Page 21

Chapter twenty-one

Dane

T he buzzer echoed through the arena, sharp and final, like a slap to the face. Bangor 4, Lewiston 3. The sound was barely audible over the thunderous cheering from the home crowd, the noise rolling over us in waves while we stood motionless on the ice, sticks hanging limp in our hands.

Three straight losses leaving us on the bubble for a playoff berth. This one hurt worst of all—we'd led 3-1 going into the third period, only to collapse spectacularly in the final fifteen minutes.

"Let's go," I muttered to no one in particular, pushing myself toward the tunnel on legs that felt like they'd been hollowed out and filled with cement. Leo skated past me, his face flushed with exertion. He'd left everything on the ice: two goals and an assist. It was a performance that should have guaranteed victory.

Equipment hit the floor with dull thuds in the locker room and clattered against metal stalls. I sank onto the bench, unlacing my skates while my mind replayed every mistake—the defensive breakdown in our own zone, my missed opportunity on a two-on-one, and the power play that fizzled out in the final minutes.

Coach entered without fanfare, clipboard tucked under his arm. He didn't slam doors or kick trash cans. Didn't need to. The disappointment etched into the lines of his face said everything.

"That's three straight. Three games we should have won."

I kept my eyes fixed on the floor between my feet, unable to meet his or anyone else's gaze. The captain should have something to say at a moment like this—words to rally the troops and promise better. I had nothing.

"You don't win games on highlight reels," Coach continued. "You win them by playing smart, and tonight? We left our intelligence here in the locker room."

He was right. We'd gotten comfortable and complacent. We'd forgotten that a two-goal lead meant nothing if you couldn't protect it.

"Get your rest. Film study at nine tomorrow. Practice at eleven." Coach paused, his weathered face unreadable. "Figure yourselves out before then."

I pulled my jersey over my head, the fabric stiff with dried sweat, and tossed it into the laundry bin with more force than necessary. The sound of zippers and velcro tearing apart filled the room, punctuated by occasional sighs and muttered curses.

"Fucking embarrassing," someone whispered from across the room.

I reached for my shin guards, fingers fumbling with the straps, when Carver's voice cut through the quiet.

"Maybe we'd be better off with someone who plays like they want to win."

My hands froze. For a second, I thought I'd imagined it—that familiar voice a product of my own insecurities. Then he continued. He was louder and impossible to ignore.

"No offense, Whitaker, but Leo's the one carrying us right now."

"Jesus, Carver," TJ scoffed from the stall beside me, "maybe keep that shit to yourself after a loss. Fucking rude to hit a man when he's down."

"What? Everyone's thinking it."

I raised my head. Carver stood halfway undressed, chest heaving slightly as if the words required physical effort. Some guys nodded slightly. Others suddenly decided it was time to check the condition of their equipment.

Something cold slithered through my gut. Not anger—that would have been easier to handle. It was doubt, slippery and invasive, seeping into cracks I hadn't known existed. I was finally starting to question whether they'd sewn the C onto the wrong jersey.

When I emerged from the showers, towel wrapped around my waist, most of the guys had either cleared out or were nearly dressed. A small cluster remained huddled around Pike's phone.

"—just straight up called it like it was," Pike was saying. "No hockey clichés, no bullshit."

"Play it again," Bash urged, leaning in closer.

I moved to my stall, pretending not to listen as Leo's voice emerged from the phone speaker.

"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."

The audio quality was poor, tinny, and distorted, but there was no mistaking the raw conviction in Leo's tone—the comments had gone viral and were still spreading through the sports world.

"Tonight wasn't about revenge," Leo continued from the phone. "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."

"Fucking right," Mercier murmured appreciatively from the fringe of the group.

I pulled my jeans on with deliberate slowness, keeping my back to them as a reporter's voice cut in: "Leo Campbell is emerging as the heart of this Lewiston team and one of its most important voices both on and off the ice."

"Lotta hits on this," Pike observed. "Like, way more than anything else about us all season."

"Course there is," Mercier replied. "When's the last time someone in this league said something real?"

The conversation wasn't about me—wasn't meant for me—but each word stung. For three years, I'd worn the C. Three years of measured interviews, careful statements, and leading by example. And in a single night, Leo had connected with more people than I had in all that time.

