Page 17

Chapter seventeen

Dane

T he Portland hotel room was neutral territory. I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the soft pulse of the city beyond our window. The tires of cars hissed against wet pavement backed by the distant sound of horns.

Leo stood by the window. The city lights outlined his dark silhouette. He wore only an old t-shirt and sweatpants. I watched the slow rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath.

"Are you going to hang out in here all night?" he asked without turning.

"Haven't decided."

He turned, and his dark eyes connected with mine across the room. "This doesn't have to be complicated, Dane."

"Doesn't it?" I almost laughed. We'd complicated everything between us from the moment we met in The Colisée, where he flipped that damn puck between his fingers like he owned the place.

Leo moved toward me, taking deliberate steps forward. He stopped when our knees were almost touching.

"It's only complicated if we make it that way." He reached out, fingers hovering over my jaw before making contact. His touch was soft and gentle—nothing like the brutal collisions we'd shared on the ice.

I leaned into his palm, surrendering to the warmth of his hand against my stubbled cheek.

"I'm tired," I admitted, the words barely audible.

"Of what?"

"Trying to balance everything. Switching back and forth as I try to be everyone's version of Dane Whitaker."

Silently, Theo sank to his knees between my legs, and his hands settled on my thighs.

"Then don't be. Not tonight."

I studied him—a faint bruise bloomed along his jaw from a hit he'd taken in the third period of our last game. I studied the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow and the steady certainty in his gaze. Leo didn't look at me like I was the captain, the heir to Whitaker Consolidated, or anything other than the man sitting before him.

My hands gripped his shoulders, thumbs tracing the hollows of his collarbones through thin cotton. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?" He smirked slightly. "Have sex with a teammate?"

"Trust someone enough to let them see me fall apart."

His smile faded. He rose onto his knees, bringing his face level with mine. "You think I haven't seen you cracking already? You think anyone who's paying attention hasn't?"

The truth stung, but there was no judgment in his voice—only quiet honesty. "That obvious, huh?"

"Only to me." He leaned forward, holding my face in his hands. "I'm good at seeing the things people try to hide."

When his lips brushed mine, the kiss wasn't urgent or demanding. It was careful, almost tender—an offering rather than a claim. My fingers raked into his hair, holding him there as something tight and cold inside me began to thaw.

We broke apart when my lungs burned for air, and I watched Leo's eyes—dark with something more complex than merely desire. His fingertips traced patterns along my jawline, calluses catching slightly against my stubble.

"We should—" I started, but he pressed a thumb against my lower lip, silencing me.

"Stop overthinking. Relax… and feel."

He lowered his hands to grip the hem of my shirt, and I lifted my arms, letting him pull it over my head. The air kissed my bare skin, raising goosebumps across my chest and shoulders. His gaze roamed over my body, examining every bruise and scar.

When he touched a fading purple mark spanning my ribs, his touch was so light I barely felt it. "Augusta?"

"That asshole Rowan," I confirmed, remembering the blindside hit that had left me breathless.

Leo nodded, leaning down to press his lips against the bruise. The gesture was unexpected—intensely tender.

One by one, his mouth found the marks on my body—the permanent scar on my shoulder from surgery, a fresh contusion on my hip, and the old slash mark across my abdomen from a skate blade years ago.

I pulled at his shirt, suddenly desperate to see him, to know if his body shared his battles the same way mine did. He raised his arms, letting me strip the cotton away.

Leo's body was resilient. He was all lean muscle carved from thousands of hours on the ice, and his skin bore marks that represented the history of a player who never backed down. I traced a tattoo that curved along his ribs with a fingertip. It was Japanese characters flowing into the silhouette of a mountain range.

"What does it mean?"

"Rise above." His voice was soft. "It was my great-grandfather's favorite saying."

I leaned forward and tasted the saltiness of his skin, while my hands held onto his hips. We fell backward onto the bed. It was a tangle of arms, legs, and half-shed clothing.

Leo's weight above me was solid and real. Desire flooded my body, not the sharp, urgent kind easily satisfied in locker room showers, but something more profound—a need to connect beyond the physical.

"I want to see you," I whispered against his collarbone. "All of you."

He understood. We removed the rest of our clothes clumsily, and then there was nothing left between us—no uniforms—nothing but skin against skin.

Leo traced the contours of my body with his hands while he used his lips to trail kisses across my chest. He was mapping the territory he wanted to claim.

I didn't expect his patience and the care he took in handling my body. He treated me like I was something powerful and precious, not breakable.

