Page 16

Chapter sixteen

Leo

I watched Dane across the locker room, his shoulders hunched forward, bracing for an impact. The media storm around his family's business had turned into a hurricane, and he was the house with the weakest foundation.

Every movement screamed exhaustion—the methodical way he unlaced his skates, the tight set of his jaw, and the distant look in his eyes that suggested he was a thousand miles from this concrete bunker we called a locker room.

Most of the guys had cleared out. I lingered.

"I can grab a mat if you're not planning to go home."

Dane looked up slowly. He took a moment to focus on me. "What?"

"You've been staring at that same spot on the floor for ten minutes." I rolled my shoulder, wincing at the satisfying pop. "Pretty sure it's not going to start talking back."

His mouth twitched—almost a smile but not quite. That was progress.

"Thinking."

"That's a dangerous activity. If you keep thinking that hard, you'll pull something."

Dane exhaled. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, well, can't seem to help it lately."

A protective instinct rose up inside me. I recognized the pain. He was drowning in expectations he never signed up for.

"Let's get out of here."

Dane sighed. "You mean grab food?"

"No." I shoved my gear into my bag. "Portland. Let's drive to Portland."

"Portland," he repeated like I'd suggested Mars. "Tonight?"

"No, next fiscal quarter. Yes, tonight." I zipped my bag with more force than necessary. "It's barely an hour away. We can grab a decent meal, stay over, and drive back tomorrow before afternoon practice."

Dane stared at me. "Why would we do that?"

Because you're suffocating, and I can't stand watching you fold in on yourself day after day. Maybe if we get far enough away from this rink and this town, you might remember who you are beyond your last name.

"Because the food in Lewiston is shit," I said instead, forcing a casual grin. "And you need to get out of your head for a night."

"I can't just—" he started.

"Can't what? Take one night off from brooding?" I grabbed my hoodie. "Practice isn't until 2 PM tomorrow. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Leo—"

"One night," I pressed, not sure why it was suddenly so important to me. "No hockey, no family bullshit, and no media. A complete break."

He stared at me for at least a full minute until his shoulders relaxed. "Fine, but I'm driving."

"Hell no. Your car screams Daddy's money. We're taking mine."

"Your car barely screams at all. It wheezes."

"She's got character."

"She's got rust holes."

I slung my bag over my shoulder, hiding my smile. This was Dane—the real one, not the hollow-eyed ghost he'd become recently. "You coming or not?"

He hesitated, then grabbed his bag. "This is a terrible idea."

"They're the only kind worth having."

My Civic's aging engine complained as we merged onto I-95 South. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm, fighting against the steady drizzle. Dane sat beside me. One of his knees bounced restlessly.

"You know," I said, breaking the quiet between us, "I once ate nothing but Sour Patch Kids before a playoff game."

Dane turned his head slowly toward me. "What?"

"First year in Moose Jaw. I was running late, so I grabbed the only thing portable in my apartment." I kept my eyes on the road as I smirked. "Threw up blue and red chunks all over the bench at the end of my first shift."

Dane snorted. "That's disgusting."

"Coach made me clean it up between periods. He insisted it was 'a valuable lesson in the importance of proper nutrition.'" I produced air quotes with one hand.

"Did you learn a lesson?"

"Hell no. Next game, I switched to Skittles. I contended they were less acidic."

Dane shook his head. I glanced over. There was a curve at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile.

"What's your weirdest pre-game meal?" I asked, passing a slow-moving truck on the highway.

He shifted in his seat. "I don't do weird meals."

"Of course you don't." I rolled my eyes. "Let me guess—it was strange if you had grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and brown rice—measured to the gram."

"There's nothing wrong with consistency."

"Boring," I sighed. "Come on, Dane. Give me something. I want to hear about one dietary sin."

He was quiet for so long that I thought he'd shut down again. "Peanut butter and pickle sandwiches."

I nearly swerved. "I'm sorry, what the fuck did you say?"

"My grandfather used to make them." His voice was soft as he shared the memory. "When I stayed with him during summers. White bread, chunky peanut butter, dill pickles sliced lengthwise."

