CHAPTER 14
887 Words
BLAKE
I read the gossip column in the back of a car on the way to practice, and something inside me breaks.
IS THE SPORTS JOURNALIST COVERING THE FORGE'S CAPTAIN BECOMING TOO CLOSE?
"Sources close to the team say Elle Bloom and Blake Delvalle's chemistry is undeniable—but insiders are questioning whether her proximity to the captain is affecting her objectivity."
I read it three times.
The fury hits first—hot, immediate, almost blinding. I'm furious at Elle for compromising her objectivity. I'm furious at myself for creating this situation. I'm furious at the world for not understanding that she's the best journalist I've ever met, that her work is solid, that the only bias is in people's minds, not in her reporting.
But underneath the fury is something worse: guilt.
Because she compromised her objectivity by being near me. Because I created this situation by showing her those photos, by making that deal, by backing her against walls and skating for her and making her love me again.
Because the world is destroying her because of me.
I play like a man trying to hurt himself that night.
The game is against Florida, and I'm not focused. I'm not thinking about positioning or strategy. I'm thinking about Elle reading this gossip column. I'm thinking about her understanding that her career is imploding because of my existence in her life.
In the second period, their forward tries to drive to the net, and instead of using smart defense, I just charge him. Full speed. No technique. Just Blake Delvalle's body meeting his body with maximum velocity.
I feel the impact in my shoulder—the same shoulder I injured before. The pain is sharp and immediate.
I keep playing anyway.
Third period, I'm limping slightly, but I'm still throwing checks. Still trying to channel my guilt into violence. Still trying to hurt myself hard enough that maybe Elle stops mattering.
It doesn't work.
Royce pulls me at 15:34 in the third.
"Sit," he says in the tunnel, and his voice is dangerous quiet. "You're playing like you want to be injured."
"I'm fine."
"You're playing like garbage. You're limping. You're taking unnecessary hits." He grabs my arm, examining my shoulder. "What the hell is going on with you?"
I don't answer because there is no good answer. What am I supposed to say? That I'm falling apart because the woman I love is being destroyed by association with me?
"Blake," Royce says, and his voice softens. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit. You're self-destructing." He pauses. "This is about Elle."
It's not a question.
I don't deny it.
Vault finds me in the corridor after I've showered, after I've tried to disappear, after I've failed to be invisible.
"Cap," he says, and his voice has that tone the one that says he's about to speak a truth I don't want to hear. "We need to talk."
"No, we don't."
"Yeah, we do. You're falling apart. Elle's career is imploding. And you're playing like you're trying to end your own season."
I keep walking. Vault keeps pace.
"You need to fix this," he says. "With Elle. Whatever is happening between you two, you need to fix it."
"There's nothing to fix. It's just rumors."
The words sound hollow even to me.
"Is it?" Vault steps in front of me, forcing me to stop. His expression is steady, uncompromising. "Because from where I'm standing, you're both falling apart. And you're both pretending it's not because of each other."
I open my mouth to argue. Nothing comes out.
Vault keeps talking. "She's being pulled from The Forge coverage. Did you know that? She got reassigned because the sponsors think she's biased. Because people think you two are together. Because being associated with you is destroying her career."
"I know," I say quietly.
"And you're just going to let that happen?"
I don't answer because I don't know what the right answer is. If I go public and claim her, the rumors intensify. If I distance myself, she suffers alone. If I do nothing, she suffers anyway.
There's no winning move here.
Vault studies my face for a long moment. Then he says, "You need to decide what you want more—your possessiveness or her survival. Because right now, you can't have both."
He walks away before I can respond.
I stand in the corridor, and I'm thinking about Elle.
I'm thinking about the way she looked at me in the hallway outside her hotel room, wearing my old shirt. I'm thinking about her in the stands at the midnight rink, watching me skate. I'm thinking about her hand in mine at Lucca's restaurant, the moment before the photo was taken.
I'm thinking about all the ways I've made her small.
The photos on my phone. The deal I forced on her. The way I cornered her and made her understand that I owned her, that she was mine to control, that her choices were really just variations on what I wanted.
I'm thinking about how Vault is right—I need to choose between my possessiveness and her survival.
And I don't know if I can let go.
But I'm starting to understand that keeping her might be the cruelest thing I've ever done.
- Writer
