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Chapter twenty-five

Dane

I barely remembered the handshake line—a blur of damp gloves and hollow-eyed stares. Augusta's players looked like men walking off a cliff, how you do when your season ends and you're not ready for it. I'd been there—last season. I knew that silence, that dull roar of disbelief in your ears.

Donovan's grip was firmer than it needed to be when we met at center ice. "Lucky bounce," he muttered, more accusation than concession.

"See you next season."

We peeled off toward our locker room like we had rocket fuel in our skates. The hallway echoed with our celebration, boots thudding, gloves slapping backs, someone hooting like we'd won the Stanley Cup.

Bottles popped. Water sprayed. Music blasted from speakers someone jacked up to eleven. Mercier, still in full gear, danced like a man possessed, pads flapping as he spun. Carver was shirtless, wielding a bottle of champagne like a firehose, spraying rookies with glee.

"Did you see Keller's face when TJ crushed him?" he yelled, soaking Pike. "Guy looked like a deer in headlights right before a bus hit him."

Pike didn't flinch. He stood there grinning, soaked, and glowing like he'd been baptized into something holy.

TJ was already on him, arm around the rookie's shoulders. "Clutch gene! I told you! Called it at training camp!"

I eased out of my jersey and gear, ribs aching in protest. Everything hurt—but in a good way—the kind of pain you earn.

For a moment, I wondered if my father had watched our game. Wondered whether Christopher knew.

Coach slipped in quietly, as always. The noise dimmed a little like everyone was waiting for the verdict that would make it real.

"Hell of a game, men." His voice rasped like he'd swallowed the gravel outside the Colisée. "Hell of a comeback. That's the kind of character I've been talking about all year."

We all looked at him, every last one of us wanting the moment to matter. To mean more.

"This isn't the end. It's the beginning. But tonight? Tonight, you celebrate. You've earned it."

The room exploded again. I ducked flying foam from a shaken bottle, searching for Leo.

I found him across the room, talking to a cluster of reporters, calm as always. But I knew better. I knew what simmered under that still surface. We locked eyes for half a second, and he gave me a subtle nod. Quiet and steady.

TJ appeared with two bottles, shoving one at me. "The game-winner gets a drink. Don't argue."

I accepted, letting the champagne spill over my fingers before taking a swig. "Pike's the real hero."

TJ laughed. "Kid's on a high, but that pass from Leo? And your finish? Chef's kiss. That's chemistry."

"Right place, right time," I said, even though I felt that buzz too—that unspoken thing that clicks into place when the timing's perfect and someone sees the play before you even think it.

Coach returned, holding a dented old helmet—our battered team MVP trophy. Tradition.

"Quiet down, you animals," he barked. "Time to pass the ugliest bucket in hockey."

I stood automatically, already moving, before he stopped me.

"Not you, Whitaker."

He grinned just a little as heads turned.

"Pike. Get up here."

Pike froze. Then the boys shoved him forward, still wet with victory and barely holding it together. Coach dropped the helmet on his head like he was knighting him.

"This kid delivered when it counted. That's top-notch hockey."

Cheers. Whoops. Someone yelled, "Speech!" and Pike tried.

"I, uh… just didn't want to mess up."

We laughed. He found his feet after that.

"Thanks for believing in me. For showing me what it means to be part of something bigger."

Everyone felt the impact of his words.

Then Mercier dumped water over his head, and chaos took over again.

I slipped out for a quick shower, needing the moment. When I came back, Leo was there, shoulder brushing mine like a secret handshake.

"Quite a night," I murmured.

"Not bad," he said, smirking like we hadn't just booked our tickets to the post-season.

"That pass was perfect."

"So was your finish."

"Some things just work."

He nodded. "Yeah. They do."

Mercier barreled in, arms slung around both of us.

"Forge gold," he declared. Then, he disappeared, leaving the words hanging.

Forge gold: pressure and heat.

Later, I was walking to the Range Rover with Leo at my side. My phone lit up with a message I didn't expect.

It was a statement from my parents.

Official. Public. An apology masquerading as congratulations for reaching the playoffs. It was a string of words that tried to bridge a chasm they'd helped carve.

It had the Whitaker Consolidated logo at the top, sterile and pristine. The language was polished, likely combed through by lawyers and PR consultants.

"We sincerely regret any confusion or hurt caused by recent media speculation surrounding our son Dane's future. We congratulate him as captain of a postseason-bound hockey team. We also fully support his pursuit of a professional hockey career and are proud of the dedication, work ethic, and leadership he continues to show."

Signed: Thomas and Eleanor Whitaker.

No Christopher. His absence on the statement screamed louder than any signature ever could.

My phone buzzed.

Dad.

I stared at it. My first instinct was to let it go to voicemail and rot there. But something in me—it might've been exhaustion or some brittle thread of curiosity—clickedto answerinstead.

"Dane," came his voice, quieter than I expected. Not cold. Not polished. Just… tired.

I didn't answer right away.

"I know I'm probably the last person you want to hear from."

Still nothing from me.

"I saw the game," he added. "You played like hell out there."

I blinked, uncertain I'd heard him right. "You watched?"

"Your mother and I watched," he said. "She stood and cheered for that last goal."

There was a pause. I heard the faint clink of ice in a glass, then a sigh.

"I know the press release isn't what you wanted. Hell, it's not what I wanted, either. But it was what we could agree on."

I swallowed hard, emotions caught in my throat. "You could've called me instead of drafting a statement."

"I know." His voice cracked slightly. "I should have. But you know me—I speak best with numbers, not feelings. That's not an excuse. It's just…" he trailed off. "I'm learning."

Something inside me shifted. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But maybe a loosening.

"Christopher wouldn't sign it," I said.

"No," he admitted. "He's… well, he's not where we are yet."

I let that sit. Let it sting a little.

Then he said something that stopped me cold.

"I'm proud of you, son."

I hadn't heard those words in years. Maybe ever. Not without conditions attached.

"For the hockey?" I asked, voice hoarse.

"For all of it," he said. "For staying true to yourself when I didn't make it easy. For leading. For loving someone in a way that made you stronger instead of smaller."

I blinked, and Leo reached out for my hand.

"I don't know how to undo what I've done," he added, voice fraying at the edges. "But if you're willing… maybe we could talk sometime. Not about the company. Not about Whitaker anything. Just… us."

Leo, silent beside me, hadn't said a word, but I felt his presence like gravity. Solid. Steady.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah," I said. "We could talk."

A beat of silence passed.

"Alright," Dad said, and I heard a smile, tentative and genuine, in his voice. "Good night, Dane."

"Good night."

The line went dead, but the echo of it stayed. I shoved my phone in my pocket.

Without a word, Leo reached out for a hug, and for once, I didn't feel like I was holding on for dear life.

I was holding on to something new.

"What now?" Leo asked.

I opened the passenger door of the Range Rover. "We go home."