When I finally sank into him, he looked into my eyes and refused to let me hide.

"Stay with me," he urged when I tried to look away, overwhelmed by the intimacy. "Right here."

I nodded, unable to form words as we moved together. The apartment background faded until there was only us—finding an inevitable shared rhythm we'd unconsciously sought since we first met in the locker room.

Leo clung to my hips, guiding me and grounding me in the present. Our connection was electric, every touch and movement amplified by the raw honesty between us. His breathing paused when I moved my body.

A low groan escaped his lips. The sound sent a shiver up my spine, igniting flames of lust inside me.

His fingers dug into my skin. He'd brought the necessary condoms and lube, prepared for what came next.

Minutes later, Leo was inside me. Each thrust was a testament to our shared strength; each gasp confessed our mutual need. The sounds of our bodies moving together filled the room.

Leo's eyes never left mine, even as my body began to tremble beneath him. In his eyes, I saw the effort it took for him to stay connected, to stay present with me as pleasure threatened to overwhelm him.

"Dane," he breathed, my name a plea on his lips. I leaned down, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss as we both reached the edge. The world narrowed to the point where our bodies joined, the heat of his skin against mine, the taste of him on my tongue.

When release finally came, it was a shattering wave that left us both breathless and clinging to each other. I collapsed onto him, his arms wrapping around me, holding me close as our hearts pounded in sync. The room was silent except for the sound of our ragged breaths.

We lay there for a long time, neither willing to break the spell. I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him, the faint traces of sweat and soap.

"Thank you," I murmured, the words muffled against his skin.

He chuckled softly, the vibration rumbling through his chest. "For what?"

"For seeing me," I said, lifting my head to meet his gaze. "For not letting me hide."

He brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. "You don't have to hide with me, Dane. Not ever."

I believed him. For the first time since I was a teenager, I held onto a glimmer of hope that I could find a way for someone to truly see and accept me for who I was, not who the world expected me to be.

We lay together in tangled sheets with Leo's head pillowed on my chest. I walked my fingers up and down his spine. Neither of us said anything. Words were inadequate to describe what we'd experienced.

He'd cracked me open and exposed me. It should have been terrifying, but somehow, it felt right. My usual panic at showing weakness didn't materialize. With Leo's weight anchoring me to the mattress, I drifted toward sleep, with peace settling deep inside me.

Hours later, the insistent buzz of my phone forced me awake. For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then, I felt the warm weight of Leo's arm slung across my chest, his breathing deep and even against my side.

Early morning light filtered through half-drawn curtains, painting the room in washed-out grays and blues. The digital clock on the nightstand read 6:17 AM.

My phone vibrated again, skittering across the wood like an angry insect. I carefully extracted myself from Leo's embrace, trying not to wake him. He made a soft sound of protest but rolled onto his stomach, one arm reaching into the warm space I'd vacated.

I watched him for a moment—the strong line of his back and the mess of his hair against the pillow. It was a rare moment of Leo Campbell at rest.

Then, my phone buzzed again, reality intruding. I grabbed it, wincing at the screen full of notifications. Six missed calls from Christopher. Four from TJ. Multiple texts. And a news alert that made my blood run cold:

WHITAKER HEIR'S HOCKEY "REBELLION": INSIDE THE SPOILED SCION'S TEMPORARY DETOUR

My fingers were numb as I tapped the link. The article loaded, and the weight on my chest grew heavier with each paragraph.

Dane Whitaker, heir to the Whitaker Consolidated fortune, continues his extended "rebellion" on the ice with the minor league Lewiston Forge, sources close to the family confirm. The 29-year-old captain's "hockey phase" has stretched longer than the family anticipated, but insiders suggest his return to the corporate fold is imminent.

"It's been indulged as a youthful experiment," says one source familiar with the family's perspective. "But with succession planning underway, the time for games is ending."

Whitaker's performance as captain has raised eyebrows this season, with erratic leadership and questionable commitment leading some teammates to question his focus...

I stopped reading, acid burning in my throat. The article was everything I'd feared—my worst nightmares splashed across the hockey world for everyone to see. It reduced years of sacrifice to a rich kid's tantrum and positioned me as a mere dabbler playing at being an athlete.

Worse, it suggested my teammates were turning against me. The thought of the locker room seeing this—of Leo seeing it—made my chest constrict until I could barely breathe.

I glanced at the bed where he still slept, unaware that our fragile bubble was about to shatter. Already, the night before felt like it had happened to someone else.

