Page 26

T he October chill snuck through the gap in our bedroom window, carrying with it the scent of wet pavement and frost-tinged air. I burrowed deeper into the warmth of our bed, that space between sleep and waking where thoughts drifted unanchored. My leg pressed against Dane's, a point of contact I'd grown to expect—and need—in the months since we'd moved in together.

The Forge left the playoffs after the second round, but we had big hopes for the new season. Dane was 30 but refused to leave hockey until the game kicked him out.

Our apartment was quiet except for Dane's steady breathing and the occasional creaking protest of the old radiator in the corner. One eyelid fluttered open, and I took in the familiar landscape of our bedroom—gear bags slumped in the corner like exhausted sentries, Dane's captain jersey hung with careful precision next to my more carelessly draped Forge sweater, and the scattered books on our nightstand, spines cracked from repeated reading.

My copy of The Borrowed Sky lay open on the nightstand where I'd abandoned it the night before, the pages dog-eared and worn from years of returning to the same passages. My great-grandfather Takeshi's words had become a roadmap to hockey and something I hadn't expected to find—a sense of belonging that didn't hinge on proving my worth.

Dane shifted beside me, his arm tightening around my waist. Even in sleep, he held on with purpose—that same deliberate intention he brought to everything, whether it was skating drills or the way he arranged his gear before games.

"You awake?" he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

"Getting there," I replied, turning toward him. "You're actually still in bed at this hour. Must be a special occasion."

He usually rose before dawn, restless energy driving him to the rink for early morning skates while I clung to every possible minute of sleep. Today, though, he seemed content to linger, his body a solid anchor against the outside world.

"First official practice day of the new season," he said. "Needed the extra rest."

I hummed in agreement. A nervous flutter had taken root in my stomach—a mixture of anticipation and dread that came with the promise of fresh ice, untarnished records, and possibilities stretching out before us.

The buzz of Dane's phone filled the room. It vibrated against the wooden nightstand like an angry wasp. He groaned, reaching blindly for it while I pressed my face deeper into the pillow.

"It's the asscrack of dawn," I muttered. "Who's calling?"

Dane squinted at the screen, suddenly going very still. "Buffalo."

My body tensed. We both knew what that might mean. The Sabres—the NHL team that already had a few conversations over the summer with Dane.

I sat up, sheets pooling at my waist, no longer interested in chasing those last fragments of sleep. Dane's face had transformed, his expression shifting from annoyance to something unreadable as he swiped to answer.

"Whitaker," he said, voice husky but suddenly professional.

I watched the minute changes in his expression—the slight widening of his eyes, tightening of his jaw, and how his free hand curled into the sheets.

"Yes, sir. I understand," Dane continued, his voice measured. "Tomorrow morning? Yes... yes, I'll be there."

There was more silence as he listened, offering only occasional affirmations. I reached for his wrist. His pulse raced beneath my touch.

When he finally ended the call, he lowered the phone to his lap with deliberate care, like it might detonate if handled too roughly.

"That was Braden," he said, naming Rochester's GM. "They want me in tomorrow. Fraser's out with a broken ankle. They need a backup center."

"You're getting called up," I said, the words hanging in the space between us. Not a question, but it still needed confirmation.

Dane nodded, a sharp dip of his chin. "To the Sabres."

The magnitude of what had just happened settled over us. It wouldn't be an ordinary first practice with the Forge. This was the chance Dane had been grinding toward for years—the validation that he wasn't only a rich kid playing at being a hockey player. He belonged at the highest levels of the sport.

His eyes finally met mine, and what I saw there wasn't pure elation. It was something more complex.

Imposter syndrome loomed on the horizon. "What if I'm not ready? What if I get there and they realize I'm not what they need?"

I shifted in bed, not reaching for Dane immediately as he might have expected. Instead, my hand sought the worn cover of The Borrowed Sky on the nightstand. The book had become something of a talisman for me—a connection to my great-grandfather and a reminder of everything that had led me to this moment.

The spine opened to a familiar page, one I'd returned to so many times the paper had softened like cloth. Takeshi's words guided me through my darkest moments—through Moose Jaw, reconnecting with my family, and learning to trust Dane with parts of myself I'd protected for years.

"Listen to this," I said, tracing my finger along the lines I knew by heart. "The ice only cracks when you're ready to fall."

Dane watched me, his eyes tracking the movement of my hand across the page.

