Page 20
Chapter twenty
Leo
T he Manchester arena smelled like industrial cleaner and stale popcorn—a combination that clung to my nostrils as I laced my skates. My fingers moved on autopilot, muscle memory taking over while my mind circled through pre-game rituals.
"You're grinding your teeth again," Mercier observed from the stall beside mine. He wore his entire uniform except for his goalie mask, which sat at his feet like a disembodied face. "What's eating you? We've beaten Manchester twice this season."
I shrugged, keeping my eyes on my stick. "Nothing. Trying to stay focused."
That wasn't entirely true. Something was off. I'd overheard Coach on the phone earlier, discussing Manchester's roster changes—a last-minute acquisition from Regina. My stomach had tightened, but I tried to push the thought away. Hockey was a small world, but not that small.
The locker room hummed with pre-game energy—Carver's booming laugh, TJ's quiet focus, and Pike nervously fumbling with his laces. Normal chaos. It should have settled me, wrapping me in the familiar, but I wasn't there.
"Let's run through speed drills," I said to no one in particular, pushing off the bench harder than necessary. "I want to get a feel for the ice."
Dane glanced up from across the room, his captain's C gleaming under the fluorescents. A question flickered in his eyes, but he didn't voice it. He'd become an expert at knowing when to push and when to back off.
Out on the ice, the arena sprawled empty before us, seats waiting to be filled by the Manchester faithful. I carved hard, sharp lines into the pristine surface, pushing myself through warmups with an intensity that would have raised eyebrows on any other night. My third time rounding the far net, I saw him .
The maroon jersey stood out against the boards—an unfamiliar number but a painfully familiar stance. My stomach plummeted as my blades scraped to a halt, sending a spray of ice across the surface.
Matthews.
Time warped like funhouse glass as he turned his head toward me. The last four months dissolved in that single moment of recognition. His eyes locked onto mine, and a slow smile spread across his face.
My throat tightened. The sounds of the arena—skates cutting ice, pucks hitting boards, and voices calling plays—muffled under the sudden rush of blood in my ears. I was back in Moose Jaw for a heartbeat, hearing Matthews' words slice through the air: "Maybe we should send you back where you belong. Back to the camps."
"Leo?" Dane's voice broke through the memory. He skated up behind me. "You good?"
I inhaled sharply, forcing air into my constricted lungs. "Matthews is here," I whispered.
Understanding registered immediately on Dane's face. "Don't let him in your head. That's what he wants."
"I know." I pushed off, resuming my warm-up laps, but every fiber in my body vibrated with awareness. Matthews was watching, waiting. He was a predator assessing his prey.
Not this time.
I focused on my breathing and the burn in my thighs as I pushed harder into each drill. I wouldn't be the one who broke first. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
A bitter taste settled on my tongue as Coach's whistle signaled the end of warmups. The game hadn't even started, and already Matthews had resurrected ghosts I thought I'd buried.
The first period started tight, and every shift was a chess match between teams desperate for playoff positioning. My legs were powerful beneath me as I carved clean arcs across the freshly Zambonied surface, but my focus kept breaking. I'd catch myself scanning for Matthews' jersey instead of tracking the play.
"Head in the game, Campbell," Coach barked during a line change, face pinched with suspicion. "Whatever's got you looking over your shoulder can wait."
I nodded. The wooden bench creaked beneath me as I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, watching Manchester's penalty kill with forced concentration.
"He's on their second line," Dane murmured, not looking at me. "Playing right wing. Looks slower than the footage I've seen."
The fact that he'd noticed—that he'd been tracking Matthews for me—eased some of the tension. I bumped my shoulder against his, a silent acknowledgment.
Coach tapped my helmet. "Campbell, Whitaker. You're up."
We launched over the boards, our skates hitting the ice in near-perfect synchronicity. The puck skittered toward the neutral zone, and I accelerated, feeling the satisfying bite of my edges carving through the surface. For a brief, brilliant moment, hockey was just hockey again—the clean mathematics of angles, the physics of momentum, and the burning thrill of speed.
Then Matthews appeared in my peripheral vision like an unwanted shadow. I battled for position along the boards, muscles straining as we fought for a loose puck in the corner. My stick found it first, and I pivoted to make a pass to Dane in the slot. The movement left me open for half a second—enough time for Matthews to deliver a vicious slash to my exposed wrist.
Pain exploded up my arm, hot and immediate. My stick clattered to the ice as I instinctively cradled my wrist. The referee's whistle remained silent—either a clean miss or willful blindness to what happened behind the play.
"Still think you belong here?" Matthews' voice was barely loud enough for me to hear, pitched low beneath the ambient roar of the arena.
Five words. That's all it took to transport me back to Moose Jaw, to that moment when something inside me had shattered.
