Page 18

Chapter eighteen

Leo

T he locker room hummed with post-practice energy. It had been a good session, and everyone buzzed from the ache of sore muscles and groans of exhaustion.

"You planning to actually pass to someone besides Whitaker tomorrow?" Carver called across the locker room. His mockery was both annoying and comforting in its familiarity.

"Only when you learn to keep your stick on the ice," I shot back, not bothering to look up.

Mercier snorted from his stall. "Both of you should pass to me more. I'm the prettiest one on the ice."

"Pretty delusional," TJ muttered, earning a round of laughter.

I glanced across at Dane. His mouth curled on one side—not a full smile, but enough. The memory of Portland lingered in the spaces between us, and neither of us was quite sure what to do with it.

"You coming to The Icehouse?" Mercier asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "First round's on me."

I shook my head. "Rain check. I've got—"

My phone vibrated against the bench. I reached for it without thinking, hoping for a word from Dane.

I was wrong.

Mei: Mom and Dad are in Portland. They want to drive up to Lewiston to see you. Please, Leo. Just once.

The locker room noise around me faded to a muffled drone. I stared at my sister's simple words.

"You okay?"

I glanced up. Dane stood there, halfway into his jacket, brow furrowed.

"Fine," I managed. "Maybe a little tired."

He hesitated, clearly not buying it, but nodded once and stepped back. That was Dane—perceiving the boundary and respecting it without being told—one of the thousand positives that had found their way under my skin.

"See you tomorrow," I said, already reaching for my bag, needing to be somewhere else before the crack in my voice became a complete break.

Outside, the early evening air was chilly but not like midwinter. There was a hint of spring to come. I made it to my car before looking at my phone again, seeing those few words still burning on the screen.

Mom and Dad are in Portland.

I sat in my car, engine off, staring at the phone. The parking lot had emptied, guys scattering to their evening routines—Carver was probably already three beers deep at The Icehouse, and Mercier was likely heading to his girlfriend's place. Everyday lives continued all around me while mine threatened to fall apart along old fault lines.

Three years. It was three years since I'd seen my parents face-to-face. Since the scattered text conversations with Mei had become my only tenuous connection to the family I'd pushed away. Or maybe the family that had pushed me. We'd broken the lines of connection. That's all I knew for sure.

I thumbed through older messages from Mei, fragments of a life I'd deliberately stepped away from.

Dad asked about your last game.

Mom made okayu today. Made me think of when you were sick in third grade.

They miss you, even if they don't say it.

My finger hovered over the keyboard. What could I possibly say? Sorry, I abandoned our heritage to make it easier to fit in with white hockey guys. Sorry, I changed my name. Sorry, I'm not the son you wanted.

Or maybe they needed to apologize to me—for not standing by me after Moose Jaw, for caring more about respectability than justice, and for making me feel like I had to choose between my culture and my passion.

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I saw my mother's face when I first told her as a teenager I wanted to go by Leo instead of Riku. Not angry—that would have been easier to handle. Just that quiet, deep disappointment.

"It's just easier," I'd said, sixteen and desperate to belong somewhere. "Coach can't even pronounce Riku right."

"Then teach him," she'd replied, voice soft but unyielding. "Don't erase yourself to make others comfortable."

But I had erased that part of myself, cut it out like damaged tissue until Leo was all that remained—at least on the surface. And Riku became a ghost that haunted the edges of who I pretended to be.

She wanted me to reconsider when I got my first minor league contract. When I refused, my parents shut off contact.

A sharp knock on my car window jolted me back to the present. TJ stood there, concern etched across his face. I rolled down the window.

"You planning to spend the night in your car?" he asked, his usual snark softened by genuine worry.

"Thinking."

"That's how trouble starts." He studied me for a moment. "You sure you're good?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice for more than that.

"Alright, man. See you tomorrow then." He clapped a hand on the roof of my car and backed away, unconvinced but respecting my space.

I watched him go, and then I picked up my phone again. The message still waited for an answer. They were right there—the parents I'd pushed away.

I could keep running and shore up the wall between us. Or I could face it, finally. Take one step toward whatever resolution was possible, even if it was messy, painful, and uncertain.

My thumbs moved before I could talk myself out of it.

Leo: Okay. Dinner tomorrow. Just once.

The relief that flooded through me as I hit send surprised me.

