Page 2

Chapter two

Leo

M etal scraped concrete as I yanked The Colisée's back door shut behind me. My gear bag dragged at my shoulder, practice jerseys still damp with sweat.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. It wasn't the cold. It was the effort I put into not swinging at Whitaker when he'd pulled that condescending captain bullshit. I'm trying to help you. Like I was some project he could fix—some problem he could solve.

My jaw still throbbed sometimes, a souvenir from my last game in Moose Jaw. My fingers found it automatically, pressing until it hurt. Pain kept you focused. It kept you from doing stupid shit, like thinking this time might be different.

My Honda Civic hunched in the corner of the lot, gathering snow and rust. The key stuck in the ignition—always did when the temperature dropped below freezing. I cranked it harder than necessary, and the engine coughed to life, protesting every second of its existence.

The defroster wheezed lukewarm air across my windshield. Didn't matter. I wasn't ready to drive yet. I wasn't ready to leave the rink behind and pretend I hadn't felt something click on the ice.

It was something dangerous. It had nothing to do with plays or passes and everything to do with how Whitaker's eyes had tracked my every move, waiting for me to prove him right.

I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, letting the cold leather ground me. The bruises from practice were already forming—shoulders, ribs, hip where I'd caught an edge wrong. Good. I needed the ache. Needed the reminder that this was real. That I was here, in fucking Lewiston, Maine, trying to rebuild something I tore down in one night.

My phone buzzed. Probably Colby Mercier, the goalie, checking to see if I wanted to grab a beer. He was the only one who hadn't looked at me like I was a bomb waiting to go off.

But tonight? Tonight, I couldn't handle even his brand of welcome.

I drove without purpose, letting the unfamiliar streets of Lewiston swallow me whole. Downtown was a patchwork of brick buildings and snow-crusted sidewalks, bars already filling up with the after-work crowd. The locals shuffled between doorways, heads down against the wicked winter wind moving in from the West. Nobody looked twice at my car. Nobody knew me here.

Yet.

Give it time. Small towns remembered everything. I'd learned that the hard way.

My hands gripped the wheel as I passed The Icehouse. Through frosted windows, I caught glimpses of jerseys and shadowed faces. Teammates sucking down beers after practice. Making an appearance was the thing that might prove I could be one of them. Instead, I was out in my car, driving in circles like some kid afraid to come in from recess.

A text lit up my phone screen. Colby again. I read it as I waited for a stoplight to change.

Colby: Whitaker's not here. The coast is clear if you want to grab food.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket. Colby meant well, but he didn't get it. It wasn't about avoiding Whitaker. It was about—fuck, I didn't even know anymore. About surviving. About finding a way to play the game I loved without letting it tear me apart again.

I turned down a side street, past rows of houses with hockey nets in their driveways. Kids probably dreamed about playing for the Forge someday, about being the next great story to come out of this frozen corner of Maine.

They didn't dream about being the cautionary tale. About being the guy coaches used as an example when they warned rookies about attitude problems, bad tempers, and wasted talent. About being the subject of the whisper in the locker room: "Don't end up like Leo Campbell."

Anger rose in my throat. I'd worked twice as hard, kept my head down, and smiled through the jokes about my slanty eyes, my family, and how my name didn't match my face. I played the good soldier until I couldn't anymore. Until one word too many destroyed everything I'd built.

My apartment complex squatted between a laundromat and a discount furniture store, all exposed brick and crooked satellite dishes. The parking lot was half-empty—only my neighbors' beaters and a few cars I didn't recognize. It was the kind of place where people landed when they were either passing through or stuck.

The stairs to my second-floor unit creaked under my boots, ice crusting the metal railings—unit 2C. End of the hall, because I'd learned in Moose Jaw that sharing walls with neighbors meant explaining every time you lost your shit and put a fist through something.

I turned the key and shouldered the door open. Gear bag dropped against the wall. Boots by the door. Keys on the counter that came with water stains I couldn't scrub out.

The place smelled like dust and whatever air freshener the landlord had used to try and cover up the last tenant's bad decisions. It would've been a good decision to clean up and unpack more than the essentials.

That would mean thinking about staying.

And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Colby.

My sister Mei's name lit up my screen, her message short enough to sting:

Mei: Mom asked about you today. Said she saw your name on the Forge's roster.

Three years of silence, and that's what she opened with. Like Mom hadn't been the one to say I was erasing part of myself when I started going by Leo, not my given name. She was born in Canada, but all of her direct ancestors were Japanese. Dad was pure white-bread Canadian.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, useless. My breath caught. Stupid. I wasn't some kid waiting for a sign that they still gave a shit. Still, my fingers trembled, insisting it did matter.

What was I supposed to say? Thanks for checking the stats. Glad someone's keeping tabs on the family fuck-up?

I deleted four different responses before tossing the phone onto the kitchen counter. The fridge hummed—empty except for protein shakes and half a container of curry from the place down the street. I grabbed a beer instead, letting the bottle cap clatter against the countertop.

The couch's springs protested as I dropped onto it, beer dangling between my knees. My shoulders ached from practice and trying to show my skills to another team that was waiting to see if I was worth the risk. The TV remained dark, reflecting my shadow back at me.

I sat in silence, letting myself feel every bruise and every place where Whitaker had knocked into me during practice. He played like he had something to prove—all careful control until something cracked.

