Page 14

Chapter fourteen

Leo

I slammed my skate blade into the rubber mat, testing the edge with a sharp twist of my ankle. The steel clamped down with a satisfying bite.

The arena in Augusta was an old monster. The vents overhead rattled with an uneven, metallic hum, pushing lukewarm air into the windowless space. I sat hunched on the bench, elbows on my knees. My legs ached like they didn't belong to me, as if they'd been bolted on wrong after the last game and expected to function anyway.

Three days since our hospital visit. Three days since Dane had me pinned against the shower tiles. Three days of shit sleep and too much caffeine.

And two nights since the diner. Greasy eggs, soggy toast, and Dane saying more words than he had all season. Books, music, chess—things I hadn't known about him. But not that night at The Colisée. Never that.

My quads twitched beneath my palms. I stretched one leg out, then the other, trying to shake the tension loose. It didn't help. My body still hummed with restless, unsettled energy.

Across the room, Dane was at his stall, head bent over his stick. The roll of tape turned slowly in his hands as he wrapped the blade with precise, even passes. His knuckles stood out pale from how tightly he gripped the handle. He had his mouth set in that firm, closed line he wore whenever something was eating at him. The headlines hadn't let up since the news broke about his family's company.

Nobody talked about it out loud. Not in front of him. But I heard the murmurs in the showers and during warm-up skating before practice.

Whitaker Consolidated heir. Captain by birthright. Must be nice to have a fallback plan when hockey goes south.

It was pure trash, but trash had a way of sticking. Coach banged his stick against the whiteboard. "Ten minutes, gentlemen. Get your heads right. Augusta plays dirty. They'll come for the corners first. Make them pay for it."

Dane's grip on his stick tightened. A sharp exhale. Then, without a word, he yanked his helmet off the hook and jammed it on. I tracked him from the corner of my eye.

We hadn't talked much since the diner. There was no playbook for what we were doing. On the ice, we clicked like clockwork; off it, I didn't know if we were rivals or teammates or something sharp-edged and dangerous that neither of us dared name. But at that diner, I'd seen something new—a crack in the mask, a guy who could quote lines from creaky old sitcoms because it reminded him of when his childhood was fun.

His gaze flicked toward me just as I looked his way. "Everything in order?" His voice was low and quiet.

"Always." I forced a grin. "Can't wait to wipe the ice with the Griffins."

"Let's make it count then."

He walked away toward the tunnel. I shoved my helmet on and followed.

The opening faceoff dropped, and the game exploded into motion. I drove forward, cutting through the ice with a sharp snap of my skates, body low and eyes locked on the puck. Augusta came out precisely like Coach warned—fast, physical, looking to crack us wide open from the start.

The boards rattled under the first big hit, a deep, thunderous crack reverberating through the arena like a distant cannon blast. The crowd roared in response, a chorus of cheers and jeers that pressed against my ears like a living thing.

I twisted away from a charging defenseman. The ice hummed beneath me, each push of my legs firing a new jolt through muscles still stiff from warm-ups. My lungs burned, but I welcomed it. Focus came easier when the game stripped away the noise.

Dane skated alongside me, stick poised for the pass. His eyes tracked the puck with that sniper-level intensity he always brought to the game, but there was tension in his posture—a half-second hesitation in his transition from backward to forward. The headlines had gotten into his head more than he wanted to admit.

I intercepted a lazy pass from their winger and snapped the puck to Dane with a sharp flick of my wrist. When it hit his tape, an Augusta bruiser blindsided him into the boards with a crack like a tree splitting in a storm.

"Hey!" I slashed toward the hit, adrenaline spiking hot and fast. The Augusta player shoved Dane again for good measure before retreating with a smug grin. The home crowd erupted, feeding off the violence, stomping their feet.

Dane pushed himself upright, jaw clenched, eyes ice-cold. "I'm fine," he snapped before I could ask.

He drilled the same defenseman the next shift with a clean, brutal check. The boards cracked like a whip, and the crowd gasped. The puck popped loose, and I snagged it, tearing down the ice and ripping a shot top shelf. The horn blared through the arena.

I circled back toward Dane, grinning. "That's what I'm talking about."

"Shut up," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. We tapped gloves and skated back to the bench.

And just like that, we were a we again, without trying.

After the final buzzer, the locker room was a chaotic swirl of noise and exhaustion. The Forge had ground out a 3–2 win against Augusta, but it had cost us, minor injuries here and there. Pads hit the floor with heavy thuds, water bottles clattered across the benches, and the air crackled with that post-game mix of adrenaline and relief.

I peeled off my gloves and dropped them beside my skates. My knuckles ached from two blocked shots and one gloved jab to a defenseman who didn't appreciate me screening his goalie. I flexed my fingers and let the pain settle.

