Page 15

Chapter fifteen

Dane

M y phone vibrated against the coffee table, the screen illuminating with a name I'd avoided for weeks. Dad .

I stared at it. The buzzing continued, insistent, demanding attention like everything my father did. Three rings. Four. Five. My hand hovered above the screen, muscles locked in indecision.

On the sixth ring, I snatched it up.

"Hello?"

"Dane." My father's tone included enough disappointment to make me straighten my spine on reflex. "Your mother and I have been trying to reach you."

"I've been busy." I moved to the window, watching snowflakes descend onto the empty street below. "We had back-to-back road games."

"We're on speaker," my mother chimed in, her voice softer but no less insistent. "How are you, darling?"

The fake concern scraped against my nerves. "I'm fine. We're on a winning streak."

"That's wonderful." She was surely wearing a smile in another of her prize-winning performances. She'd perfected them at country club galas and charity functions. A hint of what might have been genuine worry broke through. "But you sound tired. Are you sleeping enough? Eating properly?"

For a heartbeat, I saw the mother I'd had before I turned sixteen—before hockey became "that hobby" and before my choices were measured by their impact on the family name.

"I'm taking care of myself, Mom."

"Well," she hesitated as I listened to the delicate clink of crystal while she refilled her wine glass. "I saw the highlights from your last game. You had a beautiful assist."

My father cleared his throat—a signal that pleasantries were over. "Christopher tells me you've been... resistant to his proposal."

I lay back on my sofa. "It wasn't a proposal. It was an ambush."

"It's an opportunity," my father corrected. "One you pretend doesn't exist."

My mother jumped in, her tone honey-smooth again. "Dane, sweetie, we're concerned. You're turning thirty next year. This phase—"

"It's not a phase, Mom. It's my career."

"A career with broken teeth and concussions," she muttered, forgetting the speaker could pick up all of her words.

My father's voice was stern. "A career with an expiration date. Meanwhile, your birthright sits waiting."

I closed my eyes. "Is that why you called? To rehash the same argument?"

"No. I called to inform you that the next board meeting will occur the week after your birthday. That would be mid-May. They expect you there, prepared to accept your position."

My fingers tightened around the phone. "And if I'm not?"

"Then you forfeit your stake in Whitaker Consolidated." He delivered the ultimatum with clinical precision. "Christopher is capable, but the board wants a succession plan that includes both of you. They understand how easily you get along with everyone. Without that united front, they'll look elsewhere for leadership… outside of the family."

"You're cutting me off if I don't show?" I struggled to hide my emotional response.

"I'm protecting what four generations built. I won't watch you waste your potential chasing pucks like a child playing games."

In the background, my mother spoke again. "Please, don't—"

"No. He needs to hear this. This is reality." My father paused. "You had your fun, Dane, and we've been more than patient. You proved whatever point you needed to prove, but it's time to be a Whitaker now."

That one word "fun" dismissed everything I'd worked for—years of early mornings, brutal training sessions, and playing through injuries.

My mother interrupted. "Remember what we discussed. Grandpa would be so proud to see you take over."

They unsheathed the dagger. My grandfather was the only person in the family who had actually watched my games and sent handwritten notes after every win or loss. They were not above using his memory as leverage.

"Don't bring him into this. He was the one who bought me my first pair of skates."

A heavy silence followed, broken only by my mother's uneven breathing. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "He also said you had a head for business. That you saw patterns Christopher missed."

I gritted my teeth. "You didn't call to ask how I am. You called to tell me I'm out of time."

My father spoke again. "We called because family matters. Legacies matter. You can't skate away from all of your responsibilities ."

The conversation ended with curt goodbyes and a hollow promise from me to "think about it."

Right before hanging up, my mother added an afterthought. "Send our love to that nice girl you were seeing. What was her name? Betsy?"

Betsy had been a brief distraction two years ago—someone I'd stopped seeing after realizing I was only dating her because my parents would have approved of her. She was the diametric opposite of everything that made up Leo.

"There is no Betsy."

"Oh. You know your father and I only want you to be happy."

The lie hung between us for a heartbeat.

"Happy and successful," my father clarified.

It was time to cut it off. "Right. Goodbye."

I ended the call before they could say anything else. The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. I didn't bother picking it up.

I slumped against the couch, staring at the ceiling, my chest hollowed out by something that might have been grief. The loss of the family I'd never really had—one that could see me, not only the future they planned for me.

***

Frost clung to the edges of The Colisée's service entrance; the metal door handle bit into my palm as I yanked it open. I'd arrived an hour before scheduled practice—enough time to work through the storm brewing inside me before anyone else showed up.

Except the lights were already on, casting long shadows across the empty stands.

Coach stood at center ice, arms crossed over his chest, watching as I approached. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air, dissipating as I skated to a stop in front of him.

"You're early." His voice echoed in the cavernous space.

"Wanted to get some extra shots in." I adjusted my grip on my stick, already uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

Coach nodded slowly, his weathered face revealing nothing. "Skate with me."

We skated a slow lap, the rhythmic scrape of our blades the only sound between us. Coach had never been one for small talk, and I tensed, wondering what was coming.

"Something on your mind?" I finally asked.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face me. "Carver and Bash talking after practice yesterday."

My stomach twisted. "About?"

"You." Coach's expression hardened. "About how distracted you've been. How you're not the same captain you'd become once you and Campbell buried the hatchet."

The accusation stung more than it should have. "We're winning games."

"For now." His voice dropped lower. "But you think I don't see it? The hesitation before shifts? How you're checking your phone between periods? Half of you is somewhere else, Whitaker."

