CHAPTER 8

BLAKE

I read her piece three times.

The first time, I'm looking for the attack. For the malice. For evidence that she wrote it specifically to hurt me.

The second time, I'm looking for the love. For the subtext that says 'I still know you. I still see you. I'm just asking you to be better.'

The third time, I'm looking for the truth, and that's when it hits me: she's right.

"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 the question I've been avoiding asking myself for three years. It's the question that wakes me up at 3 AM wondering if I'm building a career on a foundation that's already cracking.

But that's not what makes me angry. What makes me angry is that she prioritized this piece over us. She prioritized her career over acknowledging what we are to each other.

It's five years ago all over again. It's her choosing ambition over me. It's her deciding that being a good journalist matters more than being a good girlfriend.

Except I don't have the right to call her my girlfriend anymore.

Friday night, I play like a man trying to hurt himself.

The opposing team's forward takes a run at me in the second period, and instead of using positioning and smart defense, I just charge him. Full-force. No finesse. Just Blake Delvalle's body meeting his body at maximum velocity.

The crowd goes silent for a moment.

I feel something in my shoulder shift, and I know with the absolute certainty of a man who's played this sport his entire life that I've just done something I can't undo.

But I keep playing.

Third period, I'm favoring my left side, but I'm still throwing hits. Still playing recklessly. Still trying to prove something to myself or Elle or the universe, I don't even know anymore.

Royce notices. He calls a timeout. He pulls me off the ice at 8:47 in the third period, and his face is absolutely thunderous.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks once we're in the tunnel.

"Playing hockey."

"You're playing like you have a death wish." He grabs my arm, examining my shoulder. "You're injured."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're playing reckless, and it's going to get you seriously hurt." He's furious in a way I've never seen before. "Is this about the article? Because if this is about your ego, you can sit on the bench for the rest of the season."

I don't answer because I don't know the answer. Is this about Elle's article? Is this about her prioritizing her career? Is this about the fact that I can make her need me, but I can't make her *want* me the way she wants her ambition?

We lose the game 4-3.

It's our first loss of the season.

Saturday evening, I'm sitting in Lucca's, and I'm trying not to explode.

The restaurant is warm, intimate, with dim lighting and tables positioned close enough for conversation but far enough for privacy. It's the kind of place designed for people who need to be near each other. It's the place where I proposed to Elle five years ago. Where she said yes. Where I thought I had forever.

She arrives at 7:03 PM, five minutes late, and she's wearing a black dress that's professional enough for a work meeting but devastating enough that I nearly forget why I asked her here.

"Hi," she says, and she doesn't sit down immediately. She's holding herself like she might need to leave quickly.

"Sit," I say, and I try to make it sound like a request rather than a command.

She sits.

For a moment, we just look at each other across the table. I'm trying to figure out how to do this without destroying something. She's clearly trying to figure out how to protect herself from me.

"Your article was good," I say finally.

She blinks. "What?"

"Your article. It was good journalism. Fair. Balanced. And you were right."

I watch her process that. Watch her try to figure out if this is a trap.

"I was reckless Friday night," I continue. "Because you were right, and I didn't want to admit it. I injured my shoulder trying to prove something, and Royce benched me, and I deserved it."

"Blake—"

"Let me finish." I lean forward. "I read what you wrote, and instead of accepting the criticism, I punished you. I went silent. I made you feel invisible. And I did that because I'm scared that you're right. That my body's going to give out. That I'm building something on borrowed time."

Elle's eyes are glistening, but she's not crying. Not yet.

"I'm also terrified that you've moved on," I say quietly. "That you don't need me anymore. That you never needed me at all. That everything you felt for me five years ago was just... temporary."

"It wasn't," she whispers.

"Then why did you leave?"

"Because you left me first. You just didn't realize it." She's gripping her water glass so hard her knuckles are white. "You left me every time you chose hockey. Every time you went silent. Every time you made me feel like I wasn't enough to keep you home."

"I know. I know that now. And I'm sorry."

The words hang between us like they might actually mean something.

A waiter approaches to take our order, and the moment breaks. We both order without really thinking she gets the salmon, I get the steak and he disappears.

"What do you want from me, Blake?" Elle asks once we're alone again. "Because if this is about the deal—"

"It's not about the deal. The deal is over. I'm releasing you from it."

She stares at me. "What?"

"The photos. I destroyed them."

I'm lying. The photos are still on my phone, still encrypted, still mine. But something about the way she's looking at me, something about the possibility that I might actually be capable of letting her go, makes me want to be the person she needs me to be.

"I don't believe you," she says, but there's hope in her voice.

"Believe whatever you want. But you're free now. You can write about me however you want. You can stay embedded with the team or leave. You can do your job without worrying about proving anything to me and—"

I stop because I see it: a flash in her eyes that tells me someone has just recognized us.

A man sitting two tables over is trying very hard not to look at us while simultaneously taking photos with his phone. Not obvious about it. But obvious enough if you know what to look for.

Paparazzi or gossip blogger. Either way, we're about to become a story.

Elle sees my expression change.

"What?" she asks.

"Don't turn around. But I think we've been made."

She takes a breath. She doesn't turn around. She just reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine, and the gesture is so intimate, so *us*, that I understand we're completely fucked.

The photo will be out by tomorrow morning. Blake Delvalle and a woman having an intense dinner conversation. The internet will do the rest. They'll identify her. They'll connect the dots. They'll realize that the journalist covering The Forge has history with its captain.

And everything will change.

"What do we do?" Elle asks, and her hand is still on mine.

I don't have an answer. For the first time in this entire situation, I don't have a play. I don't have a strategy. I just have a woman I destroyed trying to figure out if we can build something from the rubble.

"I don't know," I say honestly.

And behind us, a phone is capturing evidence of our downfall.