My vision narrowed to a pinpoint, blood roaring in my ears. My free hand curled into a fist, the temptation to swing nearly overwhelming. One punch. One moment of satisfaction. It would be so easy.
But it would also be so predictable.
Matthews stared at me, eager anticipation written across his features. He wanted it—wanted me to lose control and validate every assumption. He wanted me to prove I was what my critics thought: unstable, dangerous, and unworthy.
I bent, retrieved my stick, and met his gaze. "You'll have to try harder than that."
I turned away before he could respond, skating toward our end to reset the molten fury burning in my chest muted the pain.
"What was that?" Dane asked when we returned to the bench, his eyes flicking to where I flexed my fingers.
"Matthews being Matthews," I muttered, grabbing my water bottle.
Dane's jaw tightened. "Want me to—"
"No." I cut him off sharply. "I handle my own battles."
I regretted the tone immediately, but Dane didn't flinch. He merely nodded, eyes tracking the play on the ice with an intensity that said he was already planning something. I'd seen that look before—the captain calculating odds and angles, mapping out a strategy.
"This isn't your fight," I whispered.
"We're a team." He didn't look at me. "Your fights are my fights now."
Your fights are my fights. The way he said it made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.
Coach interrupted before I could respond. "Campbell, I need you sharper on the forecheck. They're reading your entries too easily."
I nodded, grateful for the redirect. Hockey. Focus on hockey. Not on Matthews or old wounds.
As I waited for my next shift, I rubbed my throbbing wrist and made a decision. Matthews wanted me to break. He'd come looking for the same angry kid who'd thrown that punch in Moose Jaw. But I wasn't that person anymore.
I'd show him who I'd become.
While the guys huddled around Coach's whiteboard at the end of the first period, scribbling adjustments and nodding at instructions, I sat apart—not physically, but mentally. The locker room's familiar cacophony of voices, equipment rattling, and water bottles squeaking faded to background noise as I methodically retaped my stick, covering the crimson mark where Matthews' slash had drawn blood.
My wrist ached, but the pain intensified my focus. Each wrap of tape became a promise. I wasn't going to lose myself. I would use the slash—use Matthews—to fuel something better than rage.
"Two minutes, gentlemen," Coach announced, his gravelly voice cutting through my concentration.
Dane caught my eye across the room, a silent question in his gaze. I gave him a slight nod. I'm good. Better than good. The noise in my head had quieted to a single, clear directive: dominate.
We hit the ice for the second period, and something changed in the way my body moved. Gone was the hesitation, the fraction-of-a-second delay caused by looking over my shoulder for Matthews. Instead, I was lighter, faster—like I'd shed a weight I'd been carrying.
"You feel different," Dane said during our first shift change, sweat already beading at his temples despite the arena's chill.
I didn't waste my breath responding. I didn't need to. He'd see soon enough.
The first opportunity came five minutes into the period. Their defense fumbled a cross-ice pass, and I pounced, stripping the puck with a quick stick lift. Suddenly, I was alone, blue line to blue line, nothing but open ice and the goalie between me and vindication.
The goalie committed early. I could almost hear Takeshi's voice from beyond time— use their momentum against them . I feinted right, then dragged the puck left, sliding it home as the goalie lunged in the wrong direction.
The goal horn blared, but I barely registered it. No celebration, no fist pump, and no stick raise. I skated a businesslike circle back to the bench, eyes already focused on my next shift.
"That's how you answer," Dane said, bumping my shoulder as I sat down. The pride in his voice was unmistakable.
Ten minutes later, I struck again. Dane threaded a perfect pass through a defensive seam, the puck landing flat on my stick blade like it had eyes of its own. It was a one-timer, top shelf, so clean the goalie never even moved.
As I skated past the Manchester bench this time, I allowed myself one glance at Matthews. His face had hardened into something ugly, frustration evident in the tight grip on his stick.
My third goal came in the first minutes of the third period. Another breakaway, this one courtesy of TJ's stretch pass that split their defense. I picked up the puck in full stride. My body angled low, legs pumping with an almost supernatural power. Appearing shell-shocked, their goalie shifted nervously from post to post as I closed in.
I didn't overthink it. No fancy moves or dekes. I was all raw speed and a bullet shot that found the tiniest gap between his blocker and the post—third goal for the hat trick. The away fans—the handful of Lewiston diehards who'd made the trip—threw their caps onto the ice in a scattered tribute.
On my next shift, I lined up for a faceoff against Matthews. His eyes burned with something beyond competitive fire—a personal hatred that once would have shaken me to my core.
"Thanks for the extra motivation," I said quietly. He blinked, confusion momentarily replacing the anger. He'd expected retaliation, not gratitude. His uncertainty gave me a deeper satisfaction than any goal could have provided.
