Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Dane

M y phone buzzed while I was halfway through stretching out my legs, and the dull ache in my quads was a reminder we were late in the season. The vibration rattled against the surface of my kitchen counter, insistent and sharp.

I ignored it. Nobody texted this early unless it was TJ dragging me to the Perk & Pine for a recovery session from running or Coach with another tweak to the power-play setup. The clock on the microwave blinked 5:46 AM. It was way too early for either of them.

The buzzing stopped. Then, it started again. Same number. Unfamiliar.

I sighed, padded over, and picked up the phone.

Unknown Number: We need to talk. Perk & Pine Coffee House. 30 minutes.

No name. No context. It was a message that knotted a muscle at the base of my neck. I was about to delete it when a second text appeared:

Christopher: 30 minutes.

My pulse kicked up a notch. I dropped the phone down like it might bite. Christopher didn't send texts. He sent emails flagged critical with phrases likeprofit marginsandstrategic reinvestmentpeppered between polite demands that I stop playing hockey and rejoin the family.

And he sure as hell didn't show up in Lewiston unannounced.

I walked to the window, arms crossed. Outside, snow clung to the railing of my balcony and rested on the edges of the street below. The thought of Christopher sitting somewhere across town, suit-pressed and smug, made my stomach turn.

Perhaps I should have ignored the message and turned the phone off. I could have gone for a run and left my brother's bullshit for another day.

Instead, I grabbed a heavy coat and headed for the door.

Pine & Perk Coffee House already had a crowd when I arrived. The air smelled of burnt espresso beans and wet wool while conversations buzzed around me. A woman tapping furiously at a laptop occupied my usual table in the corner.

The day was starting badly. Everything was already slightly off-kilter.

When I scanned the room, I spotted Christopher sitting by the window. He wore a charcoal suit with subtle pinstripes and a crisp blue tie knotted with practiced precision.

A tiny gold lapel pin glinted on his jacket—the Whitaker Consolidated crest. His untouched espresso rested on a saucer beside his phone, lying face-down on the table. He was waiting for me.

When he saw me, he didn't wave. A sight tilt of his chin was the only acknowledgment.

"You're punctual."

"You know me." I pulled out the chair across from him. "Always eager to drop everything when you text."

Christopher's smile twitched at the corners. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"So why are you here?"

He picked up his espresso cup, swirled the liquid once, and set it back down without drinking. "The family business is struggling."

I blinked. It wasn't the comment I expected. Christopher wasn't the type to lead with vulnerability.

"Struggling how?"

"The market's changing faster than we projected. People don't want mahogany desks and silk rugs anymore—at least not our customer base. They want Scandinavian minimalism, mid-century modern, and plastic crap they can throw out in five years."

He exhaled through his nose. "Corporate clients are pulling contracts. The Manchester office is considering closing. The board's getting nervous. Dad's health is… declining. Without a recognizable face, the board believes the brand will die. "

I hesitated. My reaction to the news about my father was somewhere between surprise and indifference. I hadn't spoken to him in over a year. When hockey came up in the conversation, it usually ended with the phrasetemporary hobbyand some variation ofwasted potential.

"I'm sorry." That was the best I could do.

Christopher accepted it with a slight nod. "We need you back, Dane."

So, Christopher was coming begging like he said I always would. I sat back and forced a laugh. "That's what this is? You want me to quit the team and start picking fabric samples for dining room chairs?"

"Not exactly." He clasped his hands together on the table. "The family needs a public face. Unfortunately, that's more you than it's me."

His words were even and calm, but the flicker in his eyes gave him away. I'd seen that look before—back in high school when Mom cooed over my prom photos while Christopher stood stiff in the corner. He hated that I was the one people noticed first. Hated it even more that I didn't care.

"But I'm a hockey player, not a corporate suit."

"For now."

I gritted my teeth. "I'm not coming back. How many times have I told you?"

Christopher's mood cooled. "Don't dismiss this so fast."

