Page 10

Chapter ten

Leo

6 AM and my phone wouldn't stop vibrating.

The steady hum against the cheap particleboard nightstand had been going on for nearly an hour, notifications rolling in with the cadence of a slow, measured drumbeat—the first few I ignored. By the time the screen pulsed bright for the twentieth time, I knew better than to check, but I did anyway.

It was worse than I thought.

Someone had dug up Moose Jaw. The fight. The suspension. A thread spiraled on X, and old headlines stacked on top of each other, dissected by people who hadn't even watched me play.

I scrolled past clipped footage from that night—grainy but clear enough to see it all. It showed my fist connecting with my glove still on and the blood on Matthews' lip before refs and other players pushed between us.

Further down, the comments turned uglier. Slurs. Death threats. The usual. My DMs were crawling with them, messages waiting like landmines.

"Go back where you came from."I suspected they meant somewhere in Asia, not Calgary.

"You should've been banned for life."

"Teams take risks on the wrong people."

"Outside troublemakers should die."

None of it was new. None of it should've meant anything, but my hand gripped my phone tight enough that my knuckles cracked.

I exhaled sharply and crawled out of bed.

The shower didn't do much. The hot water hit my shoulders in sharp stabs, but the tightness in my chest didn't ease.

By the time I arrived, the locker room at the Colisée was already full of voices and skates scraping the ice. It was a practice day, and I had to put the noise aside to concentrate.

Carver was talking too loud when I stepped inside the locker room. "—nah, I'm just saying, if we're in the news, it'd be nice if it wasn't for something off the ice for once."

The change was subtle, but the atmosphere shifted when I walked in. Guys still moved around me—tossing tape, lacing skates, and talking about nothing—but I noticed the little things. A few conversations cut off mid-sentence. Others didn't, but they proceeded with a slight hesitation, a ripple under the surface.

Mercier glanced up from tying his pads. TJ, already half-dressed, tossed a sympathetic expression my way.

I didn't slow down. I dropped my bag, sat at my stall, and started pulling out my gear. Carver, either oblivious or too much of an asshole to care, kept going.

"Christ, it's like clockwork. Some reporter gets bored and suddenly—" He gestured vaguely.

Across the room, Dane raised his head.

Carver finally noticed me sitting there, and his mouth twisted into something halfway between regret and discomfort. I waited, letting my silence stretch long enough to make him sweat before I offered a flat response. "If you've got a point, Carver, let's hear it."

He hesitated, then snorted, reaching for his gloves. "Didn't say I had one."

"Then shut the fuck up."

A few guys turned away, pretending to concentrate on their skates. TJ snickered under his breath.

"Just saying, man."

He didn't say anything else after that. Beside me, TJ muttered, "Fucking moron."

I didn't answer. I unlaced my gloves, stretched my fingers, and pushed the phone deeper into my bag so it wouldn't tempt me to check it again.

Mercier was the next to break the silence, stretching his legs and cracking his neck. "Fucking vultures. They don't even care about the game, only the drama."

No one disagreed.

Dane remained quiet. He finished with his skates and turned to taping his stick with slow, deliberate precision. He wasn't watching me directly, but he was close enough to be aware of everything.

Pike, the rookie, shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. "Uh—" He hesitated. "It's just bullshit, man."

I barely glanced up from my laces. "Yeah?"

He nodded quickly, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. "Yeah. None of it matters, right? You're here. You're playing. So… fuck 'em."

He meant well, but the words grated on me. People always said,"None of it matters,"when it clearly did. If it didn't, my phone wouldn't have erupted with racist shit from faceless strangers.

I let out a slow breath, forcing my hands to stay steady as I finished tying my skates. "Right. Fuck 'em."

Pike sighed with relief.

TJ watched me carefully before nudging my shoulder as he passed. "Let's skate it out."

I almost laughed."Skate it out."Like it was something a few laps would burn off. I shook my head, thinking about Taylor Swift singing "Shake It Off." It was easy for her with millions in the bank.

It was time to head to the rink. TJ had that part right.

The cold hit like a slap. Not sharp enough to shock but sufficient to make my lungs tighten for a second before I adjusted. The ice stretched out before me, clean, freshly smoothed, waiting.

Coach had us running high-intensity drills right out of the gate, with no warm-up laps, no easing into it. He didn't say it was because of me, but I assumed it was anyway. A test. A warning. Maybe both.

I played fast. Too fast. The first pass zipped across the ice, and I took it without thinking, cutting into open space. My skates dug in deep as I pushed off, sending up a spray of ice.

Next rush, I fired—too much power. The puck slammed off the crossbar, cracked against the glass, and ricocheted back.

Dane was already there, waiting. He collected the puck, turned smoothly, and sent it back toward me. Not hard, but not soft either. I caught it, and our eyes locked.

