of skates. "You trying to take his head off or marry him?"

My shoulders tensed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means."He nodded toward where Leo was unlacing his skates. "You've never played that intense with anyone. Not even in the playoffs."

He wasn't wrong. That was the problem.

I stripped off my gear while a familiar ache settled into my muscles. Across the room, Leo worked his shoulder, wincing. Good. At least I'd left a mark.

"Seven AM sharp tomorrow morning,"Coach announced over the chaos of twenty guys peeling off sweaty gear. "Don't be late."His eyes locked on mine. "Whitaker, my office. Now."

Leo'shead rose, something sharp and knowing in his expression. "Trouble in paradise,Cap'n?"

The way he said "Cap'n,"casual with a smirk, hit like a blindside check. I ignored him and followed Coach down the tunnel, my steps echoing in the quiet. The halls smelled like stale coffee and industrial cleaner, and as we passed the old team photos, my fingers skimmed the frame of the1998 championship plaque.Didit every time I walked by.

Superstition, maybe. Habit, definitely.

Coach's office was barelybiggerthan a penalty box, with walls lined withdepth charts, scratched-up scouting reports, and ghosts of players who never made it beyond Lewiston.The chair across from his desk creaked under my weight as I sat, shoulders still stiff from practice.

He didn't bother looking up right away.Justflipped through adog-eared stat sheet and let the silence sit.

Then, he tossed papers on the desk and met my eyes.

"You want to tell me what that was?"

I barely raised an eyebrow."Just getting used to new line combinations."

"Bullshit."

The word hit hard.

"That wasn't practice. That was a fucking pissing contest on skates."Coach leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced."You're running out of time, Whitaker."

My spine locked. "What?"

"You heard me."He tapped a thick folder on his desk, labeled with scouting reports."Guys like Campbell? They're wild cards. They blow up their shot, and teams move on. But you? You're 29. That means this year, maybe next, is it."

I swallowed hard, pulse hammering.

"And if you don't make it?"He shrugged."You tell me. You got a backup plan? Because I don't see you bartending at The Icehouse. I see you back in a suit, sitting at some country club boardroom, hating your fucking life."

He kept his voice low, but he lined it with steel."The brass brought Campbell in because he's good. He's what this team needs. But if you two can't make this work, I need to know now."

I locked my jaw."It won't be a problem."

Coach's elbows landed on the desk, fingers laced."Look at me, Whitaker."

I did. I'd been in the minors long enough to know when a coach was blowing smoke and when he meant every word.This wasn't a lecture. It was a warning.

"Last season, we played it careful.Playedit safe.Gotour fucking hearts broken in the standings. You think I'm here to watch that shit happen again?"

I remained silent.

"You played safe, too,"he went on."You played not to lose instead of playing to fucking win. And you know what playing careful gets you?"

I clenched my teeth."Two points short of playoffs."

He nodded once."Right. Leo Campbell is a lot of things, but careful ain't one of them. He's hungry. He's desperate. And if you let him, he'll drag you out of your damn head and turn you into the player you were supposed to be before you started worrying about proving people wrong."

I exhaled through my nose, my jaw aching from how tight I held it.

"He's a liability."It was a weak attempt to fight back.

Coach sat back in his chair, letting out a slow breath."Or maybe you're scared he'll show you up."

He saw right through me. Fuck him, maybe he was right. I started to argue, but he cut me off with a look.

"I'm not asking you to like him. I'm telling you to find a way to make it work. Because if you can't?"He held up one of his manila folders."Plenty of other men out there without trust funds to fall back on."

Message received.

I pushed to my feet, legs aching from practice, the bruise on my shoulder throbbing from where Leo had checked me harder than necessary.

Coach sat back, voice quieter now."You ever ask yourself why you're still here, Whitaker?"

I clenched my jaw."Because I want to win."

He shook his head."Nah. Guys who want to win play like they mean it. You play like you're trying not to let anybody down."

The words took the breath out of me.

Coach didn't let up."I don't think you love this game anymore. I think you love proving people wrong. And there's a big fucking difference."

I turned to leave and then stopped at the door, glancing back.

"You're my captain for a reason. Don't make me regret it."

I gave him a short nod and stepped into the hallway, my pulse pounding.

Through the walls, I heard the hollowthunkof pucks hitting the boards—someone still out there shooting long after practice was over. I didn't need to look to know who it was.

Leo Campbell.

My new linemate.

My potential downfall.

Or maybe—if I let myself think about it forevenhalf a second—my only shot at redemption.

I made it halfway to my car before the rage hit. Not the hot kind that made you throw punches, but the cold sort that settled in your gut and stayed there. The kind that made you do stupid things to prove a point.

The parking lot had emptied except for a few beat-up trucks and Leo's ancient Civic, its rust spots visible even in the fading light. Most guys had cleared out fast after practice, heading to Perk & Pine for coffee or The Icehouse for a rowdier crowd.

I sat in my Range Rover, watching my breath fog the windshield. The rink had emptiedout, but Leo was still in there.

I pulled up Spotify and clicked on mycomfort playlist—yes, I fucking had one.

First song? "Fast Car."Tracy Chapman.

I rubbed a hand down my face.I was going soft.

Coach's words rattled around in my skull like a loose puck. Plenty of other men out there without trust funds to fall back on.

