Page 7

Chapter seven

Dane

T he second my skates cut into the ice, it was there—something raw, sharp, wired straight into my spine.

It wasn't nerves or pre-game adrenaline. This was different. It was a current I couldn't shake, and it was far too late to do anything about it.

I glanced toward Leo as we lined up for the opening faceoff. He rolled his shoulders, gloves flexing, and his head tilted slightly. He appeared to be listening to something in the cosmos the rest of us couldn't hear.

And then the puck dropped.

The first shift set the tone—fast, tight,and relentless. We had no room for hesitation or waiting for a play to develop. We drove the pace from the start, and the rest of the Forge had no choice but to keep up.

Leo cut through open space like he owned it. He had an effortless, predatory glide that sent defenders scrambling to close the gaps before he could exploit them. They failed. Every fucking time.

I stopped thinking, and I stoppedplanning. I landed in my groove and kept moving.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a warning flared up like a distant siren— this is dangerous. It wasn't about the game. It was about Leo.

And how we fit together.

Our connection was seamless. We played hockey like we'd spent seasons reading each other's patterns instead of feeling each other out through a handful of practice sessions.

The first perfect pass came five minutes in. I wasn't even looking.

Leo fought off a defenseman at the boards, one hand on his stick, and his body angled barely enough to shield the puck. As I watched, I realized. It wasn't a fair fight. He was baiting them.

A half-second later, he flicked a blind pass toward center ice. I was there.

The puck hit my tape so smoothly I barely felt the impact.

The net was open, and the goalie had drifted too far. I had time to settle the puck, pick my spot, and fire.

Perfect.

I ripped a shot straight to the top corner, its sharp crack hitting the back of the net, swallowed by the explosion of the goal horn.

Our home crowd surged, and the glass rattled under the weight of fists slamming against it. I let the roar sink into my skin, breathing through the high, through the rush of fuck, yes, this is how it's supposed to feel.

When I turned to celebrate with Leo, he was looking at me. Not grinning, not shouting, and not raising a fist.

Watching. His mouth curled up at the edges.

I skated past him on my way back to the bench, and without hesitation, I bumped my glove against his, a quick, sharp tap.

He didn't flinch. He acknowledged the tap with a slow nod.

It wasn't over for us. The second goal was his, but it might as well have been mine. We were mid-rush, pressing into their zone, three-on-three. The defense clamped down, bodies closing in, and their focus narrowed on me.

So did Leo.

He didn't need a signal or a call for a lane. He peeled off, slipping through the seam before they could adjust, catching my pass in full stride. One step, one shift of his weight, and the puck was already behind their goalie before I could process how easy he'd made it look.

It wasn'teasy, though. It only feltthat way with him.

By the third period, the game wasn't about winning anymore. We'd sealed that. It was about control. About pressing harder and seeing how far we could push.

Every touch of the puck between us was precise. Clean. A conversation we didn't have to have out loud.

When the final buzzer sounded, we were up by four. We'd wrecked the other team. Their chests heaved while they slammed their gloves against the boards in frustration.

I coasted toward the bench, stick resting against my knees, my breath sharp in my chest. The cold bit into the sweat at the back of my neck, a familiar sting.

Leo skated past me, his shoulder brushing mine—not hard, merelythere. It was enough to remind me that whatever had happened out there wasn't one-sided.

"Not bad, Cap'n." His voice was low and soft.

He hadn't said"good game" or "hell of a goal out there." It was only "not bad."

I exhaled and tilted my helmet back while I dragged my glove across my face. We'd won.

It was a cause for celebration, but the game was the easy part. Leo's extra few seconds of lingering at center ice before heading for the tunnel told me he knew it, too.

The locker room was a fuckingzoo. Everything was too loud and too charged. The victory rattled everyone's bones.

Carver had his jersey half over his head, hollering something about"first-liners buying first rounds." At the same time, Mercier slapped his glove against the nearest stall, grinning and completely ignoring that he'd spent three periods getting pelted with shots.

Someone tossed a roll of stick tape across the room. Someone else caught it and launched it right back.

It wasthe kind of energy you didn't fake.An honest,hard-earnedwin. And in the middle of it—Leo.

He unlaced his skates like nothing had happened.We'dburned the ice downfor three periods, but that didn't matter. We'd clicked in a way that shouldn't be possible this soon, and it didn't phase him.

I sat with the weight of the game still buzzing under my skin.TJ clapped me on the back, squeezing my shoulder once before dropping onto the bench across from me.

"Look at you." He grinned. "Finally, playing like you mean it."

I shot him alook."I always play like I mean it."

"Uh-huh," he drawled, shoving a knee brace down his leg. "I mean—how do I put this? You've been a little tightthis season. But tonight?Different."

I busied myself with my tape, pretending not to hear him.Different.Yeah. No shit. I was playing in the aftermath of an 8.0 earthquake.

Across the room, Carverzeroed in. "Yo, Whitaker," he called out, grin sharp as a skate blade. "Thought you were gonnakillCampbell when he first got here. Now you're out therefinishing his passes like it's fucking telepathy."

A couple of guyslaughed, and every goddamn eyeshifted toward me. Towardus.

Leo leaned back against his stall, casual as hell, dragging a towel over his damp hair. His expression didn't change,but I'd spent enough time with him to notice the impact.His hands paused for half a second, and his mouth barely, just barely,twitched.

Still, he didn't take the bait. He didn't rise to it, and he didn't push back. He didn't dare look at me.