"That's not—"

"Not what? True?" Coach's laugh was short and humorless. "I've been around long enough to know when a player's got one foot out the door. The rumors about your family business aren't subtle."

I swallowed hard. "It's complicated."

"Always is." He shook his head. "Listen carefully. I don't give a damn about boardrooms, stock prices, or whatever fancy title they're dangling in front of you, but I care about this team. I care about giving every player an even shake. If your head's not here—one hundred percent here—it's going to cost you more than the C."

I said what Coach wanted to hear. "The team comes first."

"Do more than tell me. I want to see it on the ice."

Coach skated away, leaving me alone at center ice, the weight of his warning settling deep into my bones.

I didn't wait for the rest of the team to arrive. A bucket of pucks sat abandoned near the bench. I upended it, watching them scatter across the pristine ice like dark marbles. I chased them down one by one, each shot harder than the last. The satisfying ping of rubber hitting metal became my metronome, drowning out everything else.

When the first puck split at the seam from the force of my slap shot, I barely paused before lining up another.

By the time the guys started filtering in for regular practice, sweat had soaked through my practice jersey. My shoulders burned, muscles screaming protest with each movement, but I welcomed the pain. It was simple and uncomplicated.

"Damn, Whitaker," Carver whistled as he glided past. "Save some ice for the rest of us."

I ignored him. Staring down another puck, I swung. Another shot. Another satisfying crack.

When Coach blew the whistle for drills, I pushed harder. Faster. First through every sprint. Sharpest on every turn. I battled for pucks like they contained my salvation, grinding guys into the boards with a ferocity that drew surprised looks.

"Ease up, man," TJ muttered after I'd nearly taken his head off with a high stick. "It's only practice."

I nodded, apologized, and immediately threw myself into the next drill. During a water break, I spotted Leo watching me from across the ice, his expression unreadable. When our eyes met, he raised an eyebrow in silent question. I looked away.

After official practice ended, I stayed. I retaped my stick twice until my fingertips were raw from the friction. The equipment manager found me in the darkened equipment room, hunched over the skate sharpener.

"You're gonna wear those blades down to nothing." He frowned at the metal filings scattered across the workbench.

"Just need them sharper." My voice sounded distant, mechanical.

He hesitated, then set down the box he'd been carrying. "Whatever you're skating away from, Cap—it usually catches up."

I didn't respond. Instead, I kept working the blade against the stone, chasing an edge that would never be perfect enough.

The arena emptied, voices fading until only the hum of the overhead lights remained. My muscles quivered with fatigue. My hands, usually steady, trembled as I re-laced my skates for the third time.

I sat on the bench in front of my stall in the locker room. I was alone and didn't look up when the door swung open.

Leo's footsteps echoed against the concrete, hesitating for a moment before continuing toward me. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he wore a faded Moose Jaw Warriors hoodie with frayed cuffs.

"Thought you'd left," I said, voice rough from exhaustion.

"Forgot my phone." He held it up as evidence, then leaned against the stall opposite mine. "You planning on living here now, or...?"

I shook my head. "Seemed easier than going home."

Leo nodded. He was silent, giving me space to talk or not.

"Do you ever feel like you're trapped by who you're supposed to be?" The question escaped my lips before I could stop it.

Leo's posture changed subtly, his shoulders squaring. "All the time."

I raised my head, meeting his gaze. There was no pity in his eyes, only recognition.

"My family called last night." I swallowed hard. "They've set a deadline. Either I join the company by my thirtieth birthday, or they cut me off. Not only financially. Completely."

"Shit," Leo murmured. "That's heavy."

"Yeah." I rubbed at my sternum where the weight sat heaviest. "Then, Coach pulled me aside this morning. Said the guys are noticing I'm distracted. That my C is in jeopardy."

Leo's expression darkened. "Who's talking?"

"Does it matter? They're right." I stood abruptly, needing to move. "I'm getting pulled in two directions and not handling either one well."

"What a steaming pile of—."

I interrupted. "Is it?" My voice cracked with unexpected emotion. "No matter how hard I play, my last name is still Whitaker. To the team, I'm the rich kid playing at being working-class. To my family, I'm wasting my potential on a child's game. There's no way I can win."

Leo stepped closer, invading my space. "Since when do you care about winning over living?"

The question took my breath away. I stepped back, bumping against the bench.

"I'm drowning, Leo." It was a confession I could only share with him. "The pressure from my family and the team—I think I'm about to crack apart. And the worst part is, I'm not sure I'm strong enough to survive any of it."

He was silent for a long moment, dark eyes searching mine like he was looking for something specific. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between us, one hand sliding to the back of my neck, pulling me forward into a kiss.

It wasn't gentle. It was fierce and grounding, his lips demanding against mine. He raked his fingers into my hair. I grabbed his hoodie, bunching the fabric in my fists, anchoring myself to him like he was the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. He stared into my eyes.

"You're not them, Dane. And you're not alone."

A tight knot in my chest began to loosen. Leo's body was solid against mine, his hands steady on my shoulders. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I exhaled deeply.

"I don't know how to fight this."

"You want to figure it out together? We make a pretty damn good team on the ice. Maybe we'd be—"

"We are more than this," I quietly interrupted. "More than the ice. More than our pasts."

Leo's soft smile was genuine. "We're a team. And we're ours."

I nodded, the truth of it settling into my bones. Whatever came next—my family, the team, the uncertain future—I wasn't facing it alone.

We left The Colisée together, stepping into the crisp night air. My phone weighed heavy in my pocket, messages waiting like landmines. They could wait. For the moment, all that mattered was the warm press of Leo's shoulder against mine as we walked to our cars, a silent promise that whatever storms were on the horizon, we'd weather them together.