Page 4

Chapter four

Leo

C oach's whistle cut through the arena. "Full-contact battle drills. Show me what you've got."

I should've known how this would play out. Whitaker squared up across from me, his blue eyes gone winter-cold. Three days of circling each other on the ice, and now here we were—no more pretending it was only hockey.

I let that name lodge itself in my head—Whitaker.Nah, that wasn't what I wanted to call him.Dane.Yeah, that fits.

Maybe it was the whole tragic prince thing, orperhaps howhe carried himself like the weight of the world was his alone to bear.Lewiston's own fucking Hamlet , standing in front of me, daring me to break him first.

The drill itself was simple:one-on-one along the boards. Fight for possession.

But when Dane got involved, it was no longer simple.

The rest of the team watched witha sharp, opportunistic focus.They weren't only looking at a battle drill.They were watching for the moment everything would explode.

Colby lounged against the goalpost, his mask pushed up, and he had anamused expression on his face.TJ pretended to adjust his stick tape, buthis shoulders were too tight.Even Carver—who usually thrived on chaos—was quiet.

They were waiting.We all were.

I barely had time to breathe beforeDane came at me. The hit was brutal—a full-body check that drove me back against the boards, my helmet rattled by the force of it.

Not a practice hit. Not controlled.A statement.

My teeth clacked together as the glass vibrated behind me.The whole fucking rink vibrated. Pain sang up my spine, but the only thing that registered was therush of heatcurling through my veins, sharp and electric.

I grinned."That all you got,rich boy?"

I barely saw him move before hisgloved fist bunched in my jersey, yanking me close.His breath, sharp and fast, swept along my jaw.

"You want to find out?"

My gloves hit the ice.His followed half a second later.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

And then wetore into each other.

The first punch caught me under the jaw—sharp, fast, unexpected.Pain cracked through my skull, clean and bright. My body reacted before my brain caught up.My right fist connected with his cheekbone hard enough that the impact split my knuckles.

Dane's head snapped back, golden-boy perfectioncracking at the edges. Someone shouted—maybe TJ or Coach—but it was distant, unimportant.

All that mattered washow Dane's eyes narrowed and his weight shifted. His control snapped like an over-tightened wire.

We weren't playing at fighting. We were fighting.

His fist drove into my ribs.White-hot pain stole my breath.I twisted, skating for balance.

Dane didn't back down. Neither did I.

We collided again, knocking against the boards, skates scraping the ice.The force of it sent shards of ice up in a stinging spray.

I swung for him again, but he caught my arm, twisting us into an unbalancedtangle of fists and adrenaline. His grip on my jersey was ironclad. My fists curled into his gear.

Dane's pulse pounded under my knuckles, fast and hot, and for a second, it was like we weren't fighting. It wassomething else entirely.

Then, hands grabbed me from behind—TJ's grip unshakable as he wrenched me backward.

Dane still didn't let go. Carver was the one to finally break us apart,hauling him back with a rough curse.

The spell snapped. Reality crashed back in.

Heavy breathing. The sting of split knuckles. The copper taste of blood in my mouth.

"Jesus Christ,"Colby drawled from the crease."And here I thought you two needed to work on your chemistry."

I wiped blood from my lip andnoticed Dane doing the same. His carefully styled hair was a mess,chest heaving, eyes locked on mine.

Something in his expression shifted—something that wasn't only anger—recognition, maybe. Understanding. Like he'd finally seen something real.

Coach's voice cut through the tensionlike a blade.

"Locker room. My office. Now."

I let TJ guide me toward the tunnel,legs unsteady and knuckles throbbing.

The fightwasn't the thing replaying in my head. It wasthat split-second before we swung. How Dane's control had finally snapped, and he'd looked at me like I was worth fighting.

I wanted to hit him, yeah, but maybe I wanted him to hit me back even more. Maybe I needed him to.

I was so fucking screwed.

Coach didn't offer me a seat. He stood behind his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose like I was giving him a migraine.

"The fuck was that?" His voice was quiet.

I kept my eyes on the Lewiston Forge logo behind his head. "It's hockey, Coach."

"Fucking nonsense, and you know it."He planted his hands on the desk, leaning forward. "That wasn't hockey. That was you trying to prove something. Again."

The again hit harder than Dane's punches. I clenched my jaw, tasting fresh blood.

"I brought you here because I saw something in you. Raw talent. Fire. But fire's only useful when you can control it."He paused, studying me. "Your old coach told me what happened."

My stomach dropped. "Did he tell you everything?"

"He told me enough. I can fill in the rest."That meant he didn't know about the camps comment.

Coach straightened, his expression unreadable. "You're out of second chances. One more stunt like this, and I mean one more fight that isn't about the game, andyou'redone. Not only here—everywhere. No team's going to touch you after two strikes like this."

The truth of it settled like ice in my veins. I'd known this was my last shot, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it real.

"What about Whitaker?"I instantly knew the question might have been a mistake.

"Whitaker's got hisownwarning coming. But he's not the one with a history."Coach exhaled. "You're better than this, Leo. I've seen it. Now prove it to everyone else."

I nodded, throat tight. "Yes, sir."