I wasn't jealous. That would have been petty and small-minded. What twisted in my chest was something more complicated—the dawning realization that maybe I'd been doing it wrong all along. Playing it safe. Saying what was expected instead of what mattered.

I risked a glance toward the far side of the room where Leo was quietly packing his bag, seemingly oblivious to the attention his words had garnered. He wasn't seeking the spotlight or trying to step into any role beyond his own. The camera had found him because he'd stopped performing for it—had simply spoken his truth without reservation.

The C on my chest shifted into something other than a badge of honor. It was a target, a constant reminder of all the ways I might be failing. Had I been leading wrong? Holding the team at arm's length?

As I headed toward the parking lot, my footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. Behind me, I heard the locker room door open and close, followed by the soft pad of someone following. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Hey," Leo's voice confirmed my suspicion. "You heading out?"

I slowed but didn't stop. "Yeah. Need to clear my head."

He fell into step beside me, silent for several paces. "Tough loss.".

"Yeah."

"You know Carver's full of shit, right?" Leo's directness caught me off guard. "He's frustrated and looking for someone to blame."

"Maybe he's right."

Leo grabbed my arm, forcing me to stop and face him. His eyes narrowed, searching mine with an intensity that made me want to look away. "About what, exactly?"

"About me. About how I'm leading. Or not leading."

"You're full of it. One loss doesn't—"

"Three losses," I corrected. "And it's not just that. It's..." I gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the jumble of insecurities that were piling on.

Leo released my arm, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "It's because of the interview, isn't it? The stuff people are saying."

"No."

He saw through my denial immediately. "Dane—"

"I need to go," I cut him off, taking a step back. "I'll see you at practice."

***

My alarm blared an hour before film study, but I was already awake, staring at the ceiling while my mind cycled through every mistake from last night's game. I dragged myself into the shower, cranking the water hot enough to turn my skin pink. It didn't help.

When I arrived at The Colisée, the parking lot was half-empty. Film study wouldn't start for another twenty minutes, but I needed the quiet—needed to pull on my mental armor before facing the team.

Coach's office door was open, light spilling into the dim hallway. I hesitated at the threshold, watching him scribble notes on a pad, his reading glasses perched low on his nose.

"You planning to stand there all morning, Whitaker?"

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. "Wanted to check in before everyone gets here."

He dropped his pen, removed his glasses, and fixed me with a stare that stripped away all pretense. "About?"

"Last night. The loss."

"Which part of it?"

I sank into the chair across from his desk, unsure how to articulate what I needed. "The team doesn't seem—"

"Confident?" he supplied. "Or is it you who's not confident?"

I squirmed. "I'm fine, but I think we need to address some things."

Coach leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Such as?"

"Our third period collapses. The defensive breakdowns. The—"

"I don't need the game recap, Dane. I was there." His voice remained level, but there was an edge to it. "What's really eating at you?"

I exhaled. "I think the team might respond better to a different voice right now."

There. I'd said it. The thought that had been gnawing at me since Carver's comment.

Coach's eyebrows shot up. "You asking me to pull your C?"

"No, I—" I stopped, uncertain what exactly I was asking for. "I just think maybe they need someone else to lead the way for a bit. Someone who—"

"Someone like Campbell?"

The name hung between us. "He connects with them differently than I do."

Coach studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk.

"You think leadership is about being the most talented guy in the room? Or the one with the best sound bites?" He shook his head. "Being C isn't a popularity contest, Dane. It's about showing up every day, in the good and the bad, and dragging everyone else along with you."

"But if they're not following—"

"Then you need to find a new way to lead." He cut me off with a sharp gesture. "You think you're the first captain to go through a rough patch? To have guys questioning him? Christ, you should have seen the shit storm I weathered in my playing days."

I hadn't known Coach had worn the C. It wasn't something he'd ever mentioned.

"What did you do?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"I stopped trying to be the captain I thought they wanted and started being the one they needed." He picked up his pen again, a signal that the conversation was nearing its end. "Film room in ten. I expect you to have something useful to say to your team."

I nodded, rising from the chair. At the door, I paused. "Coach? Thanks."

He grunted in acknowledgment.

The film session was mercifully quick but brutally honest. Every botched pass, hesitation, and the moments where we'd chosen the safe play instead of the right one were dissected under Coach's unflinching commentary.