"That is truly horrifying."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it." I finally had him smiling. "My mom caught him making it once and nearly had a stroke. It wasn't that it tasted bad. She said it was common ."

The way he said the last word, with perfect aristocratic disdain, made me laugh. "God forbid the Whitaker heir eat peasant food."

"Precisely." He mimicked raising a teacup with his pinky extended.

Rain pelted harder against the windshield, and I leaned forward, squinting through the streaks. "Your mom sounds like a piece of work."

"She has her moments." Dane used the neutral vocal tone he adopted when stepping around emotional landmines. "She came to games sometimes when I was younger. Before it became clear that hockey wasn't only a phase."

"And after?"

He shrugged. "Christmas cards started including brochures for business schools."

"Parents, man. They've got a way of making their disappointment feel like it's your fault."

Dane turned to face me. "Your parents give you shit about hockey, too?"

I hesitated, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel. It wasn't territory I ventured into often, especially not with teammates. But something about the dark car, rain, and Dane's quiet attention made it feel safer than usual.

"My dad wants me to take over the family restaurant," I said. "Nothing fancy—just this little place in Calgary. My mom's grandparents opened it after the war. Even though he's white-bread Canadian, Dad took over management. He can't understand why I'd rather chase pucks than learn to make perfect tempura."

"And your mom?"

"She just wants me to be Japanese enough." I paused. "Or at least her version of it. Respectful. Traditional. Not the loud, angry guy who fought back when people said shit."

Dane nodded slowly. "So hockey was..."

"Freedom," I finished. "Somewhere I could be whatever I wanted to be. Until—"

"Until Moose Jaw," he supplied.

The memory of Matthews' words, the fight, and the aftermath flashed through my mind in vivid color. I pushed it away. "Ancient history."

Dane didn't press, and I was grateful. Instead, he pointed toward an exit sign. "There's a coffee place at the next stop. Do you want to pull over? I could use the caffeine."

I nodded, welcoming the change of subject. "Sure. As long as you're buying, rich boy."

"You know, eventually, you'll have to come up with new material."

"Why fix what isn't broken?"

The rain eased as we pulled into the service plaza. Inside the coffee shop, Dane paid for our drinks, and we ended up sitting for twenty minutes, swapping stories about our worst coaches and most embarrassing on-ice moments.

By the time we got back on the road, everything was more relaxed. Dane slouched lower in his seat; his constant tension dialed down from an eleven to maybe a seven. Now and then, he'd chuckle at something I said.

It wasn't much, but it was a start. As Portland's lights appeared on the horizon, I hoped that whatever came next, the easy calm between us would last a little longer.

The apartment I'd booked on AirBnB with fifteen minutes' notice exceeded my expectations. Hardwood floors creaked with character. It had exposed brick walls and windows tall enough to frame the city skyline like a postcard. A gas fireplace crackled along one wall, sending flickering golden light across the room.

"This is... not what I expected." Dane dropped his duffel by the door.

I tossed my keys onto the entryway table. "What, you thought I'd book us into some roach motel?"

"Honestly? Yes." He moved to the windows, peering out at the city lights. His shoulders remained tight despite the casual posture. "This is... nice."

"Don't sound so shocked." I flopped onto the leather couch, stretching my legs. "I have excellent taste when I try."

Dane gave the place a careful once-over. I recognized the look—the wariness of someone expecting a catch. He nudged a leather ottoman with his toe. "How much did this cost?"

"Irrelevant." I'd dumped half my paycheck into the night, but he didn't need to know that. "I had some savings. Let me splurge for once, would you?"

He seemed about to argue, but then his stomach growled audibly, interrupting whatever protest he'd planned.

"Hungry?" I grinned.

Dane sighed, resignation softening his features. "Starving, actually."

"Come on. There's a place down the street the host recommended—supposed to have the best lobster in Portland."

"I'm not eating lobster at eleven at night."

"What, your fancy stomach can't handle it?" I stood, stretching. "Fine. Burgers it is."

The restaurant was only six blocks away—close enough to walk. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening under streetlights and the air full of a salty tang from the ocean.

