Page 3

Chapter three

Dane

F rozen gravel crunched under my shoes as I pushed through mile four, each footfall another attempt to outrun yesterday's practice. Dawn crept across the horizon, sending pink and purple fingers across the early morning sky.

The early morning jog was an attempt to shake Leo out of my head. I relived every pass I should have seen coming and every opening I'd hesitated to take. Leo had read my game like a book, anticipating moves.

Perk & Pine Coffee House appeared through a wave of freezing fog. Inside, the warmth hit me with the scent of fresh grounds and cinnamon, my sweat-damp running gear chilling me in that moment caught between hot and cold.

My phone buzzed. My older brother Christopher's name lit up the screen:

Christopher: Board meeting at the club next week. Down in Portland. I assume you're still too busy playing your little sport to attend.

I stared at the message. Christopher had always been better at being a Whitaker—he wore the family name like a well-tailored suit while I treated it like a weight around my neck.

"The usual?" Sarah, the morning barista, already had my cup in hand. Her smile lacked any of the judgment I experienced from the country club crowd. Here, I was another regular, not the Whitaker heir who'd chosen hockey over heredity.

"Please." I tried to soften my voice, aware that my jaw had been tense since practice. "How's the art program going?"

She brightened, adding the extra shot of espresso she knew I needed. "Final portfolio review next week. Terrifying, but good terrifying, you know?"

I did know. It was the same feeling I got before big games—that mix of anticipation and dread, knowing you'd put everything into something but still weren't sure it would be enough.

The storefront window was covered in a fine mist, obscuring the snow starting to fall. My reflection stared back at me, blurred but familiar—a carefully maintained haircut and upright posture my mother had drilled into me since childhood.

I settled at my usual corner table, muscles pleasantly sore as I stretched my legs. Through the window, I watched the early morning traffic inch along—weathered pickup trucks rumbling toward the mills and riverfront warehouses while sleek SUVs cruised toward Lisbon Street's cafés and office buildings. Lewiston was like that—a city of contrasts, where old industry and new ambition ran side by side, never quite meeting but constantly aware of each other.

"Mind if I work on these while you're here?" Sarah set down my coffee and gestured to a stack of sketches she was balancingalong witha muffin I hadn't ordered. "You look like you could use the calories after that run."

I started to protest, but she was already sliding the muffin across the table. "On the house. Consider it payment for being my unwitting art subject."

That got my attention. "Your what?"

She flipped open her sketchbook, revealing quick studies of people in the coffee shop. I recognized myself in several—bent over game footage on my laptop, staring out the window, and talking with TJ. The lines were confident, capturing me in ways I hadn't realized were visible to others.

"These are good. You've got a way of seeing things."

"That's half the battle, isn't it? Genuine vision?"She settled at the next table, her pencil moving across the paper. "Like how you're carrying something heavy today. Game stuff?"

I broke off a piece of the muffin—cranberry orange, still warm. "New linemate. Complicated history."

"Ah."Her pencil didn't stop moving. "Is that the guy everyone's talking about? Campbell?"

Of course, everyone was talking. I wondered what theywere sayingabout Leo and what stories had followed him to Maine. How many of those were true?

"He's..."I searched for the right words. "Different than I expected."

Sarah's pencil paused. "Different good or different bad?"

"Different. I'm not sure it lands at either end."I took a long swallow of coffee. "Makes me play differently, too."

"And that's... not what you wanted?"

The question wasn't an easy one to answer. I studied the sketch taking shape under her hands—quick, bold strokes capturing movement and energy. There was nothing careful about it.

"I don't know what I want,"I admitted. "Except to prove I deserve to be here."

"Funny thing about proving yourself."She added shading to the drawing with swift, sure strokes. "Sometimes a person can get so focused on it, you miss the point entirely."

My phone buzzed again—probably Christopher with another dig about family obligations. I left it face down on the table.

"You should come to my portfolio show."Sarah signed her name in the corner of the sketch. "Bring your complicated linemate. It's in one of those galleries at the edge of campus. Might be good to hang out with each other somewhere that isn't about hockey."

I almost laughed. "Pretty sure that would only make things more complicated."

"Maybe."She tore out the sketch and handed it to me. "Or maybe something like that's what you both need."

I looked down at the drawing. She'd captured me mid-thought, tension in my shoulders but something else, too—a kind of intensity I usually only felt on the ice. It was what I experienced when I matched Leo stride for stride.

"Thanks,"I said, carefully rolling the sketch to take with me. "For the coffee. And the perspective."

