CHAPTER 7

ELLE

The piece runs on Thursday morning.

THE FORGE'S RISING STAR: LEADERSHIP, LEGACY, AND THE COST OF AGGRESSION

It's good. I know it's good. I have quotes from five players, two coaches, and a detailed breakdown of Blake's impact on team morale and performance. I wrote about the new captain with professional distance and genuine admiration.

But in the fourth paragraph, buried in a section about sustainability, I wrote this:

"While Delvalle's aggressive playing style has reinvigorated The Forge's defensive unit, questions remain about whether this approach is sustainable long-term. At 28 years old, with a career marked by increasing physicality, the question isn't whether Delvalle can continue playing at an elite level—it's whether his body can withstand the cumulative impact of his own strategy."

It's a fair question. It's a legitimate observation. It's the kind of analysis that separates real journalism from puff pieces.

It's also a criticism, and Blake knows it.

He doesn't confront me about it. He doesn't yell or demand a retraction or pull my access. He just... stops talking to me.

Thursday afternoon: silence.

Friday: silence.

Saturday: silence.

By Sunday morning, I'm vibrating out of my skin.

I tell myself it doesn't matter. I tell myself that his opinion of my work is irrelevant. I tell myself that I wrote the truth and the truth doesn't need his validation.

I'm lying to myself, and I know it.

Because Blake's silence isn't just absence. It's a presence. It's his attention withdrawing and leaving a void. It's being in the same room with someone and being completely, entirely unseen by them.

I try to work. I have three new interviews scheduled with other players. I should be planning my second piece. Instead, I'm watching Blake across the arena, watching him interact with literally everyone except me. He laughs with Vault. He reviews tape with the coaches. He does a media interview with ESPN where he's charismatic and thoughtful and everything a captain should be.

He doesn't look at me once.

Monday, I'm unraveling.

I'm in the press box, and I can barely focus. Blake's on the ice, and he's playing like a man possessed faster, harder, more aggressive than usual. Like he's channeling the silence into violence. And I'm documenting it because that's my job, except my hands are shaking as I type.

He's making a statement. About the piece. About me. About something I'm too spiraling to fully understand.

Tuesday, I break.

I wait until practice ends, and I corner him in the corridor. The same corridor where he's cornered me multiple times. Turnabout.

"Talk to me," I say, and my voice is shaking.

He doesn't stop walking. "About what?"

"About the piece. About why you're punishing me. About whatever this is."

He finally stops. He turns to look at me, and his expression is completely blank. "I'm not punishing you, Elle. I'm just busy."

"You're not busy. You're ignoring me."

"Yeah, well. You criticized my playing style in a national publication. What did you expect?"

"I wrote the truth. I wrote—"

"You wrote that I'm reckless. That my body won't hold up. That I'm making choices that are going to destroy my career."

"That's not what I wrote—"

"It's what you meant." He looks away from me, and that's when I feel it: the full force of his invisibility. It hits me like a physical blow. "And I don't need my girlfriend writing hit pieces about me."

"I'm not your girlfriend. We have a deal. That's all."

"Right. The deal."

He says it like it tastes like poison.

And then he walks away, and the silence continues.

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We're on his balcony, watching the sunset turn the city orange and gold.

Blake is behind me, his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. We've been in this position for maybe twenty minutes, just watching the light change, just being together in a way that feels complete.

"I hate when you're upset with me," he says quietly, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost fragile. "It's like I can't breathe. Like you're the only oxygen in the room, and when you pull away from me, everything stops."

It's the kind of thing that sounds beautiful when you're young and in love. It's the kind of thing that makes you feel like your presence matters, like your love is necessary, like being essential to someone is the same as being loved.

I turn in his arms and kiss him, believing every word. Believing that his need for me is love. Believing that the desperation in his voice is affection rather than dependence. Believing that I could be the oxygen he needs to survive.

I was so naive.

PRESENT DAY

I understand now.

The silence. The invisibility. This is exactly what made me leave.

It's not the big moments, not the missed birthday dinners or the cancelled weekends. It's this: the slow erosion of being seen. The way he can turn off his attention like flipping a switch, like I'm something he can choose to notice or choose to ignore based on his mood.

When Blake loves you, the whole world shrinks down to include only the two of you. When Blake stops loving you or when Blake decides to punish you; you cease to exist.

And being invisible to Blake is the worst kind of pain.

It's worse than anger. It's worse than betrayal. It's worse than anything because anger means he still cares enough to fight. Anger means I still matter.

Silence means I'm nothing.

Wednesday, I can't breathe properly.

I'm sitting in the press box, and I'm supposed to be working, and Blake is on the ice, and he's beautiful and terrible and completely unreachable. He's a captain now. He's successful. He's built a life that doesn't include me, and he's punishing me for pointing out the fragility of it.

The piece wasn't even that critical. It was barely critical. But I made the mistake of treating him like a subject rather than a god, and gods don't appreciate being questioned.

I leave early. I tell the team media coordinator that I'm not feeling well, which is technically true. I'm not feeling well. I'm feeling like I'm drowning.

I drive back to my apartment, and I pull up the piece I wrote, and I read it again, and I hate myself for every word that could be interpreted as criticism, and I also hate myself for caring what Blake thinks about my work, and I hate myself for letting him make me small again.

Thursday morning, my phone buzzes.

It's a text from Blake: "Can we talk?"

Four words. Four words after three days of silence, and I'm already breathing easier. Already feeling like I exist again.

That's the thing he took from me, I realize. The ability to exist independently of his attention.

I type back: "Where?"

"My penthouse. Tonight. After practice."

My first instinct is to say yes. My body is already preparing for the climb to his apartment, the familiar territory, the space where he's most dangerous because it's where I've surrendered most completely.

But then something stops me.

It's not strength, exactly. It's more like self-preservation kicking in at the last second. If I go to his penthouse, I'm walking into his territory, playing by his rules, surrendering the last piece of autonomy I have.

I type: "No. Not your place. We'll meet somewhere public."

The response comes back almost immediately: "Elle—"

I don't wait for the rest. I send another message: "Lucca's. Seven PM. That's where we talk, or we don't talk at all."

Lucca's is a restaurant we used to go to when we were good. It's neutral ground now. It's a place where Blake can't corner me, can't isolate me, can't use his body and his proximity to override my ability to think.

It's a place where I still have some control.

There's a long pause. Long enough that I think maybe he's going to refuse. Long enough that I realize I'm holding my breath.

Finally: "Okay. Seven PM. Lucca's."

I spend the entire day vibrating with the knowledge that I'm meeting the person who makes me smallest, and this time, I'm choosing the location. This time, I'm setting a boundary.

It feels like the smallest form of power, and I'm going to cling to it like it's everything.