Dane walked beside me, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. His breath fogged in the chilly air. We didn't speak much, but the silence was companionable. Our shoulders bumped while we wove through the crowds on the sidewalks.

When we arrived, the burger joint was loud. It was a hipster dive with craft beers and burgers named after literary characters. We squeezed into a booth at the back.

A female server with sleeve tattoos and a septum piercing brought us menus. She focused on Dane with an appreciative once-over.

"I think you've got an admirer."

"What? Who?" He glanced around.

"The server. She was practically undressing you with her eyes."

He growled. "No, she wasn't."

"Yes, she was. Not that I blame her." I touched his hand. "You've got that whole golden-boy-with-issues thing working for you."

Dane looked up. "Is that how you see me?"

"No. That's how people who don't know you see you. I know better."

"And what do you see?" He blinked as he waited for my response.

"I see someone fighting like hell not to disappoint people who don't deserve his loyalty."

Our server returned. We ordered—burgers and beer, nothing complicated—and spent the next hour talking about everything except hockey and family. Dane brought up movies he had missed because he was too busy training. I talked about books I'd read during long bus rides between games.

By the time we left, that knot of tension in Dane's shoulders had loosened further. He laughed more freely, and his hand occasionally brushed mine as we walked back to the apartment.

When we returned, Dane kicked off his shoes and moved to the fireplace, warming his hands near the artificial flames. I watched him from the kitchen and smiled.

"You want a drink?" I rummaged through the cabinets and fridge. "There's not much. Water, coffee, and—score—some whiskey the last guests left behind."

"Living dangerously, drinking strange whiskey," Dane said, but he nodded. "Sure."

I poured two fingers each into mismatched glasses and joined him by the fire, passing one over.

"Thanks. For this. For getting me out of Lewiston."

"Don't thank me yet. Night's still young."

He sipped his whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn. "So what's the plan now? Are we going to have more heart-to-heart talks by the fire?"

His voice had a teasing tone—playful in a way I'd rarely heard from Dane.

I set my glass aside, "I was thinking we could wrestle."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. We've tiptoed around each other for weeks with the tension growing. Let's... get physical and get it over with."

"That's—" His cheeks flushed. "That's a ridiculous idea."

"Is it, though?" I took a step closer. "You're wound so tight, I worry that you might spontaneously combust. And we both know I've got energy to burn."

"We're not teenagers."

I taunted him. "Scared I'll win?"

That did it. Competitive fire replaced caution. He set his glass down. "You won't."

"Oh yeah? Can you back that up?"

I barely saw him move before he lunged at me, catching an arm around my waist and driving me backward onto the couch. The impact knocked the breath out of my lungs, but I started laughing as we tumbled onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs.

"Too slow," he growled, pinning my shoulders.

I bucked upward, using my hips to throw him off balance. We rolled over, nearly toppling onto the floor. My elbow caught the coffee table, sending it skidding away.

"You fight dirty."

"You expected fair play?" I grinned at Dane, hands gripping his shoulders and holding him down. "Have you met me?"

He pressed upward and used his superior strength to flip us again. We crashed to the floor between the couch and coffee table, a mass of grunting, laughter, and half-hearted insults.

"Give up?" It was as much a demand ad a question. Dane finally managed to pin my wrists above my head.

I arched against his grip, but he had leverage and weight on his side. His face hovered inches from mine, flushed red with exertion.

"Never," I panted, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connected—his knees pressed against my hips, hands locked around my wrists, and his weight holding me down.

Our laughter started to fade. Dane's breathing slowed, but he didn't release me. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

"Dane." My voice was barely audible.

He blinked, then abruptly released my wrists and rolled away, pushing himself to his feet in one fluid motion. "You fight better than I expected," he announced. He didn't look at me as he moved to the fireplace, hands braced against the mantel.

I sat up slowly, pulse hammering in my throat. "Years of practice with older cousins."

I watched as some of the tension returned to his shoulders. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Fine." He clipped the word short. "I... need a minute."

I leaned back against the couch, giving Dane all of the space he wanted. I stopped myself from crossing the room and breaking through whatever wall he'd thrown up.

