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Chapter twenty-two

Leo

T he steak sat untouched on my plate, a perfectly cooked medium-rare that should've made my mouth water. Instead, my appetite had vanished somewhere between the locker room and the private dining area at Longhorn's, Lewiston's mid-tier steakhouse, where management booked our pre-playoff dinner.

I poked at a roasted potato with my fork, dragging it through a pool of melting herb butter while conversations ebbed and flowed around me. The room vibrated with nervous energy—a carefully orchestrated attempt at normalcy that couldn't quite mask what we all knew: tomorrow was do-or-die.

One game to determine if our season continued or if we packed up our gear and scattered to our separate corners for the summer. One game to prove everything we'd fought for wasn't merely elaborate foreplay for devastating disappointment.

Carver's laugh boomed from the far end of the table, too sharp and loud, the way people laugh when trying to convince themselves everything's fine. Mercier hadn't touched his food either. Across from me, Pike's knee bounced under the table, rattling the silverware.

And then there was Dane.

He sat beside me, close enough that our elbows occasionally brushed, sending sparks up my arm like I was sixteen instead of twenty-six. His fingers tapped against the tablecloth—three quick taps, pause, three quick taps.

I knew his tells by now. One was the slight tension at the corner of his mouth. Another was how he'd straighten his silverware when his thoughts drifted to the family pressure that never quite released its grip, and finally, the barely perceptible shift in his breathing when he shouldered the weight of twenty-three other players' expectations.

"Your potato's begging for mercy," Dane murmured, nodding at the decimated vegetable I'd tortured.

I finally stabbed it and shoved it in my mouth. "Just marinating it in existential dread first."

"Always improves the flavor." Dane sipped his water. His knuckles were white around the glass—another sign of everything roiling beneath his calm exterior.

"Your knuckles are about to crack that glass."

Dane immediately relaxed his grip, a flush creeping up his neck. "Habit."

"I know."

His knee pressed briefly against mine under the table, a touch that wouldn't raise eyebrows but sent a current through me nonetheless. We'd been careful—not hiding, but private. Hockey culture was evolving in acceptance, but slowly, like a glacier reluctantly receding.

The restaurant door swung open, and Coach MacPherson strode in, his weathered face set in its usual pre-game granite expression. Conversations dimmed as he approached the head of the table, placing his palms flat on the table.

"Gentlemen." His voice wasn't loud but carried to every corner of the room. Coach never needed to shout to be heard. "Tomorrow, you leave it all on the ice. No second chances. No what-ifs."

We collectively straightened, uttering a chorus of "Yes, Coach" that sounded almost like a prayer. His gaze swept over the team, pausing briefly where Dane and I sat.

"We've clawed our way here through injuries, slumps, and more media bullshit than any minor league team should have to face. Tomorrow isn't about proving anything to them." He gestured vaguely toward the world beyond our private dining room. "It's about proving something to ourselves."

His eyes fixed on Dane. "Whitaker, you wanna say something?"

Dane set down his napkin, rising with the deliberate motion of someone who'd prepared for the moment. It was the captain's burden—always having the right words at the right time. He stood straight-backed, shoulders squared beneath his dark blue button-down, the same one he wore before every big game.

"We didn't get here by accident. We fought for every inch, every goal, and every goddamn win. Tomorrow, we do it again."

The team murmured agreement, heads nodding, focus sharpening. Dane's leadership style shift was apparent—bringing everyone into the same orbit and centering the collective energy.

"Manchester's going to come at us hard in the first period," he continued. "They'll try to knock us back on our heels and put us in the role of playing catch-up the rest of the game. We can block that. We've been preparing for this all season, and we know what we're capable of when we play our game."

I watched his hands—those strong, steady hands that could thread impossible passes through defensive seams and had mapped every inch of my body. They remained perfectly still now, no fidgeting. It was Dane Whitaker, our captain and now unquestioned leader.

"Whatever happens tomorrow, I want us to leave everything out there. No regrets. Play with your gut, not your head. That's where our best hockey lives."

Dane was at his best—controlled passion, strategic insight, and a subtle challenge to each player to bring their best. He didn't rely on emotional fireworks. He offered a steady flame to guide us through the dark.

I looked at him, and my breath caught in my throat. So much had changed since that first day when I'd seen nothing but another entitled golden boy playing at being captain. Now I saw the layers beneath. He was a man fighting to make himself worthy of respect.

He was the man who'd made space for me when I was convinced no one would. I'd fallen for him despite every wall I'd built.

When Dane finished speaking, the team applauded—a genuine response, not the obligatory acknowledgment often given to leadership speeches. He sat back down, his knee finding mine again beneath the tablecloth.

"Nicely done, Cap," TJ called from across the table.

