Phil nodded, as if this were serious business. “That tracks.”
Cam smiled, small and warm, the corner of his mouth tugging up first, eyes crinkling as though he hadn’t meant to doit—and something in my chest loosened. I noticed the shape of it before I could stop myself, then shoved the thought away.
I stole a glance at him. Then another. He was relaxed now, sprawled just a little, long legs stretched out, hands easy on his thighs. There was no sign that what had happened outside bothered him. It was as if it hadn’t changed how he saw me, and that made me feel warm. Because Iwantedhis eyes on me, wanted that look again—the one that said hesawme, really saw me, and didn’t flinch.
My stomach flipped because that was what a friend would do. Right? I didn’t have many friends, not any that stuck around, and maybe Cam could be that friend I wanted? Friends who have coffee and talk about nothing and everything? I dragged my attention back to Phil, who was explaining something about socks and winning streaks. I nodded in the right places, even laughed once, but my focus kept slipping.
Back to Cam’s mouth when he smiled, which was stupid and unhelpful and not something I needed to be noticing. Because… friend…
When there was a pause in the conversation, Phil shifted in his chair, the leather creaking, and peered at me over the rim of his mug. ” So,” he said, casual as anything, “You're that new puck pusher, then? Aarni Lankinen's kid.”
The knot in my stomach tightened again. I nodded once. No point pretending otherwise, and I glanced at Cam, who watched me steadily. This was clearly not news to him that my last name was Lankinen. Of course it wasn’t, I couldn’t hide it, and I felt sick. “Yeah.” Heat crept up my neck. I dropped my gaze to Lionel, burying my fingers deeper into his fur, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cam lean forward, forearms on his thighs, as if he wanted to be closer to me. Great. If he knew who my dad was, maybe he saw me as pathetic now—something to bepitied for my name, for the panic attack. Or worse, perhaps this was kindness with strings attached, a lull before the drop?
Stop!
“Big move coming to Harrisburg with all that baggage,” Phil said. “I read a few things and y'know, fans have got long memories, but you'll show them, so don't pay any mind to what they're saying.”
Something in his tone—kind, unassuming—made my chest ache. I swallowed. “I won't.” I lied. Jeez, one drunk asshole and I'd lost my shit on a sidewalk, so how was that for ignoring people?
Cam shot me a quick look, checking in without making a thing of it, and I stole another glance at him in return. He caught me that time. Didn’t glance away. I didn’t see pity in his gaze, or criticism, or… my stomach flipped again.
Phil chuckled to himself and took another sip of coffee. “Well, I'd better go and fix myself to the back. Got a couple of boxes of baseball cards just came in—needs sorting before Lionel decides they’re beds.”
Lionel kneaded my thigh, purring like a small engine, and for a few quiet seconds, the world narrowed to coffee, dust, and the warmth of a cat. And Cam was close enough that I caught the clean scent of soap and coffee when he shifted, steady warmth at my side, I pretended not to notice. I was still anxious. Still embarrassed. Still carrying the echo of that man’s voice in my head, but I stayed, and that felt like something.
We passed an hour in there without really noticing the time. Just… sitting. Chilling. Talking about nothing and everything—road trips, the weirdest superstitions Cam had seen in clubhouses, the difference between hockey tape and baseball grip tape as if it were a serious academic debate.
Cam didn’t revisit what had happened on the sidewalk or the way I’d lost control. He didn’t ask about my dad, or my name, orwhat it was like growing up with all that noise. He let the silence exist when it wanted to and filled it when it didn’t.
At some point, we made plans—loose ones, easy ones—and I caught myself wanting them to happen sooner than necessary, which I immediately reframed as enthusiasm for normal human friendship. Coffee again. Maybe food next time. Something low-key. Something I didn’t have to armor myself for. I didn’t realize how quiet my head had gotten until he stood to leave. I could do this. Icouldhave a friend who didn’t need explanations. Who didn’t need me to perform, confess, or justify myself.
Someone who just let me be me.
Now, if only I could come to terms with wanting to hug or evenkissmy newfriend, everything would be fine.
New Jersey hadus by the balls.
Again.
This was our second pre-season game against them, and we'd already lost to them two nights ago, a tragic five to nothing in their barn. But now we were home, and when I’d skated out for warm-ups, my first time as one of the Railers, the noise had hit me full in the chest.
Loud and grating boos rolled down from the stands.
I’d expected it. No one wanted me tradedhere. To them, I was the mistake, the question mark, the reason we’d lost to New Jersey despite neither of us fielding our best teams because, yeah, pre-season. I kept my head down, did my laps, told myself it didn’t matter—but the sound followed me anyway, a low, ugly reminder that home ice didn’t automatically mean welcome. Cap made sure he was right by my side, Noah, Trick, Becks, Mules,they all made a show to the fans that I was wanted, whether they believed it or not.
I hadn’t shone in the first pre-season game—and tonight wasn't any better. Three to them, nothing to us on the board, and it felt worse than the score suggested. New Jersey was everywhere—on the puck, in the lanes, on our sticks before we could even think about making a play. Every rush died early. Every breakout turned into a scramble. Nothing flowed.
Ididn't flow.
For a second—no warning, no reason—I was thirteen again, standing in the kitchen in my skates, still damp, still smelling like the rink. My dad hadn’t even glanced up from the paper.
If you were any good, they’d notice.
I’d tried to explain. About the assist. About the coach playing favorites.
He’d snorted.Excuses. You want to make it? Be better. Otherwise, don’t embarrass me.
The memory hit hard and fast, like a punch to the ribs—the same tightness in my chest. The same instinct to shrink, to disappear, to stop giving anyone a reason to look too closely.
