Page 8

Chapter eight

Leo

O ur team bus rattled over a stretch of uneven highway, the shocks groaning with every dip in the road. The heater coughed out stale warmth, but my hands were still cold, shoved deep into my hoodie's front pocket.

We still had a lot of the season to go, but my body was already running on bruises and borrowed time. I refused to let exhaustion pull me under.

It had been a long game the night before: too much movement and too much thinking. Now, there was too much Dane sitting across the aisle, watching meagain.

The ride to Manchester stretched long, one hundred twenty-five miles of cracked asphalt and frozen fields blurring past the windows. Manchester was clawing at the same desperate hope we were—not entirely out of the playoff race, but damn close. We had to win as many games as possible, and there was no other option.

Around us, the bus had settled into its usual road trip quiet. Carver snored into his hood, sprawled across two seats, his legs jerking occasionally. I wished him good dreams.

TJ had headphones on, nodding slowly to whatever beat pulsed through them. A couple of rookies huddled in the back, faces lit by the blue glow of their phones. Mercier sat by the window, fidgeting with his ring finger.

Dane, though—he wasn't scrolling, and he wasn't listening to music. He was looking at me. Not staring, and not challenging. Justthere, leaning into the seat, one arm resting against the back.

I weighed whether or not to ignore him. That was probably the best choice. I slouched lower in my seat, pressing my temple to the window's cool glass, my breath fogging the surface in uneven patches.

The bus rocked through a sharp turn. I turned my head and saw Dane still watching, eyes shadowed but steady. Fuck it.

His mouth parted like he was about to say something, but instead, he exhaled, shaking his head a little as if deciding against it. Another mile rolled by in silence before he finally spoke.

"Carver's gonna befucking insufferableif we lose tomorrow." His voice was low, not inviting conversation from anyone else.

I snorted, rubbing a thumb along the seam of my jeans. "Carver's insufferable no matter what."

Dane chuckled. He shifted his position and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. But you know how he gets when we drop games we should win."

I did.

Carver talked more shit than he backed up, but losses put a different weight on his shoulders. He'd act like he needed to fill the space with something—louder jokes, bigger gestures, enough noise to drown out the frustration.

It wasn't only Carver. Every guy on the bus felt it. It was the precarious edge of a season teetering toward nothing. We'd worked too fucking hard to let it slip now.

Dane watched me, waiting. I wasn't surefor what.

I scratched at my wrist, rolling my shoulder where a fresh bruise throbbed beneath my hoodie. "We'll take 'em."

His head tilted slightly. "That confidence or wishful thinking?"

I stretched my legs out, the rubber sole of my sneaker pressing into the seat in front of me. "Didn't say it'd be pretty. But yeah. We'll take 'em."

Dane hummed low in his throat. He shifted again, looking out the window, the passing lights casting his face in sharp relief. Then, he turned his head to look back at me. "You played different last night."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He dragged his thumb along the edge of his sleeve. "More aggressive."

I let that sit. I didn't answer immediately. He wasn't wrong, but I didn't knowwhy. Maybe because I trusted the guys on the ice. Perhaps because I'd started to trustDane.

Didn't mean I was about to say it. Instead, I forced out something nonchalant. "Maybe I play better pissed off."

He studied me. Another few beats, and then his voice dropped a fraction lower. "Don't think it was that."

The bus rumbled on, carrying us toward New Hampshire. Across the aisle, Dane settled deeper into his seat, closing his eyes like he was giving in to sleep.

I could have followed his example. Instead, I sat there, listening to the road. And for the first time since landing in Lewiston, I didn't hate Maine.

The bus groaned to a stop in the lot of atwo-story roadside motel, the kind where the paint peeled in long strips from the doorframes. Aflickering Vacancy signstuttered against the dark, buzzing loud enough to be heard over the idling engine.

I shoved my bag over my shoulder and stepped off,lungs filling with the sharp slap of cold air. The pavement was slick in spots, with patches of black ice lurking near the curb.

Ahead, a few of the guys were already inside,filing toward the front desk like zombies, waiting for room keys. TJ shoved past Carver, who wasrattling on about the bar next door.

"Two-dollar shots and chairs held together with fucking duct tape," Carver stretched his arms over his head like we should be grateful he was even offering the information. "Pure class, boys. Who's in?"

Mercier made anoncommittal grunt, adjusting the strap of his duffel. The rookies hesitated, waiting to see who was going before moving.

Dane didn't budge. I glanced at him. He stood near the bus, arms loose at his sides,watching the others disappear into the motel's half-dead glow.

The captain's room was already waiting for him. He alwayskicked in extraout of his own pocket, booking himself a single while the rest of us bunked up in pairs.

Some guys might've called it entitled, but the truth was, nobody questioned it. Daneneeded the space—not because he was better than the rest of us, but because he didn't know how to exist any other way.

Me, I was rooming with Mercier. Same as always. The team split—some disappearing inside, some trailing toward the bar.

Dane lingered.

His gaze landed on me.Not quite an invitation but not a rejection either. He shifted his weight, rocking onto the balls of his feet. Then,he nodded toward the bar.

It wasn't a hard decision. I exhaled and jerked my chin in agreement.

Thebar, reeking of stale beer, was the kind of place where the jukebox still ran on quarters and skipped on every third song. A couple of locals hunched at the counter's far end, watching a late-night replay of an NHL game on a half-busted TV mounted above shelves of cheap whiskey.

The rest of the team had claimed a few booths near the back, already making themselves at home. Carver had two shots lined up in front of him and wastalking too loud about nothing. One of the rookies—Pike, I think—nodded along like he understood everything coming out of Carver's mouth.