For a second, neither of us moved. Then, without breaking stride, he skated past me, muttering,"Settle the fuck down."

I let out a slow breath, but my body didn't listen. During the next battle drill, I hit the puck too hard again.

It wasn't intentional. Not really. But when I drove into Carver along the boards, the impact was harder than I intended.

Carver wasn't small. He could take a hit, but it was different.

His body snapped forward, his helmet smacking lightly against the glass and his skate catching awkwardly. For half a second, I thought he might go down.

Fortunately, he didn't. He caught himself and turned, stick lifted slightly. "You fucking serious?" he snapped.

I didn't answer because I didn't have one. Coach's whistle blew before we could decide whether we would turn it into something worse.

"Take a lap, Campbell," Coach barked.

I didn't argue. I pushed off hard, circling the ice while the other guys ran the next drill. My pulse pounded in my ears, and my knuckles flexed around my stick. I wanted to hit something—not someone, not Carver, just something solid enough to take the impact.

As I came around the last stretch, Coach stared at me. I slowed, not stopping. When I passed the bench, he didn't say much, only,"You let them in, they win."

Then, quieter, like he didn't want the other guys to hear—"You belong here. Don't forget that."

I nodded once. Small. Barely there. Without another word, I pushed back onto the ice.

***

After practice, the locker room was quieter than usual. It wasn't silent, but the usual post-practice energy had thinned. A few guys were still peeling off gear and talking low, but most had already cleared out.

I kept my head down, untying my skates slowly and deliberately, stretching out the process longer than necessary. My body buzzed with leftover adrenaline. The whole morning had been a goddamn wreck.

A shadow shifted at the edge of my vision. It was Dane.

I didn't look up and didn't acknowledge him. He didn't move, and he didn't say anything at first, either.

I waited him out, until, finally, he spoke.

"You good?"

His voice was steady, even.

I kept my fingers moving, pulling the laces loose, shrugging like it didn't matter. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

The pause that followed gave rise to goosebumps. He wasn't buying it, and he exhaled slowly.

"You're playing to prove a point, and it's making you sloppy."

I forced a smirk, finally glancing up. "That's rich, coming from you."

His expression didn't change. He watched me with his eyes steady and his jaw tight.

"You want to talk about what's going on?"

I snorted. "Not particularly."

Another pause. I expected him to push. I expected him to pry and challenge me, particularly after I bared my soul in Manchester.

He didn't. Instead, he nodded once. "See you tomorrow."

That was it. Dane grabbed his bag, turned, and left.

I sat there, staring at the space where he'd stood. It pissed me off a little. I kind of wanted him to push.

The second he left, the silence in the room was heavier than before. I sat in the middle of it, trying to convince myself that I wasn't fucking drowning with nobody on shore to rescue me.

The air outside The Colisée was cold and damp. A storm was on the way, carried inland off the ocean. The chill settled deep in my bones.

I didn't leave the parking lot immediately. I sat in my car, engine off, phone glowing in my hand. Another DM. Then another.

My screen had a stack of them, notifications piling up from people who had never met me and had never watched a single second of my game. Somehow, they still thought they knew what kind of person I was.

I thumbed a message open.

@HockeyTruthers: How do teams keep signing trash like you?

Swiping left, I deleted that one. Another popped up immediately.

@PuckPatLeo t88: You should've been banned forever.

Delete.

@ZeroPuckGiven: Go back to where you belong.

Delete.

The following message was longer, and I didn't open it. My jaw clenched so tightly it ached. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating as I thought about responding. I'd let them know they weren't as clever as they thought.

But I didn't. I pressed my phone face-down on the dashboard, exhaling hard through my nose.

A sharp rap on the glass made me flinch. It was Dane.

I hadn't even noticed him leaving the arena. He stood a couple of feet from the driver's side door, hands in his jacket pockets, watching me with the same gaze from the locker room. Quiet. Focused.

Waiting.

I hesitated. For a second, I thought about rolling down the window. Then, I didn't. Dealing with him was too much on top of everything else. Instead, I turned the keys in the ignition.

Dane didn't move. He didn't step forward or back, but he kept watching. I almost wished he'd open his mouth or tap the glass again, but he didn't.

So, I pulled out of the lot and left him standing there. Some sensation, maybe a tiny bit of guilt, made me tense. Perhaps he was making an effort in the only way he knew how.

When I got home, I left the TV on just for the noise. Some old game recap played on low volume, with commentators droning about zone entries and defensive breakdowns. I didn't listen. I let the words spill out and fill up the empty space in the room.

My apartment smelled stale. It was a combination of unwashed laundry and the takeout container I should've tossed last night.

I paced around the room, trying to think of somewhere to go. I had nowhere I wanted to be.