"Fuck you," he spat, but the words lacked conviction.
I won the faceoff clean and skated away, leaving him floundering in my wake.
By the final horn, we'd secured a 5-2 victory. My hat trick was the highlight, but Dane had added a goal and two assists of his own, cementing our reputation as the most dangerous offensive duo in the league.
Our team poured onto the ice, a mass of jubilant bodies and stick taps. Coach stood at the bench, arms crossed, but even he couldn't hide a satisfied smile.
As the team filed toward the locker room, riding the high of victory, I hung back. Matthews was still on the ice, speaking with a referee, but his eyes tracked me. I held his gaze for three heartbeats, then deliberately turned away.
The message was clear: he hadn't broken me in Moose Jaw, and he wouldn't break me now. Whatever power he'd once held over me was gone, left behind on the ice with the sweat and blood of a battle I won on my terms.
The locker room pulsed with post-win energy—a chaotic symphony of equipment clattering against metal stalls, champagne showers from water bottles, and Carver's booming voice recounting his slap shot from center ice that had somehow found its mark.
I sat apart from the chaos, perched on the bench in front of my stall with my pads half-removed. My fingers worked mechanically at the Velcro straps while my mind lingered on the ice we'd left behind. The adrenaline was draining now, leaving in its wake a bone-deep ache in my wrist where Matthews' slash had connected.
"Hey, superstar," Mercier called from across the room, tossing me a roll of athletic tape. "Ice that wrist before the media vultures descend. They're already circling."
I caught the tape one-handed and nodded my thanks. Our goalie was more perceptive than most gave him credit for, his quiet observations often cutting straight to the heart of things.
The door swung open, and Coach strode in, clipboard tucked under his arm. The celebration dimmed to respectful attention.
"Decent effort," he began, which was practically effusive praise from him. "Forecheck needs work. Breakouts were sloppy in the first. But you adjusted." He glanced at me. "Some of you showed particular resilience tonight."
He ran through a few more observations and tactical adjustments for our next matchup, then concluded with his usual gruff directive to hydrate and recover properly. As he headed for his office, I felt a presence settle beside me.
Dane had changed into a dark Henley, his hair still damp from the shower. He didn't speak immediately; he sat companionably while I removed my skates.
"You played possessed tonight," he finally said, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.
I shrugged. "Had something to prove."
"To Matthews or yourself?"
Trust Dane to cut straight through the bullshit and see the layers beneath my performance. "Both, maybe. He expected me to lose control. To be the same hothead who threw that punch in Moose Jaw."
"Instead, you destroyed him on the scoreboard." Dane's shoulder brushed mine. "Three times as effective as any punch."
"That's what got me through. Realizing I could hurt him worse by not giving him what he wanted."
Dane nodded, understanding without needing further explanation. He stood, hesitating for a moment. "You know the media's going to ask about it. About him. The footage from Moose Jaw is circulating again."
A cold knot formed in my stomach. Of course, it was. Matthews' presence had guaranteed that the old clips would resurface, reigniting the narrative of troublemaker Leo Campbell for clicks and views.
"I'll handle it," I said.
"I know you will." Dane's hand landed briefly on my shoulder. "Just... remember you don't have to face the wolves alone anymore."
He moved away, leaving me with the quiet aftershock of his words. You don't have to face the wolves alone anymore. Six months ago, I would have scoffed at the sentiment and would have insisted that solitary battles were the only kind I knew how to fight. Now, I found myself unexpectedly comforted by the knowledge that someone had my back.
My thoughts drifted to Takeshi and his faded jersey, now hanging in my apartment as a reminder of resilience. He had played through confinement, finding freedom in a game while imprisoned by his own government. What would he have done in my position? Would he have stayed silent about Matthews, about the insidious racism that festered in corners of the sport we both loved?
The question sat heavy in my chest. Staying silent was easier—it always had been. But silence sometimes was complicity, allowing Matthews and others like him to keep wielding words as weapons without consequence.
My phone vibrated in my bag. I reached for it, expecting a message from Dane or Mei. Instead, I found a text from my father—the most recent connection in our tentative rebuilding process.
Dad: Watched the game. Three beautiful goals. You played with honor tonight.
Honor. Such a loaded word in our family. I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Before I could respond, another text appeared.
Dad: Your great-grandfather would have been proud. Not because you won, but because you played with dignity.
Something cracked open inside me. The words opened a door I'd kept locked for years. Takeshi had survived the camps, writing poetry disguised as someone else to be heard and playing hockey on frozen ponds behind barbed wire. He had found ways to speak his truth despite a world determined to silence him.
I could do no less.