When the lights came back up, no one looked at each other. The evidence of our collective failure was too fresh.

"Practice in fifteen," Coach announced, gathering his notes. "Don't bother getting comfortable."

The warning proved accurate. From the moment we hit the ice, Coach pushed us to the edge of endurance and beyond. No casual warm-up laps and no easing into drills—only immediate, punishing intensity.

"Again!" he barked after a failed breakout drill. "And this time, try moving your feet before you move the puck!"

I gulped air, my lungs burning as I reset at the blue line. Sweat ran in rivulets down my back, soaking through my practice jersey. Around me, my teammates were equally wrecked—faces flushed and hair plastered to foreheads.

Still, no one complained or eased up. There was a desperate edge to our efforts.

I drove myself hardest of all, throwing my body into every battle drill and pushing through the burn in my quads during every sprint, but my timing was off. During a three-on-two rush, I fired a pass meant for Leo's stick, but it slid behind his stride, forcing him to reach back and kill our momentum.

"Wake up, Whitaker!" Coach shouted from the bench. "You telegraph that pass one more time, and I'll have you doing suicides until next Tuesday!"

Three drills later, we faced off in a battle exercise—Leo and me against Carver and TJ, fighting for possession along the boards. Leo won the initial draw, sliding the puck back to me. I tried to curl out toward open ice, but Carver was there instantly, his stick lifting mine before I could settle the puck.

"Christ, are you even trying today?" he muttered, loud enough for only me to hear.

Something snapped inside me. I drove my shoulder into his chest, pinning him against the boards hard enough that the plexiglass rattled in its frame.

"You want to keep running your mouth, or you want to play?" I growled.

Carver's eyes widened slightly, surprise flashing across his face before anger replaced it. "Maybe if you played with half the energy you're using right now, we wouldn't be on a three-game skid."

I shoved him again, harder. "And maybe if you focused more on your game than everyone else's, you'd contribute something more than noise."

"Enough!" Coach's voice cut through the tension. "Whitaker, Carver—out of the drill. Now."

I released Carver and skated toward the bench, frustration boiling under my skin. Coach met us at the gate.

"You two want to sort out your issues? Do it after practice. Right now, you're wasting everyone's time."

"Yes, Coach," we mumbled in unison.

The rest of practice passed in a blur of exhaustion and strained focus. By the time Coach finally blew the whistle to end it, my jersey was soaked through, and my legs felt disconnected from my body.

"Team meeting, eight AM tomorrow," Coach announced as we filed off the ice. "Don't be late."

I was the last to leave the ice, lingering to collect stray pucks. When I finally headed for the locker room, my footsteps heavy with fatigue, I found Leo waiting in the tunnel, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

"You know Carver's just pushing buttons because he can."

I sighed, too tired for an intense conversation. "Yeah, well, he's doing a damn good job of it."

Leo pushed off the wall, falling into step beside me. "He's insecure. Lashing out because he feels overlooked."

"How do you figure?"

"I used to do the same thing." He shrugged. "Different circumstances, same defense mechanism."

I absorbed his comment, unsure how to respond. Leo continued, his voice dropping lower.

"You coming over tonight? We could watch the film, figure out what's—"

"Not tonight." I cut him off more sharply than I intended. "I need some space to think."

He pulled back slightly, something flashing across his face too quickly to read. "Okay. Sure."

"Leo, it's not—" I started, then stopped, unable to find the right words. "I just need to get my head straight."

"Yeah, I get it." His tone suggested the opposite. "See you tomorrow."

Before I could say anything else, he pushed past me into the locker room, leaving me alone in the tunnel with nothing but the hollow echo of his retreating footsteps.

Film study was addictive in the worst possible way. You went in seeking answers, clarity, and maybe even some reassurance that things weren't as bad as they seemed. Instead, you got a frame-by-frame replay of every mistake.

I'd been at it for hours, hunched over the laptop in the tiny film room adjacent to Coach's office. The rest of the building had emptied out long ago, leaving me alone with the hypnotic flicker of recorded failure playing on a loop. The screen's blue glow cast harsh shadows across the bare walls, turning the familiar room into something alien and unwelcoming.