Mei: Thank you.

Two simple words. I put the car in drive and pulled out of the lot, knowing that after years of building walls, I'd willingly opened a door. I didn't know what waited on the other side.

***

I arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early, a decision I immediately regretted as anxiety gnawed at the lining of my stomach. The Riverside Bistro wasn't quite a fine dining establishment. Still, it was several steps above anywhere I usually ate in Lewiston—white tablecloths, cloth napkins, and servers who didn't call you "hon" while slinging your food onto the table.

It was perfect neutral territory. It didn't hold memories for any of us.

I paced outside, hands shoved deep in my pockets, watching my breath cloud in the evening air. The man reflected in the window was a stranger—hair neatly combed, wearing the one decent button-down I owned and jeans without a single rip. It was a costume of respectability I'd thrown on in an attempt to... what? Impress them? Prove I wasn't a complete disappointment?

"Riku."

The name startled me. I turned slowly.

My parents stood side by side, a matched set despite their differences—my father tall and broad-shouldered and my mother barely reaching his collarbone. She'd aged more than I expected, silver threading through her dark hair and fine lines forming at the corners of her eyes that hadn't been there three years ago. My father hadn't changed.

Mei stood slightly behind them, her eyes darting between us, hands twisting her purse strap like she was bracing for an explosion.

"Hi," I managed, the word feeling absurdly inadequate.

My mother took a half-step forward, hesitated, then stopped. The space between us might as well have been a canyon.

"It's good to see you," she said, her accent slightly thicker than I remembered or maybe more noticeable after so much time away.

"Let's go inside." My father failed to look directly at me. "It's cold."

The host led us to a table near the back, away from windows and other diners. We settled into an awkward silence as the server recited specials.

I ordered a beer. My father followed suit. My mother and Mei both chose water. When the server left, the weight of unspoken words pressed down on us.

"The drive up was nice," Mei offered, her voice slightly too bright. "The snow still left on the trees is beautiful."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Winter's last gasp."

Another beat of silence stretched between us.

"How is hockey?" my father finally asked in a formal tone.

"Good. Team's doing well this season."

My mother found something positive to say. "We saw your name in the sports section. The article said you were an asset to the team."

Something in me ached when I thought about my parents hunched over a newspaper, searching for mentions of me.

"How's the restaurant?" I asked, redirecting.

My father's posture shifted slightly. "Business is steady. We have expanded the menu. More fusion dishes." He paused. "Your cousin Hiro is helping in the kitchen now."

"Hiro? Really?" The mental image of my video-game-obsessed cousin working in a professional kitchen was hard to reconcile.

"He has grown up," my mother said. "People change."

I couldn't ignore the loaded statement. Our drinks arrived, providing a momentary reprieve. I took a long pull of my beer, the bitterness a welcome distraction.

"Riku," my mother began, and I fought the urge to correct her. It wasn't my name anymore—except it was, legally, on my birth certificate, in their memories, and in Dane's voice. "I have been having some health problems."

Goosebumps rose on my forearms. "What kind of problems?"

"It's manageable," she said quickly, reading my expression. "Thyroid. Nothing too serious. But it made me think about... time. How little we have."

My father's hand moved across the table to cover hers. The gesture was small yet so intimate.

He clarified her comment. "The doctors say she will be fine with medication."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I looked at Mei, who suddenly found the water glass fascinating.

"We didn't want to worry you," my mother said. "And we weren't sure you would..." She trailed off, but the unfinished thought was clear enough. They weren't sure I would care.

I spoke quietly. "I would have come if I'd known."

"That's why we're here now. Some things are more important than old disagreements."

"Is that what we have? Disagreements?" My words were more forceful than necessary.

My father's jaw tightened. "Riku—"

"It's Leo."

He exhaled slowly. "Leo, then. We didn't come to fight."

"Then why did you come?" I asked the question that had been burning inside me since I saw Mei's text.

My mother reached into her purse and pulled out a small package wrapped in tissue paper. She set it on the table between us, her fingers lingering on it momentarily before retreating.

Her voice was barely audible when she spoke. "We know how much you respect your great-grandfather's memory. There are some things you should know about him."

I stared at the package. "Takeshi? What about him?"

My mother rested her hands in her lap. She exchanged a glance with my father.

