CHAPTER 12

BLADES & BREAKAWAYS

Chapter 12: Spotlight & Shadows

Blake Sinclair's POV

The arena hums with anticipation, a restless energy curling through the air like a cold breeze. The ice gleams under the stage lights, pristine and unforgiving. The charity event is in full swing, and soon, it'll be my turn.

I exhale slowly, steadying my breath. This is familiar. This is home.

Yet, as my name is announced and I step onto the ice, I don't feel the usual rush of adrenaline. Instead, my gaze flickers to the side-to the edge of the rink where Ryker stands, arms crossed, jaw tight. He's watching, but not like the others. His stare isn't filled with admiration or judgment. It's something else. Something unreadable.

I push the thought aside and focus on the music as it begins.

The first note echoes through the arena, and my body moves before my mind can catch up. Every step, every spin, every jump-I execute them with precision. I can feel the crowd's energy shift, their awe palpable.

This is what I've trained for my entire life. The ice has always been my stage, my sanctuary. But tonight, there's something different.

Or maybe, I'm different.

I don't skate for the audience. I don't skate to prove myself.

I skate because, for the first time in a long time, I want to.

And yet, even as I nail my final landing with effortless grace, my gaze instinctively finds Ryker again. He's still watching. But he isn't watching me.

He's staring at something deeper-something he can't quite name.

The routine ends. Applause erupts like a tidal wave. I bow, smiling, but my chest feels tight.

Because I know what comes next.

Ryker steps onto the ice, and immediately, I see it.

The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers flex like he's bracing for impact. He isn't built for this kind of performance. He moves like a warrior, not a dancer.

The music starts.

He skates forward, stiff at first, but determined. I know him well enough now to recognize that stubbornness. He refuses to fail.

But then-his footing falters.

It's just a second. A slight misstep. The crowd barely reacts, but I see it.

I feel it.

The hesitation. The doubt.

Ryker Hayes, the enforcer, the untouchable hockey star, is suddenly vulnerable in a way I don't think even he expected.

And before I can think twice, before I can talk myself out of it-

I move.

Gasps ripple through the arena as I skate onto the ice.

It's reckless. Unscripted. No one told me to do this.

But I don't care.

Ryker looks at me, startled. His eyes flicker with something close to panic.

I extend my hand.

For a second, he doesn't move. The whole world seems to hold its breath.

Then-

He takes it.

The moment our hands clasp, something shifts.

We move together-not perfectly, not seamlessly, but with something raw and real. I guide him through the steps, adjusting, adapting. He follows, hesitant at first, then more sure.

And then-somewhere in the middle of it all-he stops fighting.

He lets go.

Not of me. But of the weight he's been carrying.

The routine isn't flawless, but it doesn't matter. The audience isn't watching a performance anymore. They're watching us.

When the final note plays, we stop at the center of the rink, breathless. His grip on my hand tightens for just a second before he lets go.

The crowd erupts into cheers. But I barely hear them.

All I can hear is my own heartbeat.

And his.

The second we step off the ice, I expect him to pull away. To put distance between us like he always does.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he grabs my wrist and drags me down the hallway, away from the noise, away from the cameras.

"Ryker-"

He doesn't let me finish.

His mouth crashes against mine.

The kiss is nothing like the first one.

That one had been rushed, unsure, cut off too soon by fear.

But this-

This is desperate. Fierce. Like he's been holding back for too long and finally, finally, can't anymore.

I don't think. I don't hesitate.

I kiss him back.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and for the first time, I see it-

The walls he's built around himself aren't just cracked.

They're shattered.

"I don't know what the hell this is," he mutters, his voice rough, raw. "But I don't want to run from it anymore."

I swallow, trying to ignore the way my chest tightens at his words. I should say something. Something clever, something sarcastic-something to keep this from feeling like too much.

But I can't.

Because, for the first time in a long time, I don't want to run either.

So instead, I whisper, "Good."

And when he kisses me again, I know-

This time, neither of us are pulling away.