"Better than last year when you quoted Ted Lasso ," Carver added with a smirk.

"I did not quote Ted Lasso ," Dane protested, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Bro, you literally said 'be a goldfish,'" Mercier chimed in.

"It's solid advice!"

The tension in the room eased slightly as laughter rippled around the table. I smiled but remained quiet, content to observe the brotherhood that had formed around us over the long, grinding season.

"You're quiet, Campbell. For once." TJ's voice cut through the chatter, focusing all eyes on me.

I froze momentarily, caught in the headlights of the unexpected attention. Dane's shoulder pressed against mine, subtle support.

Something shifted in my chest, a tectonic plate realigning. Maybe it was the weight of the upcoming game or relief from the months of keeping parts of myself hidden.

Without fully deciding to, I stood up.

"Alright, fuck it." The words escaped before I could reconsider.

The room quieted, all eyes turning to me. I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of the spotlight I'd stepped into. I didn't have a rehearsed speech. I had words bubbling up inside that demanded release.

"First off, I can't believe Whitaker just gave an entire speech without mentioning defensive zone coverage." I grinned at Dane, who rolled his eyes but smiled back.

A ripple of laughter broke the tension, but as I continued standing there, the room settled into an expectant hush. I hadn't planned on speaking, but I found I had things to say—important things that had been building inside me all season.

"Look, I'm not big on speeches," I continued, my voice growing steadier. "But I think we all know tomorrow isn't just another game. It might be the last time we share the ice for some of us."

I glanced around at the faces I'd come to know intimately over the season—the creases in Mercier's forehead when he was worried, the sparkle in TJ's eyes, and Carver's constant fidgeting.

"When I got here, I played like I was waiting to be sent away—a guy on borrowed time." The admission tasted strange on my tongue—honest in a way I rarely allowed myself to be outside of quiet moments with Dane. "I've spent years playing with one skate already out the door—in juniors, in Moose Jaw, everywhere."

The team was silent.

"Some of you know parts of my story. That includes the shit I dealt with in the past—the slurs in juniors, coaches calling me 'unpredictable' instead of 'creative,' and the whispers about whether I was too much trouble to be worth the risk."

I hesitated. My words were unexpectedly raw. Dane's eyes never left me, steady and encouraging.

"That stuff gets under your skin, you know? It becomes part of how you play and how you carry yourself. You start thinking your spot on the roster is conditional—one mistake, and you're done."

I looked directly at Dane then, the man who had seen through my defenses before I'd even recognized they were there.

"But this guy? He never once made me feel like I had to prove I deserved to be here. And that changed everything."

Something shifted in Dane's expression—surprise mingled with a vulnerability he rarely showed in front of the team.

"We all have our reasons for playing," I continued, looking around at my teammates. "Maybe yours is proving someone wrong, proving something to yourself. I get that. But for me? I'm here because someone finally made me believe I wasn't playing on borrowed time."

I rubbed the back of my neck, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. Twenty-two faces stared back at me, waiting. Coach stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable but attentive.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I realized what I wanted—needed—to say next. No careful wording—only truth.

"Dane's not only my captain—he's my person."

For half a second, nobody moved. The confession hung in the air like a puck suspended at the height of its arc, waiting to fall.

Then Carver let out a loud "Holy shit," breaking the silence.

TJ's face split into a wide grin, and he started clapping. Within seconds, the entire team was on their feet, a chorus of cheers and whistles drowning out the background noise of the restaurant.

"Well, it's about time," Mercier muttered, smiling as he raised his water glass in our direction.

Pike pounded his fist on the table, his earlier anxiety replaced with genuine joy. Even Coach nodded, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Through it all, I kept my eyes on Dane. He looked stunned initially, like he wasn't expecting me to say it out loud. Then, a slow, crooked smile spread across his face—not the carefully composed captain's smile, but something authentic and unguarded.

The team continued their celebration around us, pounding on the table and calling for another round of drinks even though most were sticking to water. The energy in the room transformed—the pre-game tension giving way to something brighter and more electric.

Dane stood beside me, our shoulders touching. He leaned in, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

"You really had to do it like that?" Despite his words, there was no irritation in his tone.

"What? You wanted to prepare a PowerPoint first? Color-coded charts about optimal timing for relationship announcements?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "I was thinking more like a press release. Hockey's Troubled Star Falls for Boring Captain. "

"Sounds like a Hallmark movie," I replied, knocking my shoulder against his. "Besides, boring is the last word I'd use to describe you."

I looked around at the teammates who had become family. They were the people who had seen me at my worst and still made room for me.

No matter what happened tomorrow—whether we extended our season or packed up our gear—I'd already won something bigger than any game. I'd found my person. My team. My home.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn't waiting for someone to take it all away.