"There are parts of my family history we never shared. Not because we wanted to hide them, but because—"

"Because I was young, and then I was gone?" I tasted the bitterness on my tongue.

She flinched slightly. "Because some stories are difficult to tell."

Our server appeared with appetizers none of us remembered ordering. We sat in strained silence as plates of lobster crostini and seared scallops were arranged before us. The intrusion was almost comical in its timing.

When we were alone again, my mother continued. "Takeshi played hockey."

It took a moment for the words to register with me. "What?"

"In the camps. During the internment in Canada, they formed leagues. They wanted to hold onto some joy in an impossible situation. He loved the game."

I set my beer down slowly. It was entirely new information. I knew about the internment but not the hockey.

The Canadian government had rounded up Japanese Canadians after Pearl Harbor, just like the Americans did. Homes lost, businesses confiscated, years stolen.

"I knew he was interned," I said, my throat dry. "But you never mentioned hockey."

"It wasn't something he spoke of often." My mother's voice was gentle. "Even to his children."

"I don't understand," I said. "You knew how much hockey meant to me. Why wouldn't you tell me this?"

"It was painful for him," my mother explained. "And then, for so long, we feared you wanted nothing to do with your Japanese heritage. I worried you would see it as... another burden."

The accusation stung, but it had a kernel of truth.

"You know he wrote poetry as Tom Murray," my mother continued, nudging the package toward me. "But did you ever wonder why a poet who wrote so beautifully about ice chose that particular imagery?"

I reached for the package, my fingers trembling slightly. The tissue paper crinkled as I unwrapped it, revealing a faded, worn jersey. The material was thin from years of washing, and the stitching appeared fragile. The front read SLOCAN CITY STARS.

"This was his?" My question was also a statement.

My mother nodded. "He saved it all those years. It meant something to him—not only playing the game but what it represented. Freedom, even inside walls."

I ran my fingers over the fabric, imagining Takeshi wearing it, playing on makeshift rinks in a prison built by his government. The weight of that history pressed into my palms.

"I've carried his poetry everywhere. I have four copies of The Borrowed Sky . I've read it so much that two of the spines are cracked."

The lines I'd memorized, passages that had sustained me through lonely hotel rooms and long bus rides, suddenly took on a new dimension. The ice metaphors and the sense of movement in his writing—they weren't only literary devices. They were memories.

"'Shadow Ice,'" I murmured. "When he wrote about skating on thin ice, feeling it crack—"

"He was talking about actual games they played," my mother finished. "On frozen ponds in the internment camp, never knowing if the ice would hold."

I sat back, trying to absorb everything. Takeshi had found freedom in hockey and translated that experience into poetry that guided me through my darkest moments. The connection was almost too perfect to believe.

"Why now?" I asked, looking up from the jersey. "Why tell me this now?"

"My health scare made me realize how fragile our time is. I couldn't bear the thought of you never knowing this part of your heritage—especially when it might help you understand yourself better."

The idea that my love for hockey might be inherited, might be something that connected me to this man whose words had shaped me, was overwhelming. I touched the jersey again, fighting back tears I didn't want to shed in front of my parents.

My father surprised me with his following words. "He would have been proud of you and your independence."

"Even after what happened in Moose Jaw?" The question tumbled out before I could stop it.

My father's expression shifted, complex emotions appearing on his face. "We handled that badly," he admitted. "We were worried about what it would mean for your career. We should have been concerned about what it meant for you."

"I'm not coming back to Calgary," I said, needing to establish that boundary even as others were crumbling. "My life is here now."

My mother nodded. "We know. We're not asking you to return. We're only asking for a chance to know each other again."

I looked down at the jersey, and the three faces watching me with varying degrees of hope and apprehension. The anger that had sustained me for so long was still there but duller now, blunted by the weight of shared history.

"I can try. That's all I can promise."

It wasn't forgiveness, not yet. But it was an opening—a crack in the wall I'd built. And for now, that would have to be enough.

After dinner, I drove through Lewiston with the windows down despite the cold, needing the sharp air to clear my head. The jersey lay on the passenger seat beside me, its presence almost alive, like a third person in the car. Every few blocks, I'd reach over and touch it, making sure it was real, that the whole night hadn't been some elaborate hallucination.