"Takeshi wrote that after his first winter in the internment camp," I continued. "He didn't know if the ice would hold. He worried that perhaps the guards would stop them from playing. He decided to focus on the next stride."

"And if it breaks?" Dane asked, voice quiet. "The ice. If it breaks? What happens when you fall?"

I closed the book, setting it aside before finally reaching for him. My palm found his jaw, thumb brushing against the stubble he hadn't yet shaved.

"Then you adapt. You find a new path." I held his gaze, making sure he heard what I was saying. "He also says, 'Sometimes, you have to trust the strength of the next stride.' I'm coming with you."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"To Rochester," I said simply. "I'm coming with you."

"Leo, your contract—"

"Is with Lewiston, I know. And I'll honor it until I figure something out." My thumb traced the line of his jaw. "But we didn't fight this hard to be together to let geography tear us apart. I can train there. My agent can work on getting me a tryout."

"You'd do that? Just pack up and follow me to Buffalo?"

"In a heartbeat. This isn't only your shot. It's ours."

The raw honesty in my voice caught Dane off guard. He stared at me, those blue eyes moving across my face like he was committing every detail to memory.

He reached for me then, one hand curling around the back of my neck. When he pulled me in, the kiss wasn't desperate or hungry like so many we'd shared. It was pure affection and appreciation.

I leaned into him, tasting the remnants of sleep and the mint from his toothpaste the night before. His thumb brushed the pulse point beneath my ear, sending a familiar shiver up my spine.

"I love you," he murmured against my mouth. It wasn't the first time he'd said it, but the words still hit with the force of a well-placed check. "I don't know what I did to deserve someone who believes in me the way you do."

"You showed up," I replied, pulling back enough to meet his eyes. "You saw me—all of me—and you didn't look away. I love you, too."

"We're really doing this. NHL."

"We're doing this," I confirmed. "Together."

"I need to call my parents," Dane said finally, though he made no move to reach for his phone. "And Coach."

"Later," I said, easing back against the pillows and pulling him with me. "We've got time."

The morning stretched ahead of us—calls to make and details to arrange. But for now, the rest of the world could wait. We'd earned a slow morning.

At 10 AM, we made our way to The Colisée under a canopy of trees shedding their October colors. Maple leaves crunched beneath our boots, burnt orange and blood red against the damp sidewalk. The air had that distinctive Maine chill—sharp enough to redden our cheeks but not yet bitter with winter's full force.

Dane walked beside me, our hockey bags slung over our shoulders, the familiar weight both comforting and suddenly poignant. How many more mornings would we make this trek? The realization that our time in Lewiston was finite settled over us like the fog hanging low over the Androscoggin River.

"You know what I'll miss?" Dane asked.

"What's that?"

"Perk & Pine's coffee." His breath clouded in front of him as he spoke. "Sarah's going to be devastated when I tell her. We have to see one of her shows before we leave town."

I laughed. "She'll survive. Though she might make you sit for one last sketch."

"She already did," he admitted. "Last week. Said she needed to complete her 'hockey captain in his natural habitat' series before the season started."

We rounded the corner, and The Colisée came into view—its weather-beaten exterior was so familiar I sometimes forgot to see it. Today, though, I took it in with fresh eyes. The peeling paint along the roof line. The faded championship banners were visible through the front windows. The "Go Forge" sign had hung crooked since I'd arrived.

"You're staring," Dane noted, bumping his shoulder against mine.

"Just taking inventory," I said. "This place has been more of a home than most."

As we pulled the heavy door open, the familiar scents hit me immediately: industrial cleaning solution, the metallic tang of refrigeration, and the indefinable musk of hockey equipment.

"We should tell Coach first," Dane said as we stepped inside, his voice dropping to that hushed tone people instinctively adopt in empty spaces. "Before the team finds out."

"He probably already knows," I pointed out. "Nothing happens in hockey without six people hearing about it first."

But Dane wasn't listening. He'd stopped abruptly, his attention caught by something he saw through the tunnel entrance.

A solitary figure moved out there on the ice, running drills with mechanical precision. The rhythmic sound of skates cutting ice, the hollow thwack of pucks against boards, and the occasional grunt of effort echoed through the empty rink.

"Pike," Dane said, recognizing last season's rookie even from a distance.