He shook his head, dropped the towel, and went back to peeling off his gear.

I could have left it all at that, but there was that niggling heat crawling up the back of my neck. I grabbed onto the easiest out.

"Don't get excited, Carver," I muttered, kicking off my shin guards. "I make any asshole look good."

Morelaughter. Someone smacked the side of my helmet.

I didn't look at Leo.

Damn, though, his glare slammed against the side of my head. Heknew I was full of shit.

Fortunately, Coach's voice cut through the noise before I had to deal with whatever the fuck that moment had been.

"Whitaker. Campbell."

The roomgrew a little quieter. By the tone of voice, I knew it wasn't trouble. At least not like last time.

I stood, shoulders still tense, and met Coach near the back of the room. Leo followed, pulling a sweatshirt over his head as he stepped up beside me.

Coach crossed his arms. "That's what I wanted to see out there," he said, voice even. "That's how we win."

Leo didn't say anything. He merely nodded.No reaction. No change in expression.

Coach pinned us to the wall with a single look.

"You don't like each other? Fine. But whatever the hell that was tonight? I don't care how you make it work—keep making it work."

He gave us one last look, then returned to his office. We stood there a second longer, the rest of the room moving around us, but everythingwas suddenly too quiet between us.

Leo exhaled first.Turned away first. And I let him.

***

The press room smelled like old coffee and sweat, the air thick with the leftover tension of the game. Reporters were waiting—circling—and now that the doors were open, they moved in fast, their voices overlapping in a chaotic hum of questions, camera clicks, and shifting bodies.

I sank into my chair at the podium, pulling a bottle of water from the table, the label peeling under my fingers as I twisted it against my palm. Leo dropped into the seat beside me, his posture loose and relaxed—but I wasn't buying it. Not after the way he'dgone quiet in the locker room.

I knew that look. It was the same one I saw in the mirror after every loss. It was the same one I shot back whenever someone tried to tell meI wasn't supposed to be there.

The first few questions were predictable—generic hockey bullshit.

"Big game, Whitaker. What was clicking tonight?"

"Do you think this is a turning point for the team?"

"Leo, this was your first game with the Forge—how does it feel?"

The easy answers rolled off our tongues.

"We stuck to the game plan."

"We executed when it counted."

"We've been putting in the work, and it's paying off."

Nothing real in our voices. Nothing raw. None of it mattered until I noticed a shift rippling through the reporters.

"Leo, this was your first big test since Moose Jaw. Feels like you're proving something. You got anything to say about your time there?"

Leo's fingertips pressed hard against the table.Most wouldn't have noticed, but I was close. His shoulders tensed, and so did his jaw.

Hesmoothed it over fast—offering a smirk and an easy wrist roll. He ignored the bulk of the question.

Still, I'd seen the reaction, and suddenly, I waswatching him instead of listening to his curt answer. "I'm here now. That's what matters, right?"

He kept his voice even, and the reporter didn't push. Not yet.

By the time we left, the parking lot of The Colisée washalf-empty. Most of the guys had long ago cleared out, their pickups and beater cars gone, leaving only a few stragglers heading toward the bar or home or anywhere that wasn't this goddamn ice rink.

I lingered, and I wasn't sure why. It made the most sense to head back to my apartment, strip off the last of the game, and let sleep bury the emotions still swirling inside me.

Then, I saw him. I'd lost track of Leo inside, but he stood near his car—if you could even call that rusted-outCivica car—his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket while his shoulders curled inward slightly.

He hadn't started the engine, hadn't even unlocked the doors. He stood there, staring at the dark stretch of road beyond the lot. I wondered whether he saw something or it was a vacant stare.

I hovered near my Range Rover, fingers flexing against my keys. I considered leaving.

He wasn't my problem or my responsibility.

Watching himso goddamn still made something itch under my skin. It was the same gnawing irritation I'd had at the press conference when I caught that flicker in his expression—the one no one else seemed to notice.

It made me wonderhow much weight he had to carry alone. I swallowed, my breath curling in the air in front of me. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pushed away from my car and walked toward him.

Halfway there, I almost stopped. He still hadn't moved and still hadn't noticed me.

"You gonna tell me what that was about back there?"

He didn't look at me. He only exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. "Nothing to tell, Cap'n."

Liar . I took another step until I was close enough to see how his fingers wove together in that hoodie pocket.

"You shut down the second they said Moose Jaw."

He let out a sharplaugh, almost a tiny bark. It was brittlearound the edges. "Yeah? And you shut down every time someone brings up your last name. We all got our shit, Whitaker."

He used my last name to piss me off. It was an effort to play some psychologicalping-pong, but he wasn't angry. I would have seen that.

He only looked tired. It was the same kind ofbone-deep exhaustionI felt every time I thought about my family and the weight of a last name that held too much history.

I knew that feeling. I knew it too fucking well. We stood there, the cold settling deep into our bodies, a sharp contrast with theheat of the game still lingering under my skin.

The arena doors swung open behind us, and voices spilled out—a couple of reporters heading toward their cars, laughing at something, their breath fogging up the air between them. Leo's shoulderstensedat the sound. It was almost as if he feared they'd turn toward him and try to drag him back under the spotlight.

They didn't.

They got into their cars, the headlights flashing once, and then they were gone. Leo stood there, his hands still jammed into the pocket, and his jaw clenched like he was waiting for a punch that wasn't coming.