Chapter 1

"Whatever it was, Morrison did it," Dimitri says, as he steps inside Callahan's office and lets the door fall closed behind him.

Coach laughs, a low, easy chuckle, as he shakes his head and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. Dimitri glances it at like he's scared it might grow teeth and bite him, but he takes a seat anyway. He gets the feeling he doesn't have much of a choice.

He swallows thickly, his throat tight and raw, like he's breathing through broken glass.

Everyone knows being called into the coach's office isn't a good thing, especially the day before the trade deadline. Dimitri's been captain of the Stallions for four years now, and last year they made it all the way to the conference finals. They're getting there, slowly but surely, but maybe management has decided it's too slow.

"Look, Dimitri, I wanted to tell you this personally," Callahan begins, and Dimitri instinctively closes his eyes, as if that could protect him from the blow he's about to be dealt.

"Where am I going?" He asks through gritted teeth.

He loves Ashwick. It's more of a home to him than Greyhaven or St. Petersburg ever were, and his teammates...they're family to him. People he genuinely likes, and enjoys spending time with; people who care about Dimitri, not just Volkov.

Without even knowing what was wrong with him during his first season in Ashwick, they still rallied around Dimitri and pulled him out of the trenches. They didn't ask too many questions, or push for answers that Dimitri simply couldn't give them, they just silently stood by his side through it all.

He'll miss them more than he can bear to think about.

"What? No, fuck – Dimitri. God, you're not being traded," Callahan says frantically.

Dimitri's eyes shoot open. "I'm not?"

"Of course you're not. You're our captain. You mean everything to this team, and to this city. We love you here."

Dimitri sighs, a long, shuddering thing, that allows his jaw to unclench and his muscles to relax. "Oh," he says. "Well – what, then?"

It's Callahan's turn to sigh now. He rests his elbows on his desk, clasps his hands together, and leans forward. Dimitri kind of feels like he's back in school, getting disciplined by the principal for defending Yelena, or interrupting a teacher, or something. Whatever Coach is about to say, Dimitri is certain that he isn't going to like it. But as long as he's not being traded, Dimitri will simply learn to live with it.

God knows, he's survived tougher things than whatever Callahan can throw at him.

"We've made a trade," Coach announces. "For Cole Whitfield."

It's like the ground drops out from beneath Dimitri, and his heart falls from his chest. It tumbles past rock bottom, down to the cavern that shattered open inside of him on that night five years ago. The night when Dimitri walked away from Whitfield for the last time.

He can't breathe.

His hands clench into fists on his knees, and his vision goes blurry, and he tries to suck in a breath but it feels like broken glass all over again. Feels like the shards of his heart are tearing his lungs to shreds.

"I know you two have history," Callahan begins, and Dimitri would laugh if he could remember how to. "But you're a good guy, and a great captain, and I know you understand how big of a deal this is for us."

Of course it's a big deal. He's Cole fucking Whitfield: greatest player the league has ever seen. He'd help bring the cup to Ashwick, would give the guys – and the city – something tangible to believe in again. Everything Dimitri has spent the last four years trying to do, Whitfield would make happen in one.

Dimitri just isn't sure if he can be here to watch it happen; he isn't sure if he could survive it.

"How?" He asks, voice like sandpaper as he chokes out the word.

Callahan winces. Ashwick must have given up a hell of a lot to get Whitfield; he's the most valuable player in the league. Dimitri wonders which of his friends he'll have to say goodbye to, so his biggest regret can join his team.

"Well," Coach begins, "I'm not sure if someone in Portland's front office was having a medical emergency when they agreed to this, or if there's something going on behind the scenes, but..."

"What did we give up?"

"O'Brien, our second round draft pick, and the rights to a couple of prospects."

Dimitri's jaw legitimately drops.

Portland traded the Cole Whitfield for a half-decent rookie, and thoughts and prayers. What the fuck happened? Whitfield wanted to play for the Monarchs for his entire career – wanted to retire there, and have his jersey raised into the rafters, and then probably coach, or commentate, or fucking scout there.

None of it makes sense.

"I know," Callahan says, chuckling in disbelief. "It's insane. They're making a huge fucking mistake, but – you ever hear the saying don't look a gift horse in the mouth?"

"Right," Dimitri says, even though he has no fucking idea what that's supposed to mean.

"Look, Dimitri. I know this whole...rivalry thing you guys had going on has died down a lot now, right? So – so I'm counting on you to be the captain I know you are."

Dimitri nods his head in understanding.

Their rivalry hadn't so much died down, but rather completely imploded. After that night – after they called it quits – all the fire that their competitiveness had been built on simply burned out. They couldn't look at each other during face-offs, couldn't chirp each other during a puck battle, could barely even stand the contact of a hit against the boards. The league got bored of the narrative pretty quickly, after that.

The only thing that's left of Whitfield-and-Volkov is the aching in Dimitri's chest.

"Of course. It's not a problem," Dimitri lies.

Callahan smiles, his shoulders drooping like he'd been holding himself tense for hours. "Great. That's fantastic. So you can be the one to tell the team then, yeah? The trade hasn't broken yet but we won't have long."

Dimitri nods almost robotically. "Yes. Sure."

"Perfect. Thank you, Dimitri. Seriously."

Callahan is an amazing coach. He's patient and understanding, knows when to push and when to take a step back for a minute. He's even got an open-door policy, so he's always available for the guys to talk to. He cares about the person as much as he cares about the player. Dimitri, and the entire team, would run through a brick wall for him.

So Dimitri is gonna try his goddamn fucking best, but he's scared his coach is about to become another person that he disappoints.

The second he's out of the coach's office and into the empty hallway, Dimitri slumps back against the wall. His legs can barely hold him up as he bends down, rests his hands on his knees, and just tries to catch his breath. He feels like he's done bag skates – like he's just had the workout of his life. His body is in fight or flight, but he can't do either.

Instead, Dimitri does what he's spent a lifetime perfecting: he sucks it the fuck up and pretends that nothing in the world can get to him.

It's the only way he knows how to survive.

O'Brien doesn't answer the phone when Dimitri calls – probably already on his way to Portland – so Dimitri leaves a voicemail telling him how much the team is going to miss him. He doesn't even have to exaggerate either, because the kid is funny, and easygoing, with sharp hands and a solid backhand. He was a great guy to have, in the locker room and on the ice. He's no Cole Whitfield, but Dimitri doesn't want to die at the thought of him, so. It's definitely a loss in Dimitri's books.