"I dismissed it years ago."

He tightened his lips, and the smile disappeared. "I hoped you'd be reasonable."

Christopher adjusted his cuff, letting the cufflink catch the light. "You think I want this? Dad made me the face of failure, Dane. If this falls apart, it's on me. And you're still out there skating like none of it matters."

"It's not my game."

"Let me get to the point. If you don't return, the board has instructed our PR team to release a statement about your... extracurricular activities."

I leaned forward. "What the hell does that mean?"

"The bar fight from juniors. The locker room tension last season. We'll frame it carefully, of course, but we have sources. The story will read like a cautionary tale of impulsive behavior and lingering immaturity. Maybe we'll mention concerns about your emotional volatility in high-pressure environments." He shrugged. "It won't be an outright smear and will be factual. Surely, it will be enough to raise questions."

The fingers holding my mug trembled. "Jesus, Christopher. You're my brother. Are you threatening me?"

"No. I'm presenting you with options."

We stared at each other across the table. Outside, a kid slid across an icy patch of sidewalk, laughing when he landed on his butt. Inside, the walls pressed closer, the coffee shop shrinking around me.

I stood, chair legs screeching against the tile. My voice came out low and even. "Enjoy your coffee. This visit is over."

Christopher's voice followed me as I walked away. "Take some time to think it over. You're a Whitaker. You know where you belong."

***

When I stepped outside, the crisp air slapped me in the face. My legs moved on autopilot, crunching over patches of ice. I held my head down.

The Whitaker crest gleamed in my memory: polished gold, engraved with the family motto beneath a stylized oak tree: Semper Constans. Always Steady.

My thoughts raced back to that morning, so many years ago, when I'd traced those words on the smooth leather of my first executive portfolio.

Dad had presented it to me. I was twelve years old, sitting stiffly beside Christopher at the breakfast table, trying not to fidget while we listened to a lecture about international supply chains.

"Tell me the three core principles of the business," Dad said, his gaze landing first on Christopher.

"Quality. Tradition. Longevity."

"And why those three?"

Christopher sat up straighter. "Because anyone can make something cheaply, but Whitakers make products that last."

"Good." Dad turned to me. "And how do we ensure that longevity, Dane?"

My mind was miles away, skating tight circles on the frozen pond out back. I shifted in my chair. "Uh... by not screwing up?"

Christopher smirked, and Dad frowned.

He corrected me. "By controlling the narrative. By making sure the story customers believe about our brand is the one we tell them." He tapped the crest on the portfolio he'd presented to me. "The world doesn't trust chaos. It trusts stable structure."

Later, when I escaped to the pond, I skated until my legs burned. I saw the crest shimmering beneath the ice, and I imagined cracking the ice with every turn, shattering the polished gold into pieces I never had to see again.

"Controlling the narrative." It was what Christopher was trying to do with me.

I kicked a clump of ice into the gutter. As I walked toward my car, my phone buzzed again.

Christopher: Take some time. You'll see I'm right.

I held the phone until the screen dimmed. I didn't call Leo or Coach. I scrolled to TJ's name and tapped.

"Yo, Cap," TJ answered after two rings. "You forget how to text like a normal person?"

I rubbed my forehead. "Thought I'd shake things up. You hungry?"

"Breakfast? Always. I'm hankering for some biscuits and gravy. Sound good to you?"

"Doesn't matter. Just come over. I'll spring for the meal."

Twenty minutes later, TJ was hunched over a sticky diner booth, shoveling biscuits and gravy into his mouth while the scents of black coffee and fryer grease clung to the air. He swiped his toast through the thick peppered gravy, half-listening to the old TV above the counter crackle through a recap of last night's game.

"Carver was on fire," TJ said around a mouthful. "That backhand pass to Pike? Filthy."

"Yeah," I said, not really hearing him.

TJ didn't miss much. He chewed, then glanced sideways at me. "Okay. What's going on? You're quieter than the time Coach rode us for chirping the refs."