My phone buzzed with a text from TJ:

TJ: What the actual fuck, man? Is any of this true? Guys are asking questions.

The team was fracturing because of me. It was all due to my inability to keep my worlds separated.

I rose silently and headed for the bathroom, locking the door behind me. When I was alone, I stared at the haunted face in the mirror—stubble shadowed my jaw and dark circles underlined my eyes. A pale flush from sex still lingering on my chest.

I grabbed the edge of the sink, breathing hard through my nose. Panic started to claw its way up into my throat. My world was crumbling, and I had no idea what to do to hold it together.

When I turned the shower on, I cranked the temperature until steam billowed against the mirror. I thought if I had the water hot enough, it might scald away the sensation of my skin being too tight. I stepped under the spray, clenched my teeth, and hissed as it burned across my shoulders.

My mind raced through the implications of that article, mapping out the damage like I'd analyze game footage after a brutal loss. The team would see it if they hadn't already. Coach. Management. Every guy wondering if I had one foot out the door,

And Leo.

Fuck.

Last night had been real—maybe the first real thing I'd experienced in more than a decade—and now this shadow would hang over it, making him question everything.

I grabbed the tiny hotel shampoo bottle, squeezing it too hard. Soap ran down my arm as I scrubbed at my hair with unnecessary force.

The bathroom door clicked open.

"How long are you planning to stay in there?"

I froze, fingers buried in my hair. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." There was something careful in his tone. "Your phone kept buzzing. Figured it was important."

The sick feeling in my stomach intensified. "Did you look?"

A pause. "I didn't have to. It's all over hockey social media."

I rinsed my hair and shut off the water with sharp, jerky movements. When I pulled back the shower curtain, Leo was leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his bare chest, sweatpants riding low on his hips.

"It's ridiculous shit," I said, reaching for a towel. My movements were mechanical, disconnected from the storm brewing inside me.

"Most of it," he agreed. "Not all of it."

I paused, towel clutched around my waist. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The part about you being pulled in different directions. It's true, but it's not exactly breaking news."

"So what, you think they're right? That this is all just some phase I'm going through?" The little surge of anger was safer than addressing the fear churning beneath it.

"I didn't say that." He pushed off from the sink, taking a step toward me. "I'm saying this pressure has been building for weeks, if not months. I'm not surprised it finally exploded."

I brushed past him into the bedroom, digging through my bag for clothes, suddenly desperate to cover myself. "Well, congratulations on your insight. Gold star for Leo Campbell."

"Don't do that." He followed me. "Don't try to push me away because you're scared."

I yanked a shirt over my head. "I'm not scared. I'm pissed."

"I call BS on that. I was inside you six hours ago, Dane. You don't get to pretend I don't know when you're lying."

The bluntness of his comment stopped me cold. Half-dressed, I sat on the edge of the bed, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it had flared.

"My phone's been blowing up." I stared at my hands. "TJ says guys are asking questions. The team's breaking."

Leo sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "You knew this was coming. Your brother made that clear."

"Knowing it's coming and seeing it happen are different things." I groaned. "I should have been prepared. Should have gotten ahead of it."

"How? What were you supposed to do? Announce to the team that your family might try to sabotage your career?"

"I could have—" I started, then stopped because I didn't have an answer that made any sense.

"You keep trying to control everything. But you can't manage some things. Sometimes, all you can do is weather the storm."

"I'm supposed to be the captain," I insisted. "The one who holds it together when shit falls apart."

"On the ice, maybe." His hand found mine, and he threaded our fingers together. "Not everywhere. Not all the time."

I stared at our intertwined hands—his darker skin against mine.

"I'm losing my grip on everything." The words were raw in my throat. "The team, my family, my career—it's all slipping through my fingers."

"Then let me be the place where you don't have to hold it together."

The simple offer was so unexpected it stole my breath away. I looked up, finding his eyes steady on mine, no trace of pity or judgment in them.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. That's the point."

I leaned to the side, resting my head against his shoulder. Leo's hand came up to cup the back of my neck, steady and warm. "The team will be fine," he murmured against my hair. "They know you. They've seen how hard you work and how much you care. One fucking article won't change that."

I wanted to believe him. Needed to. "My family would disagree. Christopher's probably celebrating right now."

"Fuck Christopher." The vehemence in Leo's voice startled a laugh out of me. "Seriously. This matters because you let it matter. The guys who count—the ones who've been in the trenches with you—they'll see through it."

