Chapter 2

The locker room is subdued when Dimitri walks into it. They obviously know O'Brien is gone, but they're still waiting to find out what they got in return. They don't have practice today, so everyone has showed up just for this: to see if the gain was worth the price they paid for it.

Dimitri isn't prepared for their reactions – isn't sure if he can't stomach watching his team lose their minds over Whitfield. Over the one person on the entire fucking planet who can rattle Dimitri without doing anything except existing. But he's the captain, and they're counting on him, and he refuses to let them down before Whitfield even gets here.

This is his team. Whitfield won't change that.

"So, I know we're all gutted to lose O'Brien," Dimitri begins, instantly gaining the attention of the room. "He was a great guy and we'll definitely miss him, but hopefully Portland will treat him well."

There's murmurs of agreement, but it's Mack who finally chips in with the question everyone is dying to ask: "Who did we trade him for?"

Figuring it's like ripping off a bandaid – better to do it quickly – Dimitri sucks in a breath.

"Cole Whitfield," he says. It's the first time Dimitri has spoken his name out loud in longer than he can remember.

The room instantly explodes.

There's cheering, and delighted laughter, and curious questions. They're all confused at how and why – because who the fuck would have Cole Whitfield and then let him go, right? – but, more than anything, they're excited. The possibility hums in the atmosphere, hope crackling against their skin like it's something they can almost taste.

Everyone knows what a big fucking deal this is.

Dimitri sticks around to answer the basics for them – though he doesn't really know that much, he'd been too blindsided to even ask – and then he dips out while everyone is still joyously celebrating. He just can't bear it.

To them, it's just about the best thing that could ever happen to the Stallions. To Dimitri, it feels like his entire life is about to implode.

When he signed with Ashwick as a free agent, he wasn't exactly sure what he was playing at. He told himself he needed a change, told himself that he couldn't stay in the city where every fucking corner held reminders of Whitfield – the city where he had fallen in love for the first time, even if half of their meetings had been in Portland, anyway.

Why he moved to the guy's fucking hometown, though, Dimitri has no idea.

(Maybe, deep down, there was a part of him that had hoped to bump into Whitfield. Or maybe the signing would have been so shocking that he would have got in touch with Dimitri to ask him what the fuck he was doing. Or maybe, for a while, Dimitri just didn't care about a single thing; where he played hockey was the least of his worries when it felt like his chest was cracking open.)

Dimitri sits in his car, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel, for what feels like hours.

He wants to get drunk. Or scream. Or cry. Or go back into Callahan's office and beg for a trade to literally anywhere other than here. Instead, he pulls out his phone and opens up a contact that he hasn't used in years.

He should have already blocked it, probably. Or at least deleted it, and the years long text thread that goes with it. He can't even count the number of times his finger has hovered over the block button, but he's never been able to take the final leap. Dimitri had ended whatever was going on between them years ago, and he'd walked away even as Whitfield had pleaded for him not to, but blocking his number – deleting the evidence that they ever existed at all – was a step too far.

It had always seemed too final.

He clicks on Kai, and – with shaking hands – types: Welcome to the Stallions. Looking forward to working with you.

Professional. Captainly. The kind of message he'd send to any new addition to the team.

Dimitri half expects the message to bounce back – for Whitfield to have blocked him. But the message goes through, and he watches with baited breath as delivered turns to read.

And then...

Kai: See you at practice.

He vents to Yelena about it when he gets home. She doesn't know about what Dimitri had with Whitfield, of course, but she's a bigger hockey fan than even Dimitri is – knows more about it, too – so it's not like she hasn't heard him whining about Whitfield before. It used to be a staple topic in their conversations...before.

"This is huge, babe," she says, her voice tinny through the speakerphone.

"That is not how I would describe it," Dimitri grumbles in response.

He's not sure that he expected her to agree with him, necessarily, because her only fault in the entire world is that she's always been a fan of Whitfield's hockey. But he needed to talk about it with someone, so. He should have known she would be excited about it.

"Stop being a bitch, Dimitri," she chastises him. "You're gonna win the cup with him."

"You're supposed to be on my side, you know?" Dimitri complains.

He hears her sigh through the phone, and gets an abrupt wave of longing for his best friend. He still sees her when the Stals play in Greyhaven, and they call or VidCall whenever they can, but sometimes he misses her so much that he can hardly stand it.

She's been his best friend since they were just kids who had no idea how the world could ruin them. She's stood by him through everything, never once faltered or wavered in her support of him. He thinks little pieces of their souls live inside of each other.

Dimitri wishes she were here now. He wishes he could tell her the truth.

"I'm always on your side, Dimochka."

"I know, Lena," he replies, soft like he always is for her.

"You're gonna be a real fucking problem when you play Greyhaven now, huh?" She groans, just to break the somber mood.

And Dimitri laughs, and Yelena laughs, and for a while things don't feel quite so terrible.

Dimitri hasn't seen Whitfield off the ice since that night in Portland, not long after his dad had died. He'd used the front door code Whitfield had text him, slipped inside the apartment, and then proceeded to end the closest thing to a real relationship that Dimitri has ever had. That was five years ago, now.

When he sees Whitfield again, he's standing in the stall next to Dimitri's, grinning as he chats with Reeves, and Mack, and Nico.

Dimitri wants to throw up.

He looks...effervescent. Unreal. Like a figment of Dimitri's most perfect dream. Not a single thing about him has changed, except for a few more lines by the corners of his eyes. He still has that sweet smile, and impressively thick body, and those fucking freckles that make Dimitri's heart ache with longing.

The thing is, Dimitri didn't end it because he wanted to. He didn't end it because he was bored of Cole, or because he didn't want anything serious, or because he didn't want him anymore.

Dimitri ended it because he loved Cole so much that he didn't know what to do with it.

Clandestine hookups, and brief texts, and meeting only when it was convenient...that was fine in the beginning. At least, that's what Dimitri had told himself. But he'd simply reached the point where he couldn't do things halfway with him anymore. He couldn't pretend that four – maybe five or six, including pre-season games and the All-Star Tournament – times a year was enough for him.

Dimitri wanted everything with Cole – a relationship, a home, a dog, a life – but he knew they could have never been anything more than what they were. Not really. Not unless they were both willing to risk absolutely everything to make it work.

And Dimitri would have never asked that of Cole – would never have asked for more than he was capable of giving.