"Anytime, Captain."She was already starting another drawing. "Just remember—art's like hockey. Sometimes, the best plays are the ones you don't plan."

I stepped back into the snow, with Sarah's words settling under my skin like a challenge. A storm was picking up, wind sweeping down the river valley, but I wasn't cold anymore.

Only restless. Ready.

Practice was in an hour. Leo was probably already on the ice, waiting to push my buttons again.

For the first time since yesterday, I smiled.

Let him push.

***

Practice was rugged—Leo anticipated every move I made, making me work harder, skate faster, and think quicker. Each perfect pass landing on my tape waslikea challenge instead of an assist.

Each time he read my play before I made it, I pushed to be less predictable. By the time we'd finished, every muscle burned with the effort of keeping up.

I'd planned on heading straight home, reviewing tape until I found some weakness in his game I could exploit. Instead, I sat in my Range Rover in the arena parking lot, still damp from my shower, when TJ rapped his knuckles against my window.

"Nope,"he said as soon as I rolled it down. "Whatever brooding session you're planning? Not happening."

"I don't brood."

"You're sitting alone in a dark parking lot."He yanked my door open. "TheIcehouse. Now. You can sulk about Leo showing you up over beer instead of alone in your car."

"He didn't show me up."

"Sure."TJ grinned. "That's why you're not obsessing about that no-look pass he threaded through Carver's legs. The one that made you look like you were skating in slow motion?"

I grabbed my jacket from the passenger seat. "I hate you."

"You love me. And you're driving. My car's making that noise again."

TheIcehousewasn't my scene, but TJ wasn't taking no for an answer. "We're fixing your mood tonight. No debate."

I sat with TJ in his usual booth, nursing a beer I didn't want, while hockey highlights flickered across mounted TVs and the after-work crowd filtered in. The place smelled like decades of spilled beer soaked into wood, with an overlay of whatever passed for the daily special.

"You're doing it again."TJ slid another beer across the scratched table."That thing where you're here but not here."

"I'm here."I traced a finger through the condensation on my glass, mapping out plays in the water droplets. We'd run new line combinations at practice.

"Yeah? Then what did I say about Carver's girlfriend?"

"Something inappropriate, probably."

TJ snorted. "Lucky guess."He leaned back, studying me. "You're wound tight, man. Tighter than usual."

"Focused."

"On what? Or should I say who?"

TheIcehouse's speakers crackled to life with the low, pulsing riff of"Seven Nation Army."It was the kind of song that made your blood hum and the air feel heavier. A fight song. A hockey song.

Leo walked in, acting like he owned the place, signaling easy confidence in every step. Colby Mercier was right behind him, saying something that made Leo laugh—effortless like the ice hadn't been hell for both of us earlier.

I took another sip of my beer. It didn't taste like much.

"Speak of the devil,"TJ muttered.

I forced myself to look away, but not before I caught the slight lift at the corner of Leo's mouth—not quite a smirk, but something that sparked irritation under my skin.

"You know what your problem is?"TJ signaled for another round.

"Please, enlighten me."

"You've forgotten how to be real and be here."He gestured around the bar. "These guys? They don't care about your last name or your bank account. They care if you show up. If you have their backs."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're still playing every shift like you're auditioning for the role of captain instead of being captain."

A burst of laughter drew my attention back to the bar. Leo was talking with some of the local guys who hung around after games—the ones who lived and died with every Forge win or loss. He looked comfortable, at ease in a way I neverentirely managed off the ice.

One of the guys—Mike something, who owned the hardware store downtown—was talking animatedly. "Remember that fight in Moose Jaw? When you laid out that guy who'd been running your goalie? Fucking beautiful."

I watched Leo's expression shift almost imperceptibly. His smile stayed in place, but something in his eyes went distant. "Yeah. Beautiful."

The lie was so smooth and practiced that I almost missed it.

Almost.

I knew that look. The careful arrangement of features that said this is what they want to hear .

I knew because I'd done the same thing a hundred times over.

I thought of every time someone congratulated me on "making something of myself"—the country club members, old family friends, even my father- when he could be bothered to acknowledge what I did for a living.

You showed them, Dane. Sticking it out in the minors like a real fighter.

Still waiting on that big break, huh?

Your brother says you're captain now. Guess that means something.

I'd smiled through all of it and keptmy shoulders square, my voice steady like Leo was doing now.

And suddenly, I wondered what his version of"Guess that means something"sounded like.

"You're staring," TJ observed.

