Puck Me Harder

CHAPTER 11

ELLE

Sienna called me Thursday afternoon.

"The story's dead. The sponsors are satisfied. Your name's cleared. Come back and do your job."

"Sienna, I don't think—"

"It's not a request. You're a good journalist, Elle. And I'm not letting you quit because of a man." She pauses. "But I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to listen: be careful. Don't let this happen again. Keep your professional distance. Do your job. That's all."

"Okay," I say quietly.

"I mean it. One more incident and you're done. I can't protect you twice."

I nod even though she can't see me.

So I go back. I get my press badge renewed. I return to the arena. I watch Blake from the press box and pretend that none of this happened. That there was no deal, no photos, no moment at Lucca's where I thought we could actually fix this.

I'm lying to myself so effectively that I almost believe it.

But by Wednesday night, I'm drowning.

The pretense is suffocating me. Watching Blake skate, knowing I can't acknowledge what we are. Interviewing other players, knowing they all know exactly what happened. Existing in this limbo where I'm close enough to see him and far enough away to touch nothing.

So Thursday night, I drive to the ice rink at midnight.

It's a smaller facility, not the main arena—just a practice rink for off-hours training and maintenance. The parking lot is empty. The lights are mostly off. But there's movement on the ice.

Blake.

He's alone, and he's moving like someone trying to burn something out of his system. Fast. Aggressive. Focused on nothing but the motion. He's not practicing plays or working on technique. He's just... moving. Skating like it's the only thing keeping him from exploding.

I sit in the stands, and I watch.

He doesn't notice me at first. He's too deep in whatever he's working through. His movements are sharp, explosive. He's pushing himself hard—sprinting, stopping, changing direction at speeds that look unsafe. His breathing is audible even from where I'm sitting.

Then he rounds the corner and sees me.

He doesn't stop. He just keeps moving, but something shifts. His attention snaps toward me like a magnet, and suddenly every movement is different.

He skates toward me, coming to a stop at the boards directly below where I'm sitting.

"Recording?" he asks. His breathing is heavy. His face is flushed.

"Just observing," I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel.

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he pushes off and skates away.

But it's different now. He's not just moving, he is performing. Every stride is controlled. Every turn is sharp and precise. Every movement is designed with the knowledge that I'm watching.

Except it doesn't feel like performance. It feels like truth.

He skates with an intensity that's almost violent, and I realize he's not doing this *for* me. He's doing this *because* of me. Because knowing I'm here has unlocked something in him that he's been trying to suppress.

He's skating the way he plays hockey like he has something to prove. Like his body is the only language he knows how to speak fluently.

I'm completely gone. I'm not a journalist. I'm not analyzing his technique or documenting his movements. I'm just a woman watching a man move, and it's the most intimate thing I've ever witnessed.

He skates for maybe ten more minutes, and every second of it is devastating. Every movement is a conversation we're having without words. Every turn is a question. Every acceleration is an answer.

When he finally stops, he comes to the boards directly in front of me again. Up close, I can see the sweat on his face, the rise and fall of his chest, the intensity in his eyes.

"Don't forget what this looks like," he says quietly. "Because you're going to remember it later."

His hands are shaking. Or maybe mine are. Or maybe we're both shaking.

He pushes off before I can respond, and he skates to center ice, and he stands there under the lights, breathing hard, waiting.

For what, I don't know.

~ FLASHBACK ~

Blake plays the championship game, and I'm in the stands, and he's magnificent.

He's fast. He's aggressive. He's everywhere at once, making plays that shouldn't be possible, hitting people with precision, controlling the ice like he owns it.

And halfway through the second period, he looks up into the stands. Directly at me.

And he points.

That was for you, the gesture says. Everything on this ice is for you.

After the game—after the celebration, after the media, after everything he finds me in the parking lot. He's still in his street clothes, still moving like he's vibrating at a frequency that won't settle.

He pins me against the car with his body, and his hands are in my hair, and he's kissing me like he's trying to communicate something he can't put into words.

"I played that whole game thinking about what I'm going to do to you," he says against my mouth, and his voice is rough with desire. "Every hit, every goal, every moment on the ice—I was thinking about you. About this. About having you."

"Blake—"

"You're mine," he says, and he's moving his mouth down my neck, and I can feel how hard he is against me. "Everything I do on that ice is for you. Everything I am is for you."

I believe him. In that moment, I absolutely believe him. I believe that his love is big enough to hold both me and hockey. I believe that passion like this is sustainable. I believe that a man can want you that desperately and still choose you when it matters.

I was so wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stand up in the stands, and I'm shaking, and I understand exactly what Blake was trying to tell me with that skating.

He's not performing for me. He's showing me what he's always been trying to say: I'm sorry. I want you back. I can't do this without you.

And I'm understanding that I want that. Despite everything. Despite the career destruction, despite the public denial, despite the fact that this man has made me small and invisible and uncertain of my own worth—I want him back.

I want the way he looks at me when he thinks nobody's watching. I want the intensity of his focus. I want to be the thing that he's thinking about when he moves. I want to matter that much to someone, even if that someone is Blake Delvalle and he's destroyed me more than once.

I walk down from the stands and I get as close to the boards as I can without actually stepping on the ice.

Blake is still standing in the center of the rink. When he sees me approaching, he doesn't move. He just watches me, and his expression is completely open. Vulnerable. Real.

"Don't do this to me," I say quietly. "Don't skate for me and then disappear. Don't make me want you and then make me deny it. I can't—" My voice breaks. "I can't do this anymore."

Blake skates toward me slowly. He stops at the boards, maybe a foot away from where I'm standing.

"I know," he says. "I know I've destroyed you. And I know I don't deserve another chance. But I can't—" He stops, his jaw working. "I can't skate without thinking about you. I can't play without wondering if you're watching. I can't exist in a world where you're this close and I'm not allowed to touch you."

"We can't keep doing this," I whisper.

"I know."

"It's going to destroy both of us."

"I know that too."

He reaches over the boards, and his hand finds mine. His skin is cold from the ice, and I'm shaking, and this is the moment where I should pull away. This is the moment where I should walk out of this rink and never come back.

Instead, I grip his hand like it's the only thing keeping me anchored to this moment.

"What are we doing?" I ask.

"I don't know," Blake says. "But I know that every time I try to let you go, I can't. And I know that you keep coming back. So maybe we stop trying to deny it. Maybe we stop trying to be smart about this. Maybe we just... stop."

"Stop what?"

"Pretending we don't want each other."

His hand is still in mine, and his eyes are dark with something that looks like desperation and hope mixed together, and I understand that we're standing on the edge of something that's going to consume us both.

And for the first time, I don't care.