Chapter Twenty-Nine
Leo
Sadie’s voice booms as I slowly approach the practice arena. “Head on a swivel, Czernecki!”
I let the sound of her grilling the guys fuel me as I close the distance.
It’s my first time back since surgery.
I’m here for her, but also for them. For Callum, who is annoying the shit out of Nic right now, even on the ice. For Henri, who’s on a serious upward trajectory. For Lachlan, who looks like shit in practice but will pull tricks out of his ass at our next game, like he always does.
For Ivan, who needs to listen to my future wife and put his head on a swivel.
I’m not here because I’m useful to them as a player—I won’t be, ever again—but because they’re still my guys. My team.
And I want to do this next part myself.
Callum is first to spot me. He makes a big fuss, as do the rest of the guys, which I sort of hate because I didn’t want to interrupt practice. They need every second of it. But once Sadie blows her whistle and tells them to meet us at the bleachers, it’s done.
Sadie and Vivi step aside, gesturing to me. They know what’s coming.
Fuck, I hate a speech. My throat is tight, but one look in Sadie’s eyes as she watches me from the sidelines and I’m ready to face it.
“So yeah. Obviously I’m not getting anywhere near the ice. Which means there’s a hole that needs to be filled—don’t you dare make a joke, Callum.”
Laughter erupts. Callum lifts his hands. “I’ll resist the urge.”
“First time he’s ever resisted an urge,” Ivan quips.
“Oh, blond Dracula’s got jokes?” Callum shoves him playfully, and I suddenly understand why people need whistles. I’m also not entirely sure if Ivan’s joke makes sense, but the spirit is there, and seeing Ivan joke with the team he used to fight makes this next part feel even more right.
Sadie nods at me to keep going, a twinkle in her pretty eyes.
“Listen,” I yell, regaining control. “I won’t waste your time.
But uh…” I strip off my coat. It was only half on, anyway, given my sling.
“I think it’s time to pass this along.” My gaze lifts.
“Pass it back, I should say.” With my good arm, I hold out a jacket embroidered with a C. “Treat it right, captain.”
And as Ivan meets my eye, we both know I don’t mean the jacket.
This team was ceremonially his, and then it was mine, and now it’ll be his again.
But like always—in every sport ever played—the team belongs to all of us.
It’s our life. Sometimes for a season, sometimes for a decade.
It can end in a moment or dissolve in slow motion, both utterly painful in their own right.
It’ll take you to the highest of highs, and the lowest of lows, sometimes only moments apart.
It’s never easy.
But it is always, without fail, worth the fight.