I rubbed my eyes, gritty from too much screen time and too little sleep. The digital clock on the wall read 11:42 PM. I should have been home hours ago and should be resting for tomorrow's practice, but the thought of facing another day without answers was unbearable.

My finger hovered over the spacebar, ready to replay the sequence again, when heavy footsteps in the hallway broke my concentration. I tensed, not expecting anyone else to be in the building this late.

The footsteps paused outside the door, then continued past, heading toward the locker room. Probably just the night janitor making his rounds. I turned back to the screen, trying to recapture my focus.

Several minutes later, the footsteps returned, slower this time. They stopped outside the film room door, followed by a soft knock.

"Yeah?" I called, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.

The door creaked open, and Carver stood silhouetted in the doorway. He wore street clothes—dark jeans and a faded Forge hoodie.

"Thought I might find you here." His voice sounded oddly subdued.

I straightened, instantly on guard. "If you're looking for another fight, I'm not in the mood."

He didn't rise to the bait. "You know that's not why I'm here."

"Then what do you want, Carver?"

"You left your phone in your stall. TJ asked me to drop it by your place on my way home." He produced the device from his pocket, setting it on the small table near the door. "Figured you might still be here, though. Finding anything useful?"

"Nothing I didn't already know."

Carver lingered, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he had more to say. "You know I wasn't trying to start shit earlier," he finally said, the words emerging in a rush. "During practice."

I turned back to the computer, hitting play to avoid looking at him. "Could've fooled me."

He stepped further into the room, his reflection appearing on the dark edges of the screen. "I'm serious, Dane. I was frustrated and said some stuff I shouldn't have."

"Like when you threw me under the bus in front of the whole team?"

Carver winced. "That was...I was out of line."

"You think?" I paused the video again, finally turning to face him. "You're a veteran on this team. Guys listen to you. When you start questioning leadership, it shoves a wedge into the team."

"I know." He dragged a hand through his hair. "But maybe that's not the worst thing right now."

My jaw tightened. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You think leading means standing back and being the responsible one. You're so damn scared of screwing up that you barely let us see you."

"You think leadership is just running your mouth?"

Carver didn't rise to my bait. "No. But I think it's about more than setting an example. It's about connection. About letting the guys know you're in the trenches with them."

"And you think I don't do that?"

"I think you try," he conceded. "But you're careful, Dane. We're desperate. Those don't match."

I studied him in the dim light. Beneath the cocky exterior and the constant stream of bullshit, there was something else—a hunger for recognition and validation. He wasn't only picking fights; he was trying to matter.

"Why do you care so much?" I asked, genuinely curious. "About how I lead, about Leo stepping up—all of it. Why does it get under your skin?"

The question caught him off guard. He blinked, then looked away. "Because I've been here five seasons. Five. And they still see me as the loud guy who can't back it up when it counts."

Understanding dawned with uncomfortable clarity. Carver felt overlooked and unappreciated. He'd been part of the Forge through rebuilds, playoff pushes, coaching changes, and roster overhauls.

Only I'd been around longer. He'd seen newer, flashier talents come in and get the spotlight while he remained a middle-six grinder with a mouth bigger than his production.

"You think I don't see what you do?" I asked quietly. "How you pull the younger guys into drills and how you handle the bench when I'm on the ice? I do."

He looked up.

"Leadership isn't only about talent. It's about making people better. And if you're pissed that people don't see you as that guy, then prove it. Not by tearing others down, but by stepping up when it matters."

Carver didn't respond immediately, his eyes searching mine for signs of insincerity or manipulation.

I spoke again. "I'm not the enemy here. And neither is Leo."

"I know that. I just—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I want to matter to this team."

"Then be the guy who brings us together instead of the one pointing out the cracks." I shut the laptop, suddenly exhausted. "We need everyone pulling in the same direction right now, not taking shots at each other."

Carver stood. "Yeah. You're right. For what it's worth, you're not doing the captain thing wrong. You only need to let us in a little more."

Before I could respond, he slipped out, footsteps fading down the hallway toward the exit.

I gathered my things, switching off the light as I left. The empty arena was tomb-quiet as I walked through the darkened corridors toward the exit, my footsteps echoing in the silence.

Tomorrow would come too soon, bringing with it all the same challenges. But maybe I'd face them differently.

