Puck Me Harder

CHAPTER 10

BLAKE

The PR meeting happens Tuesday morning.

Marcus, my PR agent, sits across from me with his laptop open and about fifteen different screenshots of tweets, articles, and gossip blog posts. He looks like a man who's been awake for approximately four hours.

"We need to control the narrative," he says without preamble. "Right now, it's spiraling. Sports outlets are picking this up. Entertainment blogs are starting to care. By end of week, mainstream media is going to have questions."

"Okay," I say.

"So you're going to issue a statement denying any romantic involvement with Elle Bloom."

I don't say anything.

Marcus waits. When I don't respond, he repeats: "You're going to deny the relationship."

"No, I'm not."

"Blake—"

"I said no. I'm not going to lie about her."

Marcus closes his laptop. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes like he's trying to physically remove the frustration from his face.

"Let me be clear," he says, and his voice is very calm, which is worse than if he was yelling. "The Forge organization is concerned. Your coach is concerned. Your sponsors are concerned. The question isn't whether you're going to deny the relationship. The question is whether you're going to do it voluntarily, or whether we're going to have to issue a statement without your cooperation."

"She didn't do anything wrong," I say.

"I don't care if she committed sainthood. She's a liability right now. Her credibility is compromised. Her presence with the team is becoming a distraction. And every day this continues is a day the story grows bigger."

He's right. I know he's right. Elle's career is imploding, and it's because of me. It's because I couldn't stay away from her. It's because I made a deal with her and then broke it at a restaurant where paparazzi could see us.

"What if she denies it?" I ask. "What if she says we're not involved?"

"Then you corroborate the story. You both say the same thing. The narrative dies because there's nothing there anymore. It's just a journalist and a subject having dinner. Boring. Not a story."

He's right. Killing the rumor is actually simple. Elle denies involvement. I deny involvement. The story evaporates.

But it means Elle has to go on record saying that what happened between us doesn't matter. That Saturday night at Lucca's was meaningless. That the five years of history, the deal, the photos, the possessiveness, all of it meant nothing.

"Let me talk to her," I say finally.

Marcus nods. "Talk to her. Make her understand that her career depends on this. Make her understand that the best thing she can do right now is distance herself from you completely."

I find her in the hallway after practice.

She's walking toward the exit, her bag over her shoulder, her press badge clipped to her blazer—except it's not. The badge is gone. They pulled her access.

"Elle," I say, and she stops but doesn't turn around. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't."

"Elle—"

She finally turns, and her face is a study in controlled fury. "Don't. Whatever you're going to say, don't."

"You need to deny this," I say, and I can hear how cold my voice sounds. "Tell your boss you're not involved with me. Tell the media you're not involved with me. Kill the rumor."

She stares at me.

"That's it?" she asks softly. "That's what you came to tell me?"

"It's the only way to fix this. If you deny it—"

"I don't care about fixing this." Her voice is getting sharp. "I don't care about the rumors or the narrative or what anyone believes. I care about the fact that you're asking me to lie about what happened between us."

"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to protect yourself."

"By denying you. By saying you don't matter. By making myself small enough to disappear."

I can see it happening in real time: her closing off. Her pulling away. Her understanding that I'm choosing the easy out instead of fighting for her.

"It's not about that—"

"Isn't it?" She steps closer, and her voice drops to something devastating. "This is exactly what you did five years ago. Something goes wrong, and instead of dealing with it together, you make me the problem. You make me the liability. You make me responsible for fixing something that's broken because of both of us."

"Elle, this is different—"

"How? How is it different? You're telling me to deny our relationship so your career doesn't suffer. You're asking me to disappear so you can move on. And I'm supposed to just... accept that? Accept that I'm disposable?"

I want to argue. I want to tell her that it's not about disposability. It's about damage control. It's about the fact that her career is already in ruins, and denying the relationship is the only thing that might salvage it.

But she's right. This is exactly what I did five years ago. This is the same pattern: her needs become secondary to my needs. Her career becomes less important than mine. Her pain becomes her responsibility to fix.

"I'm sorry," I say, and the words feel inadequate.

"Don't apologize. Just tell me what you want."

"I want you to deny the relationship."

Elle looks at me for a long moment. And then something hardens in her expression. Something dies.

"Fine," she says, and her voice is ice. "I'll handle it."

She walks away before I can say anything else.

I stand in the hallway, and I understand that I've just done exactly what I've always done. I've chosen the easy path. I've made her responsible for fixing my mess. I've made her small so I can stay big.

And I have no idea how to undo it.

By Wednesday morning, Elle's statement is everywhere.

**JOURNALIST CLARIFIES RELATIONSHIP WITH BLAKE DELVALLE**

"Recent speculation about my relationship with Blake Delvalle is unfounded. Blake and I are not in a romantic relationship. My coverage of The Forge has been objective and professional. I regret any perception of bias and am committed to journalistic integrity."

It's clinical. It's perfect. It's exactly the kind of statement that kills rumors.

And it's a lie that breaks something in me when I read it.

The sports world moves on almost immediately. By Thursday, there's a new story. By Friday, #BlakeBloom is no longer trending. By Monday, nobody cares anymore.

My PR team is happy. The sponsors are satisfied. The organization is relieved.

Elle is gone.

She submitted her resignation to the Chronicle on Wednesday. She's taking a leave of absence from journalism. She's not responding to calls or texts. She's just... disappeared.

And I'm the one who made her do it.

Royce finds me in the gym Tuesday after practice, and he doesn't ask questions. He just punches me in the shoulder hard enough that I actually feel it.

"What the hell was that about?" he asks.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"That girl was good for you. Better than good. And you just—what? Threw her away?"

"She's fine. She's going to be fine."

"She quit her job, Blake. She gave up her career to protect yours. And you're going to tell me she's fine?"

I don't have an answer because Royce is right. Elle gave up everything to protect me. To kill the rumor. To distance herself so thoroughly that she became invisible again.

Which is exactly what I asked her to do.

Which is exactly what I've always made her do.

I sit down on the bench, and I understand with perfect clarity that I've won. I got Elle to deny the relationship. I got the rumor to die. I got my career protected.

And I lost her in the process.

Again.