"Go get cleaned up. And Leo ?"He waited until I met his gaze. "Make this chance count."

I slipped out of his office, his words heavy on my shoulders. Dane was waiting in the hallway, blood dried at the corner of his mouth, his usual polishwhollywrecked. Our eyes met for a long moment.

Neither of us spoke. What was there to say? We'd crossed a line out there, and we both knew it. The tension between us hadn't dissolved—if anything, it had crystallized into something sharper.

I turned away first, heading for the locker room. My hands were still shaking.

When I left the locker room, I walked out of the arena, past my car, and out of the parking lot. I didn't trust myself to drive. The last thing I needed was another headline: Hockey's Problem Child Crashes Car After Practice Fight .

I stepped out of the Colisée and started uphill, the cracked sidewalk guiding me past shuttered storefronts and weathered three-story buildings with sagging porches. The wind carried the distant hum of traffic and the faint, metallic scent of the Androscoggin River, but my feet moved on autopilot, weaving through patches of old snow and last fall's forgotten leaves.

The used bookstore slouched at the edge of the Bates campus, tucked beside Pete's Pawn—a narrow brick building that looked like it had been bracing for collapse since the Kennedy administration. Its faded sign barely clung to the facade, the gold lettering long rubbed to ghosts of their former selves. I pushed the door open, and the overhead bell let out a halfhearted chime as if it had also seen better days. Inside, the must of old paper swallowed me whole, warm and steady against the bite of the wind outside.

My fingers trailed along the spines as Imade my wayto the poetry section in the back corner. The shelves were cramped, volumes stacked sideways on top ofproperlyshelved books. I knew which one I was looking for—I always did—but I took my time, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. I rarely found it, but it was worth the search.

A fresh bruise was blooming on my knuckles where they'd connected with Dane's face. I flexed my hand, remembering the impact and how his blue eyes had flashed just before the first punch. The memory should have made me angry.

Instead, it left me unsettled.

The usual titles lined the shelves: Frost, Bishop, Wright. But one slim volume, its faded spine unfamiliar, caught my eye. The Borrowed Sky by Tom Murray. The cover showed a storm-lashed horizon, a single figure silhouetted against the dark.

I blinked. The Borrowed Sky . Here. In a Maine bookstore.

I'd read the book a hundred times. I had three copies at home, worn and dog-eared from years of flipping through its pages. But seeing it here, unexpected and out of place, sent a jolt through me.

The paper felt rough beneath my fingers, like the texture of canvas. I flipped it open at random, and a line leaped out at me:

"A man is not the sum of his fists, but the shape of what he holds."

The words stopped me cold. My breath caught as I stared at the page, rereading the lineagain and again. The poem was titled "Inheritance,"and it was about fathers and sons, about how masculinity wasn't in dominance or brute strength but in resilience, in the quiet courage to hold on to something worth protecting.

My knuckles ached in response. The image of Dane's face, eyes blazing with unguarded fury, rose in my mind. I flexed my fingers again and turned the page.

"Fear doesn't break you,"read thefollowingpoem, "Shadow Ice.""It sharpens the edge if you let it."

God. That sounded like it had been written for me, standing here with blood still crusted on my lip and my stomach in knots."Shadow Ice"talked about stepping into fear, letting it fuel action instead of avoiding it. It spoke abouthow the sharpest edges were born not from anger but from learning when to yield and when to stand.

The bell above the shop door jingled. I startled, clutching the book tighter, then glanced toward the entrance. He was just a college student, bundled in a parka, shaking snow from his long hair—nothing to worry about.

My phone buzzed. I ignored it, but it buzzed again, insistent. When I finally pulled it out, Mei's name glowed on the screen. One missed call, then a text:

Mei: Mom saw your name on the roster. She's actually asking about you, Leo.

Three years of silence, and that's what broke it. Not my suspension,the headlines, orthe nights I spent sleeping in my car because I couldn't face an empty apartment. Seeing my name on a minor league roster in central Maine made my parents want to initiate contact.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket and took The Borrowed Sky to the counter. The shop owner smiled like they recognized what it meant to find an unexpected book that felt like a lifeline.

"Haven't seen this one in years,"she said,running a fingeralong the cover. "Special find."

"Yeah,"I said softly. "It is."

Outside, the wind had picked up; another wave of snow wascoming. I leaned against the rough brick wall, letting the cold shock some sense into me. The book was solid in my hands,realin a way nothing else felt right now.

Tomorrow, I'd have to go back to the rink. Dane would be there, with his bruised face and careful control. We'd have to figure out how to exist in the same space without combusting. But for now, I had Tom Murray and the quiet certainty of poetry.

I opened the book again, random this time, landing on another line:

"The ice only cracks when you're ready to fall."

Yeah. That was about right.

A snowflake landed on the page, then another. I looked up into the gray sky, where more were starting to fall.

Tomorrow would come too soon. There would be early morning ice, Dane's watchful eyes, and all the weight of expectations I never asked for. But right now, standing in the gentle snow with poetry in my hands, I could almost believe I wasn't completely screwed.

Almost.

I traced the cut on my knuckles one more time.

Time to go home. Tomorrow would bring whatever it brought.

But first, it was poetry and green tea.