My phone lit up with a text:

TJ: The Icehouse? First round's on me. Unless you're busy brooding, which you definitely are.

I thumbed the screen dark. Through my windshield, I watched the light spilling from around the arena doors. Leo was probably working on that wrist shot that had made me look stupid during practice.

Thesmartplay was to leave. Go home, ice my shoulders, and review game tape like the captain I was supposed to be.

Instead, I got out of the car. The hollow rhythm of pucks hitting boards pulled me in like gravity.

The Colisée was different after hours. No crowds, no music, and no buzzers—only the hum of industrial lights and the sharp slice of blades on ice. Leo had stripped down to old practice gear, his Lewiston jersey traded for a faded Moose Jaw Warriors t-shirt that had seen better days. He ran shooting drills, each puck finding the same spot with mechanical precision.

"Most guys wait till they fuck up before they start with the guilt practice."My voice echoed in the empty rink.

Leo didn't miss a beat, sending another puck into the top corner. "Most guys aren't me."

"Yeah, I got that memo. Are you planning to wear out our ice before the season even starts?"

"Your ice?"

Leo turned slowly, the overhead glare reflecting in his eyes while sweat slicked the dark strands of hair plastered to his forehead. He wiped a glove across his jaw, that smirk still lingering.

"Didn't realize they put your name on the deed when they made you C."

I clenched my teeth. "Coach wants us to make this work."

Leo sent another puck snapping against the back bar, letting the sound speak for him.

"Coach wantsa lot ofthings,"he muttered, collecting another puck.

The air between us was thick. Every damn interaction with him was going to be a fight—on the ice, off the ice,it didn't matter.He challenged everything, even when he didn't have to.

Especially when he didn't have to.

"So that's it?"I asked. "You're here to blow another chance?"

He stopped for a second. It was barely a flicker, but I noticed. Slowly, he turned back toward me, wiping his stick blade along the ice, his expression unreadable.

His smirk never wavered, but his fingers curled tight around his stick, knuckles white for half a second before he forced them loose.

The look in his eyes was still sharp, still cocky—but underneath? Maybe not as sure as he wanted me to think.

"You don't know shit about my chances, Whitaker."

I squared my shoulders, ignoring how my pulse began pounding in my ears. "I know enough."

He laughed, short and sharp.

"Yeah? What do you know?"

I didn't hesitate. "I know you're talented. I know you're reckless. I know you're the kind of player who could either save this team or destroy it."

He skated closer, slow and deliberate—testing me. Watchingto see if I'd flinch.

"And you're the golden boy who's gonna keep me in line?"His voice dipped low. "How's that working out so far?"

I didn't move. Didn't react.

"I'm trying to help you."It came outa littlecondescending, though I didn't mean it that way.

His smirk flickered as he spit out hisnextwords. "I don't need your help. I don't need your protection. And I sure as hell don't need your pity."

His eyes locked onto mine, dark and steady, and for the first time, I wasn't sure we were still talking about hockey.

"Good because you're not getting any of that."

Our shoulders brushed. I didn't move.

"You're getting a linemate who expects you to show up, shut up, and play like you mean it."

For a second, neither of us moved.

Leo laughed quietly, shaking his head.

"You know what your problem is, Cap'n?"he murmured,voicealmost lazy.

I didn't answer.

"You're so busy trying to prove you belong here that you forgot how to play the game."

His words landed like a cheap elbow to the ribs. He skated backward, smirk intact, leaving me stuck in place.

"See you tomorrow,"he called, voice light like we hadn't spent the last five minutes trying to tear each other down. "Try to keep up this time."

I watched him disappear into the tunnel, the sound of his skates echoing long after he was gone. Tomorrow would be another practice and another chance to get it right. Or wrong. With Leo Campbell, Iwas starting to thinkthey might be the same thing.

The drive home blurred by in streaks of snow and streetlights. My apartment was dark when I walked in, theheat dialed down to save money. I kicked off my boots, dropped my gear bag by the door, and winced as the motion pulled at my shoulder. Leo's shoulder. His hit. His words. They were still under my skin.

I headed to the kitchen and cracked open a beer. The bottle was cold against the bruise blooming along my ribs. I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to shake the ghost of Leo's voice.

You'reso busy trying to prove you belong here that you forgot how to play the game.

It was bullshit. It had to be. I drained half the bottle in one pull.

My laptop was open on the coffee table. I hovered over last season's game footage and then hit play. There I was: crisp passes, textbook positioning, always exactly where I should be. And always a second too late. Safe hockey. Loser hockey.

I closed the window and opened another tab—Leo Campbell's last few seasons. The numbers didn't tell the whole story: hot streaks, cold streaks, suspensions. A highlight reel from his time in Moose Jaw auto-played—a younger Leo flying through defenses like they were standing still, reckless and electric.

That's the guy we need.

We didn't need the unrecognizable Leo that delivered the punch that rattled the league. We needed the guy who showed up today, pushing me harder than anyone had in years.

My phone buzzed.

TJ: Icehouse? First round's on me. Or are you still brooding?

I thumbed the screen dark. My legs ached, and my ribs throbbed, but adrenaline burned beneath the surface. The couch was warm. The beer was cold.

Fuck it. I grabbed my keys.