Chapter 3

When that rookie from Seattle came out it changed things a little – Dimitri had sat for hours, thinking about calling Cole – but it didn't change things enough. Certainly not for their situation. Until Sean, no other player had come out and then stayed in the league; they'd retired, or gone to play in the Eastern League, or quietly faded into obscurity. It's still not easy, and Dimitri and Cole's history would have made it all but impossible.

Dimitri hurts everyone he ever touches, and he refused to be the person who ruined Cole's life. So he ruined his own by walking away.

He's missed Cole every moment since. So much that it makes him breathless.

And now he's standing in Dimitri's locker room, next to Dimitri's stall, laughing with Dimitri's teammates like he belongs there. Like he fits. Like this isn't fucking impossible for him, too.

"Yo, Cap! Look who's here!" Park calls out, and Dimitri watches as Whitfield's head snaps in his direction.

His eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath, and the whole room fades away. There's just big brown eyes, and a constellation of freckles, and a tugging in his chest – like something is pulling him towards Whitfield even now, after all these years.

Dimitri wants to follow it. Dimitri can't follow it.

"Good to have you here, Whitfield," Dimitri says, his voice tight and strained. It's not what he wants to say, not even close. But he lost the right to say those things when he walked away.

Whitfield's jaw clenches. "Yeah. Good to be here."

"Brrrr," Reeves says, rubbing his arms and pretending to shiver. "Is it just me, or is it a bit frosty in here?"

Sean snorts out a laugh. "I think the arctic is warmer."

"Alright, alright," Mack says, clapping his hands to break up the teasing. "We're all grown-ups here. We're all gonna get along just fine. Aren't we, Cap?"

"Of course we are, Blake. No problems here."

Cole bristles, taking the comment as an attack that it certainly wasn't intended to be. "Well there are no problems here, either."

"Good. Then let's get to work."

It doesn't take them long to change into their pads and skates. The locker room is filled with quiet chatter that follows them out onto the ice, but Dimitri doesn't participate in it. He barely even looks up from the ground, just in case he meets Whitfield's eyes again.

He can't take the risk of feeling so unsteady out here, in the place where he's never had to question anything.

That's the worst part of all this, perhaps. Hockey has always been a constant for Dimitri – the one thing he has always been certain of. He's been the best on every team he's ever played for, he's confident and self-assured, and has never had to doubt himself. He's never had to question if he belongs. But now it feels like the entire world has been tilted on its axis. The ice no longer feels like solid ground, but like it's melting beneath his blades.

He doesn't know how to share the space that feels like home, with the man who had once felt like home, too.

Maybe it wouldn't be so unbearable if he and Whitfield were bad together. But, after trying Whitfield out centering the second line for a while, Callahan bumps him up to first and puts Dimitri on his wing. Just to try, all the coaching staff insist, but the second Dimitri and Whitfield touch the ice together he can practically feel the excitement in the air.

They're electric.

Because they're faster than anyone else in the league, playing together means they finally have someone who can keep up with them. And, like all those years ago in Fernbank, every pass connects. Tape to tape. Dimitri doesn't have to look to know where to send the puck, and Whitfield doesn't have to wait to see where Dimitri's going to be, because they just know. They can sense it.

It's like a magic show, the way they read each other's minds.

It makes Dimitri feel nauseous. They're not supposed to be this good together now; they're not supposed to work. He'd spent the last five years trying to convince himself that walking away was the right choice, and now...this. And he knows that their connection on the ice isn't the same as having one off it, but – but it's impossible not to feel that tugging in his chest.

That connection that tethers them together – the one Dimitri thought had been severed long ago – it's still burning hot, and bright, and strong.

"Fucking hell, Captain," Nico pants breathlessly, as he drapes himself over Dimitri's shoulder. "The fuck was that?"

"Hockey," Dimitri deadpans. "You should try it sometime."

Nico snorts, right in Dimitri's ear, and says: "Fuck off, you know what I mean. That was unreal."

Dimitri's eyes search for Whitfield, except – is it really searching if Dimitri knows exactly where he is? If he can feel him?

He's standing with Connor and Richie – their assistant coach – over by the benches, but his eyes are fixed on Dimitri and Nico. The second he realises Dimitri has clocked him, he looks away, cheeks flushed and jaw set.

"The kid's right, Volky," Mack says.

"Not a kid," Nico interjects, but Mack merely waves him off and continues to talk over him.

"You two are gonna be unstoppable out there."

Dimitri's attention doesn't shift away from Whitfield, and when he glances over at Dimitri again, there's something hot and fiery in his eyes. Dimitri can see it from all the way over here. Whitfield's gaze flashes to Nico for a moment – cataloguing the way he's draped himself over Dimitri and not let go – then he looks away again, turning so his back is to them.

"Yeah. Unstoppable."

Unfortunately, Mack was right. They are unstoppable.

There's so much noise about the trade – speculation about why, and how, and why. Insiders don't know how the teams managed to keep it from leaking for so long, journalists ask too many invasive questions, and fans online are either absolutely ecstatic (Ashwick) or absolutely furious (Portland). The one thing everyone can seem to agree on is that something huge must have happened for the Monarchs to toss Cole aside for almost nothing in return.

But – through the chatter and the questions and the rumours – the Stals start playing some really fucking good hockey.

The locker room might be tense, like a rubber band pulled taut and ready to snap, but on the ice...on the ice they are pure poetry. They win their first three games with Whitfield by almost embarrassing margins, and whether they're on a line together or just on the powerplay, Dimitri and Whitfield have combined for a total of six goals already.

They're so good they're making other teams worry. Which is great news, honestly, because if people knew what the team was currently like off the ice...well. There'd be more than just rumours about the trade.

Dimitri is abrupt and distant because he doesn't know how else to be – doesn't know how to exist in Whitfield's space without fucking reaching for him. He opens his mouth to say, "Nice shot," and instead tells him his backhand needs work. Or Dimitri thinks about crashing into Whitfield's arms after they combine for a beauty of a goal, only to nod his head and skate away instead.

And Whitfield is petty and sharp, always with a snappy response at any perceived slight from Dimitri, even when there isn't one – Dimitri's, "Clean entry," is met with, "Yeah, well I know how to skate." And every time he joins in with the team as they tease Dimitri, his comments hold a little too much vitriol to be a joke.

He's always tense, too. Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sometimes Dimitri catches him glancing around the locker room like he's assessing the team. Like he's waiting for them to say something they shouldn't. He wants to know what that's all about – wants to ask – but he knows it's a bad idea. Beyond the necessary hockey talk, Whitfield has barely even glanced in his direction.

It's for the best, Dimitri tells himself, even though it makes him feel like his skin is stretched too tight over his bones.

Everyone is exhausted after their red-eye to Silverton, and with a West Coast road trip looming ahead of them, they all just want to stumble into their hotel rooms and crash. However, Dimitri is cursed enough that things are never as simple as that for him.

Callahan hands him his room key and says, "Volk, you're with Whitfield for the rest of the season."

The floor tilts slightly beneath him, and Dimitri almost stumbles.

"What?"

"Why?" Whitfield jumps in, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched in a way that makes him look more like a pissed off kitten than anything actually threatening.

"Because I said so."

"Coach..." Dimitri groans.

"Boys, listen-"

"You two fucking idiots are so bitchy it feels like I'm at one of Theo's PTA meetings," Mack interrupts.

Dimitri fixes him with a glare that makes the rookies tremble, but Mack has known him long enough by now that he simply grins and pops his gum in Dimitri's face. Fucker. His team aren't scared enough of him.