I forced a smile. "Family stuff."

"Family stuff, huh?" He wiped his hands on a napkin. "You need me to threaten an uncle? Or like... a cousin?"

"It's my brother."

"The famous Christopher."

I nodded, pushing scrambled eggs around with a fork. "He wants me to quit the team. Come back to the company."

"Damn," TJ sat up straighter. "That's big."

"Yeah."

"And you're saying no, right?"

"Of course I am, but they aren't taking no for an answer this time."

TJ stared at me, his expression unusually serious. "You know you've already got another family, right? The team. We've got your back."

My throat tightened. "Yeah. I know."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.

News Alert: Whitaker Consolidated Names Dane Whitaker as Future Successor

The dining room of the diner tilted, and my breath stuck in my chest. My mind dug up a memory I hadn't visited in years. I was fifteen and in the boardroom on the twenty-fifth floor—Whitaker headquarters in New York.

"What?" The past dissolved, and the diner's noise returned—clinking dishes, muffled conversations, and TJ's eyes watched me warily.

I showed him the screen.

"Shit."

My pulse hammered in my ears. "They went public."

TJ put his fork down, his expression shifting from surprise to something closer to alarm. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice to avoid eavesdroppers. "Okay, what the hell is this really?"

"It's what it looks like." I turned the phone screen toward him again.

TJ exhaled hard. "Okay, so what do we do?"

"We?" The word caught me off guard.

"Yeah. We, as in a team." TJ's voice was firm and solid. "You think I'm gonna sit here and watch you go through this shit solo? No chance."

The lump in my throat shrank slightly. I met his gaze. "I don't know what to do, TJ. Christopher said they'll start leaking stuff if I don't come back. He'll bring back that fight in juniors and every tiny thing I've done to make me look like a troublemaker."

"They're bluffing. Right? I mean, that bar fight was years ago. You were, what, nineteen? It's not like you beat someone half to death, and it's almost a decade ago."

"Yeah, but they won't need facts if they spin it right. You know how it is. The whole machine took Leo to the cleaners." My father's words echoed in my head: The world doesn't trust chaos. It trusts structure.

My phone buzzed again. I flinched. TJ grabbed it before I could.

"It's your brother," he said.

I stared at the screen. It was a call. Christopher's name glowed on the screen like a branding iron.

"Answer it," TJ said.

"No."

"Dane."

"I said no." My voice cracked, and the phone went silent.

It buzzed again, and a new notification appeared. It was a text this time.

Christopher: See? We control the narrative. Come home, Dane.

I stood, heart racing and my breathing shallow. My pulse roared in my ears.

"He can't control me. Not again."

TJ followed at my shoulder. "He won't. We're gonna figure this out."

The room swayed slightly. I wiped my palms against my jeans, trying to ground myself.

Christopher's words stared at me from the screen. "Come home, Dane."

I spent the day skating drills until my legs burned, chasing pucks across the ice, and throwing myself into every collision, hoping that I could smash my memories. The scrape of blades on ice, the sharp bark of Coach's voice, and the cold bite of the rink kept me moving.

TJ stuck close to me throughout the day, on guard for any cracks in my mood. I didn't deserve a friend like that.

Leo watched from a distance. He sensed something was up, but he maintained a respectful distance.

By the time practice ended, exhaustion had settled deep in my muscles. I hit the showers without a word, letting the scalding water burn away the tension.

I dressed hurriedly, my mind a thousand miles away. Outside, the evening was sharp and quiet, the sky a vast, empty slate. I didn't remember deciding to go there, but the Range Rover knew what I needed. The neon sign forThe Icehousesputtered against the night, its red glow blinking across the icy parking lot.

I parked, killed the engine, and sat for a minute, gripping the steering wheel. TJ had offered to come with me, but I'd said no. I didn't want comfort. I wanted noise, distraction—anything to drown out the last bits of Christopher's text looping in my head.