We moved closer, setting our bags down at the edge of the tunnel. Pike was running shooting drills, firing puck after puck from the same spot, working to build muscle memory and consistency. His practice jersey was dark, with sweat down the back, sticking to his shoulder blades as he moved.

"Kid's been here since five," a gravelly voice said behind us.

We turned to find Coach MacPherson, coffee in hand, watching.

"He heard about Buffalo?" Dane asked.

Coach's mouth twitched. "News travels. Especially good news." He took a sip from his mug, eyes never leaving Pike. "Told him the C's going to need a new home soon."

I watched Pike fire another shot, finding the corner of the net with a satisfying ping. The kid had grown since last season—not only physically, but he'd filled out his frame with fifteen pounds of muscle over the summer. There was a confidence to his movements now, a certainty that hadn't been there before.

"Kid's got potential," I said, nudging Dane with my elbow.

"I should talk to him," he said, already moving toward the ice.

"Go ahead," Coach said, and then he turned to me. "You got a minute, Campbell?"

I hesitated, watching Dane make his way onto the ice. Pike spotted him and straightened, his stick dropping to his side as a gesture of respect.

"Campbell?" Coach prompted.

"Yeah, sorry." I turned to follow him toward his office, the oversized closet where careers had been made and broken over the years.

The space was exactly as it had been since my first day—cluttered with game footage, dog-eared playbooks, and the faint scent of stale coffee. Coach settled into his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight.

"So, the Sabres." He fixed me with that penetrating stare that always made me feel like he was reading thoughts I hadn't even formed yet.

I nodded, not bothering to pretend surprise. "Dane got the call this morning."

"And you?"

"No call." I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest. "Not yet, anyway."

Coach studied me, head tilted slightly. "But you're going regardless?"

"Yes."

"You know it's not that simple. Contract obligations. Tryouts. No guarantees." He ticked off the obstacles one by one, his tone matter-of-fact rather than discouraging.

"I know."

"And yet," he said, something like respect coloring his voice.

I shrugged, trying for nonchalance despite the weight of the decision. "Some things matter more than the straight path."

Coach reached for his coffee mug, turning it slowly in his weathered hands. For a moment, I thought he might try to talk me out of it—to explain the risk I was taking and the opportunities I might be walking away from, but he surprised me.

"I made a call," he said. "To Hennessy."

I tensed. Hennessy was the head coach of the Sabres, known for his no-nonsense approach and brutal honesty.

"What did you say to him?"

"That you two are a package deal." Coach looked up, holding my gaze. "That he'd be a fool to take one without at least looking at the other."

The words hit me with unexpected force. Coach had never been one for effusive praise or hand-holding. His advocacy was as surprising as it was meaningful.

"Thank you," I managed, throat suddenly tight.

He waved me off. "Nothing to thank me for. Just stating facts." He stood, signaling the end of our conversation. "Now get out there and show Pike how to fix that backhand. Kid's still dropping his shoulder."

I nodded, a smile tugging at my lips despite the emotion swelling in my chest. "Yes, sir."

As I turned to leave, Coach called after me: "And Campbell?"

I paused, looking back.

"Whatever happens in Buffalo—remember where you found your footing."

"I will."

I left his office and headed to the locker room, the familiar space now charged with a new significance. My stall stood where it always had—third from the end, with my nameplate slightly crooked above it. I ran my fingers over the letters, tracing the edges that had become smooth with time.

LEO CAMPBELL.

Not Riku. Not here. But the name no longer felt like a mask or a compromise. It was simply another part of me, one of many that made up the whole.

I pulled out my phone and tapped out a message to my agent, the decision crystallizing with each letter.

Leo: I'm done here. We're heading to the NHL.

I hit send, then tucked the phone away, turning to pull my gear from my bag. As I laced up my skates, I heard Dane's voice out on the ice—patient, instructive, the words indistinct but the tone clear. He was passing something on, ensuring that what we'd built in Lewiston wouldn't end with our departure.

The Forge had reshaped us both. Whatever came next, we'd carry that transformation with us.

I stood, testing the familiar bite of my skates against the rubber mats. The weight of the past—Moose Jaw, the fight with Matthews, the years of running—was lighter now. Not gone, but manageable.

I stepped toward the tunnel, the sound of a blade striking a puck drawing me forward like a beacon. Forward was the only direction that mattered now. Forward, together, into whatever waited beyond the familiar walls of The Colisée and the frozen certainty of the only life I'd known.