I'd seen how his jaw tightened when Coach paired us up. How his perfect captain mask had slipped when I'd matched him move for move. He thought he had me figured out. Thought he knew what kind of player and what kind of person I was.

My bruised knuckles flexed against my beer bottle. Every injury was a history lesson—fights I shouldn't have started or words I should have swallowed.

My laptop sat on the coffee table, waiting. With one click, I could pull up the old footage—highlights from before everything imploded. Back when I was only another hopeful prospect instead of a cautionary tale. I knew which game would appear on the screen: Moose Jaw versus Regina, third period. The moment everything changed.

I didn't need to watch it again. The sequence played behind my eyes whenever I let my guard down: Matthews' slash across my wrists, followed by his words hissing through his cage. "Maybe we should send you back where you belong." And when that didn't get a reaction: "Back to the camps."

The beer bottle sweat against my palm. I set it down before I could crush it, glass clicking against the scratched coffee table. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Fucking perfect.

Another text lit up my phone. Colby again:

Colby: Bash is talking shit about your wrist shot. Get your ass down here and prove him wrong.

This time, I almost smiled. Almost. Colby didn't give up easy—I had to give him that. But it wasn't a night about making friends or winning arguments. It was about surviving until tomorrow when I'd have to face Whitaker again and show him I deserved this shot.

The practice schedule for tomorrow glowed on my phone screen. Seven AM sharp. Whitaker would be there early—he had that look about him. Rigid discipline was written across his blond, blue-eyed face.

The problem with him wasn't his game. It was the way helooked the part so goddamn perfectly.

Tall, broad, built for this sport in a way that made it look easy—like every clean pass, sharp pivot, and collision against the boards was another part of some preordained script he'd been handed at birth. Golden boy shit, but it wasn't only that.

It wasthe way he carried himself. You could read it in his face. Failure wasn't an option, but it was always breathing down his neck.

I saw him pull off his helmet after practice, sweaty strands of blond hair plastered to his forehead, and blue eyes sharp under the rink lights. The kind of sharp that cuts deep if you let it.

And I let it.

For half a second before I shook it off.

Didn't matter. Didn't mean anything.

Except I'd spent too much time watching him.

I'd noticed how his jersey stretched tight across his muscled pecs, how his gloves flexed against his stick, and how his lips had pressed into a tight line.

Shit.

I needed to screw my head on straight.

I hadn't planned to enjoy practice or push harder to see what would happen if I got under his skin. But fuck it—I did. Because maybe that's what this team needed. Maybe that's what he needed—someone who wouldn't back down and never played it safe.

The empty beer bottle rolled across the coffee table as I stood, muscles protesting every movement. I needed to ice my shoulder and stretch out the knots forming in my quads. Before I did that, I found myself at the window, staring out toward the falls.

My phone buzzed with one more message from my sister:

Mei: He's asking about you, too. Dad. Even if he won't admit it.

I left that one unanswered as well. Some bridges stayed burned. Some wounds didn't need reopening.

Tomorrow would come too soon, with its drills and expectations and Whitaker's eyes tracking my every move, but I'd be ready. This wasn't merely another chance—it was my last chance. And I wasn't about to let anyone's assumptions about me, who I was, or what I deserved determine how it played out.

Not this time. Not on this team, and not in this town, because if I fucked this up, there was nothing left.

And I wasn't ready to face that truth—not yet.

I set my alarm for five AM. Early enough to beat Whitaker to the rink and claim that ice as mine before he could mark his territory.

The bruises would be worse tomorrow, and the aches would be deeper. That's what tiger balm was for.

I wasn't fading. Not yet. Not ever.

Restful sleep wouldn't happen. Not with my mind spinning through every drill from practice and every moment Whitaker's shoulder had slammed into mine.

I dug through my gear bag for the tiger balm, the scent sharp and familiar as I worked it into my shoulder. The muscle was tight where I'd caught the boards wrong, working to keep up with Whitaker's pace. Stupid. But I'd rather be sore than sorry, rather push too hard than not hard enough.

Another text from Colby lit up my phone.

Colby: Team's clearing out. Bash tried your move from practice. Fucked it up.

I texted back this time:

Leo: Early to practice tomorrow. Rain check tonight.

Colby: Whitaker's rubbing off on you already. Next thing you'll be color-coding your tape collection.

Leo: Fuck off.

I reread the messages with a half smile on my face. Maybe having one person in my corner wasn't the worst thing.

My phone showed three missed calls from Mei now. Each one carried weight and a question I wasn't ready to answer. I almost typed out something bitter. Something sharp enough to keep her from trying again. Instead, I stared at the blinking cursor until the words stopped making sense.

My practice jersey from today still lay crumpled in my bag, FORGE stretched across the back in bold letters. New team. New start. Same old bullshit expectations.

I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and pulled up the team roster. Twenty-three faces stared back at me; Whitaker was front and center with that C on his chest. He looked like what everyone wanted in a captain—blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect smile. Everything I wasn't.

Still, I'd seen beneath that polished surface. There was something raw and hungry that he kept locked down tight.

For a second, I wondered what it would take to crack that open, but I was here to play hockey—my way.

And if Whitaker or anyone else had a problem with that, they could try to stop me.

Emphasis on try.