"I'm observing."I took another drink. "There's a difference."

"Sure there is."TJ's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Like there's a difference between checking someone into the boards and whatever the hell you two were doing at practice."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you twoneed tostop waltzing and deal with it already.."

I choked on my beer, the liquid burning my throat. When I looked up, Leo was watching me again, one eyebrow raised in silent question. My collar was suddenly too tight, the bar's stale air pressing against my skin.

"You're delusional."

"And you're transparent."TJ stood, gathering empty bottles. "But hey, keep pretending this is all about hockey. Let me know how that works out for you."

I left before TJ could share any more of his insights. Outside, snow fell in thick clumps, muffling the usual sounds of downtown. My breath clouded in the cold as I walked to my car, but instead of heading home, I turned toward The Colisée.

The arena's parking lot was empty except for the Zamboni driver's truck. Dave always worked late, prepping the ice for morning practice. He didn't look up from his phone as I badged through the staff entrance.

The familiar scent of refrigeration and rubber flooring filled my lungs as Imade my wayto the locker room. With everyone gone, the arena always appeared larger and emptier.

When I stepped onto the ice, my usual calm was elusive. Instead, every glide reminded me of practice earlier in the day—Leo matching my speed, challenging my control, and making me second-guess moves I'd practiced thousands of times.

I grabbed a bucket of pucks, setting up for shooting drills. The first few went wide, my timing off. Frustration built under my skin with each miss until I finally connected, the puck hitting the back of the net with a satisfying snap.

"Nice shot."It was Leo, of course. "For someone who's trying too hard."

I didn't turn around. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"Probably."The scrape of his skates drew closer. "But I thought this would be more interesting."

"What? Watching me practice?"

"Watching you try to work through whatever's got you tied up in knots."He glided into view, hands loose on his stick. "Though I've got some theories about that."

Heat crept up the back of my neck. "Keep them to yourself."

He laughed softly. "Straight talk?"

"Share your grand wisdom."

Instead of answering, he stole the puck from my stick with casual grace, skating backward as he handled it. "Come get it, and I'll tell you."

"I'm not here to play games."

"Aren't you?"He raised an eyebrow, still moving with that fluid confidence that made everything look easy. "As far as I can tell, that's all you do. Stick to the safe moves. Follow the rules. Be your version of the perfect captain."

I told myself to walk away. Let him have the ice. Let him have the last word. Instead, I turned.

I lunged for the puck.

Leo spun away, but I anticipated it, matching his turn. We collided at the hash marks, the impact rattling up through my shoulders. Pure instinct, no systems, no set plays. It was the kind of raw hockey I hadn't let myself play since juniors.

The puck skittered away, forgotten as we grappled for position, too close, his breath warm against my neck. "There it is," he murmured. "That's what you've been holding back."

I shoved him away, pulse hammering.

He collected the puck, stick handling it with lazy skill. "I know you play like someone's always watching. Always judging. Always waiting for you to fuck up."

"And you don't?"

Something flickered in his eyes—a crack in his armor. "I already fucked up. Remember? That's why I'm here."

I studied him in the harsh arena lights. "Why are you really here, Leo ?"

He paused for a moment, the puck settling against his stick. His cockiness fell away to reveal something more raw.

"Same reason you are. Because I've got something to earn, but it's not the same thing you're trying for."

He fired a shot without looking—top corner, no hesitation. The puck pinged off the crossbar and in.

"The biggest difference is,"he continued, collecting another puck, "I'm not pretending this is about anything else."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Instead of answering, he sent the puck sliding toward me.

"You felt it today,"he said. "During practice. That moment when you stopped thinking about being perfect and played."

I did experience it. That electric current when everything clicked—our passes connecting like we'd been skating together for years instead of days.

"That's not enough,"I said.

"No?"Leo skated closer, stalking me like a predator. "Then why are you here instead of at home reviewing tape? Why—"

"Stop, you're no expert on me."I cut him off, firing the puck back harder than necessary.

He caught iteasily, a slight smile playing on his lips. "I know enough to know you're scared."

"Excuse me?"

"Not of the game."He circled wider, his skates cutting clean lines in the fresh ice. "Of what happens when you let go."

The words hit too close to home. I turned away, gathering pucks for another drill, anything to avoid looking at him.

"Here's what I don't get. You've got the skill and the smarts. When is the real you going to show up? When it's too late?"

"You done with the analysis?"I muttered, lining up another shot.

"For now. But tomorrow, we're doing this again. And this time, try playing like it's your game."