The fire crackled, filling the silence with its artificial warmth. Outside, Portland continued its nighttime hum, oblivious to the storm brewing in the apartment's too-small living room.

Minutes passed. I considered retreating to the bedroom, calling the night a failed experiment. But something kept me rooted in place—the stubborn belief that we were on the edge of something important.

Finally, I pushed myself to my feet and crossed the room, not quite touching him but close enough that he had to feel my presence.

"My real name is Riku," I said quietly.

Dane turned slightly, enough to see me in his peripheral vision. "What?"

"My name. It's not Leo. It's Riku." The confession left me strangely exposed, like I'd peeled back a layer of skin. "Riku Campbell."

He turned fully, studying me with that intense focus I'd come to both dread and crave. "Why are you telling me this?"

I shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Seemed like the night for it."

"Leo—"

"Riku," I corrected gently.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Riku."

My name in his mouth sent a shiver up my spine. I moved past him to sit on the hearth, the heat from the fire warming my back. "My great-grandfather changed his name during the war. His real name was Takeshi, but he went by Tom Murray."

"Murray," Dane repeated. "Like the poet? The one whose book you're always carrying?"

I blinked, surprised he'd noticed. "Yeah. That's him."

"Your great-grandfather was Tom Murray?" Dane sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. "The Borrowed Sky guy?"

"You know his work?" Now, I was genuinely shocked.

"Not well," he admitted. "But we read one of his poems in school. 'The ice only cracks when you're ready to fall.'"

" Shadow Ice. " I identified the poem automatically. "It's about embracing fear."

"Why did he change his name?"

I traced a pattern on the hardwood with my fingertip. "Self-preservation, at first. It was 1942. Being Japanese in North America wasn't safe. He was a writer—couldn't bear the thought of losing his voice. So he became Tom Murray and published under that name. It won him recognition and respect."

"And he kept it? Even after the war?"

"By then, he had a career. Tom Murray was known; Takeshi Nakamura was a stranger." I swallowed hard. "In his journals, he wrote about the cost. How with each year that passed, he became more Tom and less Takeshi, until it wasn't clear where the pseudonym ended and the real man began."

Dane was silent, listening closely.

"After college, I started going by Leo," I continued. "Not because I was ashamed of being Japanese. But in hockey, it was easier. It meant fewer jokes about kamikaze hits or samurai slashes and a reduction in assumptions."

"Your family must have hated that."

The accuracy of his guess caught me off guard. "My mother saw it as a betrayal. Said I was erasing who I was to make white people comfortable." I laughed without humor. "The irony is, I did it to make myself comfortable. To have one part of my life where I wasn't always the Asian kid."

"Is that the reason for the strained relationship?"

I nodded. "That's where it started. Got worse after Moose Jaw. They thought I should have handled it differently—more dignified. Less angry." I sighed. "As if there's a dignified response to being told you belong in an internment camp."

Dane's jaw tightened. "There isn't."

"No." I exhaled slowly. "Anyway. Leo became my hockey name. My safe name. And somewhere along the way, it became easier just to be him all the time."

"And Riku?"

"Riku only exists on legal documents and in my family's memories… until now."

"Thank you. For telling me."

I shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with my vulnerability. "Just evening the playing field. You've had your family drama splashed across every hockey blog in New England. Seemed fair to offer you something in return."

"Is that what this is?" His voice was quieter. "An exchange?"

"No," I admitted. "It's... I don't know what it is."

Dane shifted, his hand resting beside mine on the hearth, our pinkies nearly touching. "I think I do."

My pulse spiked. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He moved his hand the half-inch needed to cover mine. "I think it's trust."

"I don't do that easily," I said, voice rough.

"I know." His thumb traced a small circle against my wrist. "Neither do I."

"You're not alone, you know that, right?" Dane echoed words I'd told him in the locker room days ago.

"Neither are you."

"Riku." Dane repeated my name, softly testing it on his tongue.

And that was all it took—my name in his mouth, spoken with care I hadn't experienced in years—to shatter whatever defenses I had left.