Standing, I tucked my phone away. The media would be waiting, hungry for sound bites and storylines. For once, I wouldn't give them canned responses about team effort and taking it one game at a time.
I would tell the truth.
The media room was a glorified storage closet with folding chairs and a makeshift backdrop featuring the Forge logo plastered unevenly across blue fabric. Fluorescent lights cast everyone in the same unflattering pallor, highlighting the sweat-dampened collars of reporters who'd hustled down from the press box.
I slid into the seat at the center table, adjusting my tie with fingers that still throbbed beneath their bandaging. Cameras clicked and whirred, mechanical vultures documenting every micro-expression.
Beside me, Dane settled into his chair with the practiced ease of someone who'd been facing these questions since juniors. His knee nudged mine beneath the table—a silent signal of support.
The team's PR coordinator started with the usual opening. "We'll begin with questions. Please keep them focused on tonight's game."
Hands shot up immediately. The first few questions followed the expected script—thoughts on our power play, adjustments after the first period, and playoff positioning. I delivered the usual athlete-speak, my voice steady despite the nervous energy curling through my stomach.
"Leo, talk us through the hat trick tonight. Those were three very different goals."
I leaned toward the microphone. "Just trying to create opportunities. Dane put that second one right on my tape. Team effort."
The reporter nodded, jotting something in his notebook. Another hand rose.
"Dane, the chemistry between you and Leo seems to have reached another level. What's changed in recent weeks?"
Dane handled it smoothly. "Practice. Communication. Learning to read each other's tendencies. Leo's speed creates space, which gives me more options with the puck."
Professional. Safe. The way we'd both been trained to speak to media since we were teenagers.
Then, a reporter from the back spoke up, his voice edgy in a way that immediately put me on alert. "Leo, there appeared to be some extra tension between you and Brandon Matthews tonight. The footage from your incident in Moose Jaw has been circulating again online. Any comment on facing him tonight?"
From the corner of my eye, I saw the PR coordinator straightening, ready to intervene. Dane tensed beside me.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The moment's weight pressed on my shoulders—the team wanted me to deflect while the media was hungry for controversy. Somewhere in the arena, Matthews probably waited to see if I'd maintain my silence.
I thought about Takeshi's jersey and my father's text.
I spoke softly. "Yes, I have a comment."
The reporter leaned forward, pen poised. The room quieted, sensing something unscripted was about to unfold.
"Four months ago in Moose Jaw, during a game against Regina, Matthews slashed me behind the play." I kept my eyes fixed on the table, watching my hands as they folded and unfolded. "When I confronted him, he told me to 'go back where I belong.' When that didn't get a reaction, he said, 'back to the camps.'"
A collective inhale rippled through the room. Someone's pen clattered to the floor.
"He was referencing Japanese internment camps," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "When the Canadian government imprisoned my great-grandfather during World War II for the crime of being Japanese."
I finally looked up, meeting the startled gaze of the reporter who'd asked the question. He'd gone slightly pale.
"I punched him. Yes. I reacted. And I paid for it—with my reputation, career trajectory, and damage to relationships that are only now beginning to heal." I gestured to my bandaged wrist. "Tonight, he tried the same tactic. Slash, taunt, provoke. But I'm not the same player anymore. Not the same person."
Dane's knee pressed firmly against mine, a silent anchor as I navigated waters I'd never thought I'd willingly enter.
"Hockey has a problem with casual racism. With the expectation that players of color should absorb it, laugh it off, and be good sports about dehumanizing comments." My throat tightened, but I pushed through. "We talk about growing the game, making it more inclusive, but we don't talk about the reality of what some players face in locker rooms and on the ice."
A strange calm settled over me like I'd stepped outside my body and was watching myself speak words I'd kept buried for years.
"Tonight wasn't about revenge. It wasn't about Matthews. It was about proving to myself that I could face that moment again and choose differently—not because I'm afraid of confrontation, but because I know my worth doesn't depend on his recognition."
The silence in the room was absolute. I'd strayed so far from the usual post-game script that no one knew how to respond. From the back row, a female reporter finally spoke up.
"Thank you for sharing that, Leo. It can't have been easy."
A single pair of hands began to clap, then another, until a wave of applause rippled through the small space. Not thunderous—a media room wasn't the place for that—but deliberate, respectful.
I swallowed hard, caught off guard by the reaction. It wasn't what I'd expected. It was validation.
As the applause faded, I leaned forward one last time. "I didn't win tonight to prove anything to Matthews. I won for myself. For every player who gets told they don't belong."
The PR coordinator called for a final question, directing it toward Dane to shift the focus. I half-listened as he discussed our upcoming schedule, the playoff push, and the team's resilience. Under the table, his hand found mine for the briefest moment, squeezing once before letting go.