***

The locker room was empty when I arrived the following morning. The overhead lights weren't yet switched to their full brightness. I stood in the center, taking in the space that had been my second home for six seasons. Each stall told a story—TJ's meticulously arranged gear, Mercier's battered mask perched on its shelf, Pike's growing collection of lucky trinkets.

Coach's office door opened, catching me mid-contemplation.

"Early," he observed, coffee mug clutched in his weathered hand.

"Wanted some quiet before the storm."

He nodded. "You figure anything out after our talk?"

"Maybe." I hesitated, not ready to articulate the half-formed thoughts still taking shape. "Guess we'll find out."

"That's usually how it works." He lifted his mug in a small salute before returning to his office, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.

Voices in the corridor signaled the arrival of the team. Leo entered with Mercier, their heads bent in conversation. He faltered slightly when he spotted me. We hadn't spoken since our tense exchange after practice.

"Morning," I nodded toward him.

"Hey," he replied, voice guarded.

Once everyone had arranged themselves on benches, I stepped to the front. "Before Coach gets started, I want to say something."

All eyes turned to me.

"I'm not going to stand here and give some rah-rah speech about how we need to pull together and play better. You all know that already. The truth is, I've been holding back. Not only on the ice, but off it too."

TJ shifted in his seat, exchanging a quick glance with Pike. Carver, surprisingly, leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, fully engaged.

"We're at a turning point in our season," I continued. "These next few games will either make or break our playoff chances. And if we're going to make it, we need every single person in this room to bring everything they have. No holding back. No playing it safe."

Leo's gaze met mine, dark and intense.

"That starts with me." I inhaled deeply. "I've been leading from a distance because I thought that's what a captain does—sets an example, stands above the fray, but that's bullshit. What we need right now isn't perfection. It's honesty. Connection."

My vulnerable admission hung in the air. I waited for the discomfort to set in, for the doubt to creep back, but instead, I felt lighter. Freer.

"So here's my truth: I'm scared. Scared of letting this team down. Scared of not being enough when it counts. Scared my family will wreck my career, but I'm done letting that fear dictate how I play or how I lead."

TJ grinned. Mercier nodded.

"We've got the talent in this room to beat anyone, but that's not enough. We need to fight for each other, not with each other. Starting now."

Coach chose that moment to emerge from his office, clipboard in hand. He paused, taking in the scene with a raised eyebrow.

"Sounds like I missed the Gettysburg Address ."

"Just getting some things straight," I replied.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Then let's get to work."

As we filtered out toward the ice for practice, Carver fell into step beside me. For a moment, neither of us spoke, just walked in surprisingly comfortable silence.

"That was good," he finally said, voice low enough that only I could hear. "What you said in there."

"Let's back it up on the ice," I replied.

He nodded, a rare genuine smile replacing his usual smirk. "Count on it."

Practice began with the usual warm-up laps, but the energy was different—sharper, more focused. Carver, typically content to cruise through the preliminaries, was pushing the pace, calling out encouragement to the younger guys.

"Pike! Knees up! You're dragging!" he barked, but the criticism came with a demonstrative stride that showed what he meant.

Pike adjusted, his form immediately improving. "Like that?"

"Better!" Carver circled back, tapping his stick against Pike's shin pads. "Now, keep it up!"

Throughout practice, the pattern continued. Carver was louder but in a fundamentally different way—encouraging, instructing, and backing my calls instead of questioning them. When Coach divided us for scrimmage, Carver took the younger players under his wing, positioning them with pointed gestures and quick words of advice.

The team noticed. The shift was subtle but unmistakable, like a current changing direction beneath the surface of a river.

As practice wound down, Leo caught up to me during a water break, his expression thoughtful.

"That thing with Carver," he nodded toward where the veteran was demonstrating a face-off technique to a rookie. "That's new."

"Yeah," I agreed. "But good, I think."

"You two figure something out?"

"We had a talk. Cleared the air."

He nodded slowly. "About last night—"

"I was an ass. I'm sorry."

The apology caught him off guard. "I didn't expect that."

"What? Me admitting when I'm wrong?"

"You being so direct about it." A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Usually, there's a whole process where you brood for days before getting to the apology part."

I laughed. "Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf."

"I hope so. I like it."