Inside, the bar hummed with chaotic energy. The air was thick with fried grease and spilled beer. Half the team clustered near the pool tables, laughing and heckling Carver, who was halfway through reenacting his breakaway goal from last night.

"...so then," Carver was saying, gesturing with a pool cue like it was a hockey stick, "I dropped my shoulder and sent the goalie into next week. Boom—glove side, top shelf." He spun the cue with a flourish. "Pure magic."

The group groaned. Carver basked in the attention, unfazed by their skepticism.

The easy banter rolled around me without sticking. I sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer. The cold bottle felt good against my palm. I took a long sip and focused on the condensation rings it left behind.

"You look like you're trying to turn that bottle into dust," Leo said beside me.

I hadn't noticed him approach. He wore a faded hoodie, sleeves shoved up, exposing the veins along his forearms. He nodded toward the bottle in my hand. "What'd it ever do to you?"

"Nothing." I loosened my grip. "I'm thinking."

"About what?"

I shrugged and took another sip. Leo didn't move. He leaned one elbow on the bar and studied me with his unrelenting focus. "This about the article?"

My stomach lurched. "You saw it."

"Of course, I saw it. Everybody did." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "The media loves a scandal."

"It's not a scandal." I clenched my teeth. "It's manipulation."

"Yeah? And it looks like you're letting it work."

"I'm not—"

"You're here, aren't you? Drinking like the world's already decided who you are." His eyes narrowed. "The Dane Whitaker I know would've been smashing pucks against the boards or running drills until he couldn't breathe."

The words struck home. He knew me too well. "I didn't ask for a lecture."

"No, but you needed one." Leo straightened. "Come on."

"Where?"

"Dartboard," he said, tilting his head toward the corner of the bar. "Let's throw some steel and see if you can hit anything besides the bottle."

"You serious?"

"Dead. Unless you're scared."

The challenge lit a fuse in my chest. I followed him across the bar.

They'd tucked the dartboard in a dimly lit corner near a jukebox that hadn't been updated since the early 2000s. Leo grabbed the darts and handed me three.

"Loser buys breakfast tomorrow," he said.

"Prepare to pay," I shot back.

The first dart slipped through my fingers and hit the board with a dull thud, far from the bullseye. Leo smirked and sank one cleanly into the red center.

"You really do overthink everything." Leo took his second shot. "Even darts."

"I don't overthink."

"Yeah? Tell that to your shoulders. You're wound tighter than Coach's stopwatch."

"Maybe I like precision."

"Maybe you're scared to miss."

The dart in my fingers wobbled. I steadied my grip, inhaled, and threw. It landed on the outer ring.

Leo stepped up beside me, his voice low." Let go, Dane. Quit playing like your family's watching. Pretend you're in The Colisée with only me."

I turned to respond, but his eyes held mine in the dim light. The noise of the bar faded. I knew what he meant. It was always easier there—just us, the ice, and the clean precision of a game stripped to its basics: no media, family, or future headlines.

The dartboard blurred in my vision. My mind was still in that diner, staring at my shattered phone and Christopher's text. I exhaled sharply.

Leo's voice cut through the haze. "You gonna throw the next one?"

I rolled the dart between my fingers. "Pretty sure you've got the bullseye locked up already."

"Doesn't mean you have to hand me the game." He leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine. "You're stronger than you think. Stop waiting for the ice to crack under you."

His words hit with the force of a well-aimed puck to the ribs. He wasn't talking about darts. He was talking about everything—the team, the media, my family, and me.

I threw the dart without looking. It struck the outer ring again. Leo didn't comment. He merely let the silence sit.

I forced a breath and shook my head. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I need to stop standing still, waiting for everything."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I met his gaze. "So, how about breakfast? Now."

His smile curved slowly. "Yeah. Let's go find some shitty diner with burnt coffee and cracked vinyl booths."

The dartboard and the headlines melted away behind us. The tension didn't break—it shifted, crackling under the surface as we left the bar together.