Dane veered toward the bar without a word, so I followed,settling onto a barstool that groaned under my weight. The padding had long since given up, and duct tape covered the worst of the damage. When I shifted, it wobbled enough to make me consider keeping my feet on the floor.

He leaned forward, catching the bartender's eye. "Two." He didn't bother specifying what. In a place like this, the options were limited todomestic piss or imported piss.

The bartender slid us a couple of bottles, condensation already beading along the glass. Dane hooked his fingers around his, rolling it slightly against the bar before taking a slow pull.

He exhaled, slow and even, tapping the bottle once against the wood. "You played different last night."

It was the same fucking thing he'd said on the bus. I took a sip, the beer going down cold and tasteless. "So did you."

Dane's mouth twitched, but he didn't argue. The first few minutes passed like that. Two guys drinking after a long ride, letting the hum of the bar fill in the gaps.

I waited for him to start a real conversation, but he wasn't in a rush.

Halfway through our bottles, the tension finally cracked. Carver let out a sharp bark of laughter from the back, slamming a fist against the table. Dane shook his head, setting his beer down. "I swear to God, I have no idea how that guy is still employed."

"He's got barely enough talent to justify keeping him around," I muttered. "And enough bullshit to make us question that decision daily."

Dane let out a genuine laugh and shook his head. "I fucking hate that you're right."

It was the first solid laugh I'd heard from him. I didn't mean to grin, but there it was. He caught it, and his eyesnarrowed, but not in a bad way.

Maybe it was the beer. Perhaps it was the exhaustion. I didn't feel like I had to keep my guard up; somehow, I wasthe one talking first.

I didn't plan on saying it, but the words rolled out. "Almost didn't take this contract."

Dane didn't blink. He set his beer down and waited for me. Not pushing and not filling the air with bullshit. He gave me room.

The jukebox skipped. A new song kicked in. Someone in the back cursed at the TV while Dane watched me, patient.

And for some reason,I kept going. I was tired enough to let something slip.

"Moose Jaw was a fucking disaster."

He didn't flinch. He let the words settle between us.

I rolled the bottle between my palms, the glass slick with condensation, my thumb smearing a half-circle through the wet. "I mean, I knew it was gonna end badly. But not like that."

A flicker of something crossed Dane's face, but he didn't interrupt.

I exhaled, kept my voice level, and forced the next words out.

"There was a guy, Matthews." My fingers twitched around the bottle, gripping it tighter. "We were playing Regina, third period. He slashed me—cheap shot, nothing new—but then, hesaid something."

Dane didn't move. He listened—closely.

I swallowed, stomach twisting at the memory and how Matthews had glared at me through his cage. His voice wrapped around the words. He knew precisely what he was doing.

"First, it was just the usual shit. 'Go back where you belong.'" I sighed. "Which, by the way, is always hilarious, considering I was born in Alberta."

Dane's jaw moved, but he didn't smile.

I kept going.

"When that didn't get a reaction, he added—'Back to the camps.'"

The wordssat there like they'd taken up actual space in the air. Dane froze.

His fingers clenched around his beer, and for a second, I thought he was gonna say somethingstupid—one of the knee-jerk things people say when they don't know how to handle something ugly.

He didn't.

Instead,he inhaled once, slow and deep, then let it out through his nose. His grip flexed against the glass, then released.

"What the fuck?" His voice was rough but quiet enough nobody else could hear.

"Yeah. That was pretty much my reaction, too."

Daneleaned forward, elbows on the bar, eyes locked onto mine. "And nobody did anything?"

"Oh, no, I did something. Broke his nose with my glove still on."

Daneblinked and then exhaled. "Good."

His response struck something deep inside. I wasn't prepared to feel it. I tipped my beer back, finishing the last third in one long pull.

"Didn't matter, though," I said, voice flat. "I was the one who got sent packing."

Dane dragged a hand through his hair. "Jesus."

I shrugged, staring at the empty bottle. "The suits in the team offices don't like problems."

He swallowed hard, and he didn't argue. Didn't say it shouldn't have happened. He didn't tell me I should've handled it differently.

Heknew that sometimes,it didn't fucking matter who was right.

I exhaled. "Nobody took it well."

Dane sat back, watching me. He nodded like he understood what I'd scribbled between the lines. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

The bar hummed around us—the sound of the jukebox skipping, the muffled laughter from our teammates, and the low drone of a TV replaying NHL highlights.

Quietly,Dane said the last thing I expected. "You deserved better."

I exhaled, long and slow, letting my fingers drum against the wood before finally sitting up straight. We let the conversation shift tosafer things—hockey, dumb shit, whatever could fill the space.

When we returned to the motel parking lot, it was empty except for our bus and a few salt-streaked cars. The wind had picked up,knifing through my hoodie and pushing the night's cold deeper into my skin.

We walked in silence, boots scraping against the pavement, breath fogging in the air. Dane had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

When we reached the door to the motel, he stopped first. For a second, he didn't say anything.

Then, he spoke without looking at me."That shit in Moose Jaw. I would've done the same thing."

"Yeah?"

Dane nodded once, shifting his weight. "Yeah." He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know how you didn't kill that guy."

A corner of my mouth tugged upward into a half smile. "Guess I didn't want to get banned from the sport completely."

Dane let out a low, dry laugh, but there was no humor in it—onlyunderstanding.

I turned toward the hallway to my room, leaving him standing in the lobby.

The motel room smelled likestale air and cleaner that didn't quite do its job. Mercier was already in bed, one arm flung over his face, his slow, even breathing filling the space.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my hands. Before I could think more about it, I whispered to myself,"Not such an asshole after all, huh?"