I sat up slowly, studying his face. The night before seemed like days in the past, but Leo was still here, still looking at me like it was worth sticking by my side.

"When did you get so wise?" I asked, trying for lightness.

One corner of his mouth lifted. "I've always been wise. You were just too busy being an uptight asshole to notice."

The panic receded enough that I could think beyond my next breath. "I need to get ahead of this." I stood and proceeded to dress, tucking my shirt into my jeans. "I need to talk to TJ and take the room's temperature before practice."

Leo watched me from the bed. "And then what?"

"Then I do my job." I reached for my phone, scanning the notifications with dread. "Lead the team."

"That simple, huh?"

"What would you suggest?"

"That maybe this is an opportunity." He leaned back on his elbows. "A chance to stop trying to be what everyone else wants and figure out what you want."

I almost laughed. "Right now, what I want is for this article to disappear."

"It won't, but that doesn't mean you have to let it define you."

He was irritatingly pragmatic. Leo had weathered his own media storm after Moose Jaw. It was his taste of having private pain stripped bare for public consumption. He'd survived it and was standing firm.

I pulled on my jacket and crossed to the window, looking out at Portland. The morning had painted the city in sharp relief, buildings cutting clean lines against a sky threatening rain.

"My grandfather used to say that a man's character isn't measured by how many times he falls," I said, not turning around. "It's measured by how he rises after."

Leo was quiet for a moment. "Smart man."

"He was." The ache of missing him rose fresh in my throat. "He believed in me. In hockey. My parents used to fight about it—Mom said he was helping distract me from my real future."

"And what did he say?"

"That a man who lets others decide his path never truly walks it." I traced a raindrop's winding journey down the window. "He died my rookie year in juniors. Never saw me play professionally."

I heard the rustle of sheets, then Leo's warmth at my back. He didn't touch me, but he stood close enough that I sensed his presence.

"He'd be proud. Not of your stats or your draft position. He'd be proud of your heart."

I swallowed hard. "You don't know that."

"I know what kind of man chooses to fight for something when it would be easier to give up." He sounded like he was stating facts, not offering comfort. "I know what it looks like when someone plays because they love the game, not because they have something to prove."

I turned to face him. "I do have something to prove."

"To your family, maybe." He shrugged. "But on the ice? That's where you're free. I've seen it. Those moments when you're not thinking about anything except the next play, the next pass—that's when you're at your best."

Leo continued, his voice steady. "The team will settle. They know who you are where it counts. And if some of them have questions, then answer them. Not with words but with how you play. With how you lead."

I exhaled slowly, some of the tension bleeding from my shoulders. "Damn, wisdom and now pep talks."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I guess I learned the pep talks from listening to yours."

His chirp, gentle as it was, helped normalize the moment. I reached for my phone again, this time with steadier hands.

"I'll call TJ."

Leo nodded. "And I'll grab us coffee. Something tells me we're both going to need it."

As he moved toward the door, I caught his wrist. "Leo."

He paused, eyebrows raised in question.

"Thank you." The words were wholly inadequate for what I wanted to express. "For last night. For this morning. For..." I gestured vaguely.

"We're a team, remember? On and off the ice."

After he left, I sat on the edge of the bed, phone heavy in my hand. The storm wasn't over. The article would ripple through the hockey world for days, maybe weeks. My family wouldn't back down easily.

I scrolled to TJ's name in my contacts and hit call. He answered on the first ring.

"You okay?" he asked, skipping the greetings.

"Been better," I admitted. "How bad is it?"

"Mixed bag. Carver's running his mouth, but that's nothing new. Most guys are confused, waiting to hear your side."

I exhaled. "And what do you think?"

"I think your brother's a piece of work. And I think you should have told me this was coming, but I get why you didn't."

The tension in my shoulders eased a fraction. "I'm not quitting, TJ. Not the team and not hockey."

"Good." His voice was firm. "We need our captain."

The simple vote of confidence steadied me. "I'll see you at practice. We'll talk more then."

After hanging up, I fired off a text to Coach, brief but direct:

Dane: We need to talk before practice. Family issues spilling over. Won't affect my game.

His response was immediate and typically terse:

Coach: My office. 4 PM. Bring your head screwed on straight.

I set the phone down and stared out the window again. Portland continued its morning rhythm below, oblivious to the battle I was waging.

Strangely, seeing the city's indifference was comforting. It reminded me that beyond the drama of my family and the pressures of captaincy, there was a world that kept turning—one where I was just another person trying to find his way.