Across the room, Dane sat with his elbows on his knees, sweat darkening the back of his jersey. He rubbed his palms together, slow and methodical, like he was trying to generate enough friction to burn away whatever thoughts were gnawing at him.

"Campbell's been on fire lately," someone said behind me.

I turned my head slightly, pretending to adjust my shin guards.

"Yeah," came another voice, lower. "Did you see him call that zone entry? Dane hesitated, and Leo—boom—took over. He's leading out there."

"Like he should have the C," the first voice said. "I mean, Whitaker's solid, but Campbell's got the edge right now."

I wasn't supposed to hear the words. They weren't meant for me. The weight settled between my shoulders anyway, heavy and sharp-edged.

Carver's voice cut through the noise."What do you think, Campbell?"

I glanced up. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, his smirk just short of a challenge.

"Think about what?"I kept my tone flat.

"All the guys talking. You are stepping up and making the plays. Some people think you should be wearing the C."

I untied the last knot in my laces and kicked my skates off."I don't want it."

Carver leaned in slightly, enough to invade my space. "Right. Funny how you're the one everyone's looking at, then."

The locker room had gone quiet. A few guys were still moving, but their attention had shifted. Dane was across the room, rolling the tape off his wrists, his shoulders stiff.

I exhaled through my nose and stood, rolling my neck to keep my voice steady. "Dane's our captain. I shut that shit down the first time I heard it, and I'll shut it down again now."

Carver held my gaze for a beat too long, like he was weighing whether to push harder. He didn't. He shook his head and muttered,"Whatever you say, Campbell."

The moment passed, but the tension didn't.

I caught Dane's eye across the room. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered there—relief, maybe, or something closer to resignation.

I didn't want the C, and I sure as hell didn't want to be the reason Dane lost it, either.

Movement caught my eye. Dane stood, unwrapping the tape from his wrists with short, sharp tugs.

I took a deep breath, wiped my palms on my thighs, and stood to follow him as the locker room began to empty out. The fluorescent light overhead cast sharp shadows across his shoulders, accentuating the stiffness in his posture.

I hovered a few feet away, unsure whether I should say anything or let the tension between us fizzle out on its own. The diner conversation lingered in my mind. The sound of Dane's voice when he talked about childhood came back to me.

"Hey," I said, stepping closer.

He didn't turn around. "Hey."

I shifted my weight from foot to foot. "Hell of a game out there."

"Yeah. You played solid."

"Thanks." I rubbed the back of my neck. "Heard some guys talking."

That got his attention. He straightened and turned, his eyes locking onto mine. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I hesitated. "About me. About you. About... the captaincy."

His jaw tensed. "What'd they say?"

"That maybe the C should be on my jersey." At one level, our conversation was absurd. Dane had heard the comments, too. "I shut it down. I told them you're the captain for a reason."

He exhaled, long and slow, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Thanks."

"I meant it," I said. "We're better when we're a we ."

"Yeah. We are."

I stepped closer, only a few inches away now. "You doing okay?"

"Getting there."

I nodded. "Me, too."

For a moment, neither of us moved. The hum of the overhead lights filled the silence, along with the faint echoes of skates scraping ice somewhere beyond the locker room door. His heat radiated off his body, filling the space between us.

"See you at morning skate?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "See you then."

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.

"Leo."

I glanced over my shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for having my back."

I smiled. "Always."

As soon as I exited the arena, the night air, cold, sharp, and bracing, sliced through my sweat-soaked undershirt and raised goosebumps along my arms. My breath fogged in front of me, swirling upward into the dark sky.

We were better when we were a we . I hadn't said it to make him feel better; I believed it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I dug it out with stiff fingers and squinted at the screen.

Mercier: Heads-up. Carver's been talking again. Some guys think you're gunning for the C.

I read the message twice, my pulse speeding up with each pass. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I didn't know what to type.

The captaincy. Again. I thought shutting that down in the locker room would've been enough.

It wasn't only about the C. It was about Dane losing control of the one thing he still had left and having to watch that happen.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and crossed the lot to my Civic. The metal door creaked when I yanked it open, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet night.

Behind the wheel, I sat with my hands on the steering wheel, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The shadows under my eyes looked darker than usual, my face thinner and sharper.

I don't want the C.

But I did want us —the connection we'd found. On the ice, we were untouchable. Off the ice, I wanted the bond that had started to bleed into those long conversations over greasy diner breakfasts.

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel. We're better when we're a we .

The locker room was splitting. I didn't have a fix. But walking away from Dane? Not happening.

With a sharp inhale, I sat up, started the engine, and drove into the night.