Takeshi played hockey. The revelation kept hitting me in waves, altering my perception of everything I thought I knew. The man whose words had been my lifeline through every rough patch, whose poetry spoke to me on a level nothing else ever had—he had skated on frozen ponds, stick in hand, finding moments of joy in the middle of confinement.

I'd left the restaurant in a daze after promising to call Mei later in the week. The dinner had ended with an awkward, stilted hug from my mother and a firm handshake from my father.

Without a conscious decision, I turned toward Dane's apartment instead of my own. My hands trembled on the wheel. I parked in the visitor spot and sat for a minute, debating whether it was a mistake. Dane had seen more of me than anyone else in years—physically and the raw parts I usually kept hidden. Still, this felt different.

I pulled out my phone.

Leo: You up? Need to talk.

The response came almost immediately.

Dane: Come by.

Just two words, but it was all I needed. I grabbed the jersey, handling it with a reverence I hadn't shown anything in years and headed for his door.

He opened it before I could knock. His hair was damp from a shower, and he wore a faded t-shirt and sweatpants. No captain's mask—only Dane, the man others didn't get to see.

"Hey." He stepped back to let me in.

"Hey."

His apartment was quiet, with only a single lamp casting warm light across the living room. A half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table beside his laptop. ESPN was paused on the screen.

"You want a beer?"

I shook my head. "I had one at dinner."

"With...?"

"My parents," The words were surreal in my mouth. "And my sister."

"Your parents are in town?"

"Portland. They drove up." I shifted my weight, suddenly unsure what to do with my body. I still clutched the jersey in my hands, my fingers rubbing the brown paper wrapped around it.

Dane looked at it, curiosity apparent, but he didn't push. Instead, he sat on the couch and made space for me. "Sit. You look like you're about to fall over."

I sank into the cushions. The space between us was deliberate—close enough to feel his presence, far enough to maintain some control.

"They brought this." I held the brown paper package reverently. "It belonged to my great-grandfather. Takeshi."

"The poet," Dane said quietly. "Tom Murray."

"Yeah, but I didn't know about this." As I spoke, I unwrapped the package. "Before that and before he published his poems—he played hockey. In the internment camp."

Dane was silent for a moment, absorbing the information. "That's... wow."

"Yeah. Apparently, I come by it honestly. The hockey obsession. It's in my blood."

"That's incredible."

I unfolded the jersey. "I knew about the internment but didn't know about this." My voice cracked.

Dane's hand moved cautiously to my shoulder. "That's a lot to process."

"It changes everything." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "All this time, I've carried his book with me, found comfort in his words—never realizing we had this in common. Maybe his poetry spoke to me so deeply because we both found something in the game that nothing else could give us."

I trembled, a fine vibration running through my entire body. The evening's revelations, the weight of history, and the unexpected reconnection with my family were too much. Something was cracking inside me, a dam I'd spent years reinforcing finally giving way.

"Dane," I managed, his name a plea for something I couldn't articulate.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't ask questions or try to find the right words. He simply moved closer and pulled me against him, one arm sliding around my shoulders while the other steadied the jersey in my lap. I went rigid for a second, fighting it.

Then, I broke.

The first sob tore from my throat. I pressed my face into his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, and let everything pour out—grief for years lost with my family, anger at the injustice Takeshi had endured, and confusion about what it meant for my understanding of myself.

Dane held me through it, solid and sure. He didn't try to quiet me or tell me it would be okay. He held on, anchoring me as wave after wave of emotion crashed over my head.

"I've been running," I choked out against his shoulder, the words muffled. "For so long. From everything. And all this time—"

"I know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "I know."

Simple words, but they were enough. He did know—maybe better than anyone—what it was like to run from parts of yourself and build walls so high you forgot what you were protecting in the first place.

I don't know how long we stayed like that, his shirt growing damp under my face, with his arms steady around me.

When I finally pulled back, exhaustion had settled into my bones, deep and consuming. Dane's face was closer than I expected, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.

"Sorry," I said automatically, wiping at my face.

"Don't." He caught my wrist gently. "Don't apologize. Not for this."

I looked down at the jersey still clutched in my lap, the tangible piece of my history that shifted everything. "I don't know what to do with all of this."

"You don't have to figure it out tonight. Some things take time." He paused. "Stay here with me. I don't think you should be alone tonight."

I nodded, too drained to argue. "Okay."