My phone sat on the counter, the screen dark. I could turn it on and check the messages. I'd see the next wave of shit people were sending. Or I could text Mei and let her know I was alive. She'd left me a voicemail two nights ago that I still hadn't listened to.

I didn't do any of that. I grabbed one of my copies of The Borrowed Sky from the shelf by the TV, ran my fingers along the worn spine, and then tapped it lightly against my palm. Tom Murray had answers for everything, but that would only get me so far. I wanted out. I wanted to go… somewhere.

Snatching my keys off the counter, I left, clicking the door shut behind me.

Lewiston's divey pancake joint sat just off the highway on the edge of town, and the neon glow of its sign threw pale yellow light onto the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. Inside, the place smelled like scorched coffee, old fryer oil, and maple syrup that had seeped into the walls.

I slid into a booth near the window, the plastic seat sticking slightly under my palm. The place wasn't empty, but it was close—only a trucker hunched at the counter, nursing a bottomless cup of coffee, and an older couple split a plate of waffles like it was the last meal they'd ever share.

I set The Borrowed Sky on the table and opened it. I skimmed the poem "Shadow Ice"without really reading it. My mind looped through the morning—DM notifications, Dane standing in the parking lot, and Coach's unexpected support.

A shadow passed over the pages.

"You want coffee, hon?"

I looked up. The server was a woman, maybe in her mid-forties, her uniform slightly rumpled and a faded name tag pinned to her apron. Shelley .She had tired eyes, but I thought they appeared kind.

"Yeah. Thanks."

She poured, and the coffee sloshed in a chipped white mug. I wrapped my hands around it, letting the heat soak into my skin.

Shelley glanced at the book. "That school stuff?"

I shook my head. "Just something I reread sometimes."

She raised an eyebrow like she didn't buy it but didn't press. "Well, any book worth rereading is a book that's trying to tell you something."

I stared at her. The wisdom in her words struck me.

Shelley shrugged, adjusting the pen behind her ear. "You need anything else?"

"I'm good."

She nodded once, then moved off to refill the trucker's cup. I exhaled and stared down at the pages of my book. The poem blurred for a second, but I forced myself to focus.

That final line—"I look about wildly." I closed the book, fingers pressing into the worn cover, and stared out the window at the empty road.

Half an hour later, the coffee had gone cold, the book sat untouched beside it, and I was still there. The trucker had left twenty minutes earlier. The older couple had finished their waffles and wandered out into the night, hands clasped like they had nowhere better to be than with each other.

I had nowhere better to be either. That was my problem.

I tossed a few bills onto the table, tucked The Borrowed Sky under my arm, and stepped outside. The cold was sharp, biting through my hoodie and cutting straight to the skin.

I unlocked my car, slid into the driver's seat, and let my hands rest on the wheel. While I sat, my breath fogged up the windshield.

Not knowing where to go, I put the car in drive and let my instincts take over. The book sat on the passenger seat, taking a place of honor. Shelley's voice still echoed somewhere in the back of my head.

"Any book worth rereading is a book that's trying to tell you something."

I didn't want to think too hard about what that meant. And I didn't know why I wasn't driving toward my apartment.

My destination should have been evident the second I pulled out of the pancake joint's parking lot. When I finally slowed, the street was familiar. I knew the building from a previous reconnaissance mission.

I still didn't know why I was there. I didn't turn off the engine. Sitting there, I rested my foot on the brake, staring at the Range Rover parked two spaces down. The snow started falling, and it collected in patches along the windshield.

The Rover belonged to Dane. I could lie to myself and say I didn't mean to be there. That would be wrong.

My fingers flexed against the wheel, and for one brief, reckless second, I almost grabbed my phone. Almost texted.

Instead, I exhaled, slow and measured, let my hands slide off the wheel, and threw the car into reverse. Dane never saw me. At least, that's what I told myself.

I drove home. My apartment felt even smaller when I returned. I kicked the door shut behind me and tossed my keys onto the counter. Shrugging off my jacket, I didn't even bother to hang it up.

I thought the silence might suffocate me. I'd forgotten to turn the TV off. On the screen, they were replaying some post-game interview from a team I didn't care about. I let it run, and the low voices helped keep me from sinking too far into my head.

After rubbing my hand over my face, I grabbed my phone off the counter. I had another massive round of DMs. I nearly tossed the phone down, but then—

Dane: "We good?"

I stared at the message. It wasn't much, only two words. It wasn't some long-winded expression of concern or a captain's speech about maintaining focus and playing smart.

I didn't answer, but I held onto the phone. Sitting on the couch, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, still gripping the damn thing like it might tell me what to do.

Texting him back was an option. I could grit my teeth and say I was fine. Instead, I dropped the phone onto the cushion beside me.

Leaning back, I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn't waiting for another message. I told myself I wouldn't be thinking about it all night.

I was wrong.