CHAPTER 19

BLADES & BREAKAWAYS

Chapter 19: Unbreakable

Blake Sinclair's POV

The arena still vibrates with the aftershocks of the game. The roar of the crowd lingers in the air, buzzing against my skin like static electricity.

I can't hear anything.

Not the reporters shouting questions. Not the clatter of Ryker's teammates celebrating behind him. Not even the erratic pounding of my own heart.

All I see is him.

Ryker Hayes. Standing in front of a sea of flashing cameras, his chest still rising and falling from the intensity of the game, his hockey jersey damp with sweat. His knuckles are bruised from the fight he put up on the ice, but his eyes-God, his eyes-are steady. Determined. Unshaken.

And then he says it.

"Yeah, I love him. And I'm done hiding."

The world tilts.

I feel it shift beneath me, like the ice cracking under my skates, like the breath leaving my lungs.

The room falls into stunned silence for half a second before the explosion begins-cameras clicking wildly, journalists scrambling to repeat his words, the entire stadium caught in a collective gasp.

Ryker doesn't move. Doesn't flinch.

He just looks at me.

And for the first time since this whole chaotic mess began, I see it-the truth shining through the cracks of his armor. He's not running anymore.

But am I ready to stand beside him in this storm?

The next 24 hours are a blur.

The internet erupts. The sports world is split in two-half celebrating Ryker's courage and the other half condemning him for "bringing politics into hockey." Analysts argue on live television, headlines flash across every site, and Twitter is an absolute war zone.

Some of Ryker's fans rally behind him, flooding social media with messages of support. Others? Not so much.

• Blake Sinclair is ruining Ryker Hayes._

• Hockey isn't the place for this kind of distraction.

• Real men don't fall for figure skaters.

I should be used to this by now. The scrutiny. The whispers. The way people think they have the right to define who we are.

But this time, it's different.

This time, it's not just me in the fire. It's him, too.

And the worst part? I can't protect him from it.

"Blake?"

I blink, realizing I've been staring at my phone screen for too long. Ava stands in the doorway of my apartment, arms crossed, concern etched into every sharp line of her face.

"You've been quiet all day," she says. "That's never a good sign."

I exhale, tossing my phone onto the couch. "I don't know how to feel."

She raises an eyebrow. "About Ryker finally telling the world he loves you?"

"About what it means for him."

Ava's expression softens. She's always been my fiercest protector, but she knows-this is different.

"Look," she says carefully, sitting beside me. "Ryker's a big boy. He knew what he was doing when he said those words. You don't have to carry the weight of his choices."

"But what if he regrets it?" The words spill out before I can stop them. "What if-what if he wakes up tomorrow and realizes he just threw his entire career away for me?"

Ava sighs. "Then that's his decision to make. Not yours."

I don't answer. Because deep down, I know the truth.

Ryker doesn't do things halfway. If he's in, he's all in.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

The next morning, the headlines shift.

"NEW YORK TITANS REMAIN SILENT ON RYKER HAYES' FUTURE-WILL THEY RENEW HIS CONTRACT?"

I stare at the news article, my stomach twisting.

This is what I was afraid of.

Ryker's entire career is balanced on a knife's edge, and I know exactly how this industry works. The second an athlete becomes a "liability," teams drop them faster than a failed sponsorship deal.

I don't text him.

I don't call.

Because I don't know what to say.

But that night, my phone vibrates with a message.

Ryker: Meet me at the rink.

The rink is empty when I arrive, the ice smooth and untouched beneath the bright overhead lights. Ryker stands at center ice, hockey stick resting against his shoulder, expression unreadable.

"You're late," he says, but there's no bite to his words.

I step onto the ice, gliding toward him. "You're the one who told me to come."

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but it fades just as quickly. He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

"They made a decision."

My breath catches. "Ryker-"

"They're keeping me."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. "Wait. Really?"

He nods, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. "They released a statement. Said they 'stand by their player.'"

Relief crashes over me so hard that my knees almost buckle. "Holy shit, Ryker-"

But before I can finish, he moves.

One second, he's standing there. The next, he's pulling me into his arms, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe.

I don't hesitate. My arms wrap around him, my face pressing into his shoulder.

This is real.

This is happening.

And for once, the world doesn't feel so heavy.

We skate together that night.

Not for training. Not for the cameras.

Just us.

No words needed. Just the quiet rhythm of our blades cutting through the ice, the steady sound of our breathing, the warmth of his presence beside me.

I don't know how long we stay there, but eventually, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, frowning at the unknown number.

"Who is it?" Ryker asks.

I answer cautiously. "Hello?"

A pause. Then-

"Blake Sinclair?"

My stomach twists. "Yes?"

"This is the Olympic Selection Committee. We'd like to formally invite you to represent Team USA in the upcoming Winter Olympics."

Silence.

For a moment, I forget how to breathe.

The Olympics.

The dream I thought I lost. The future I thought I'd never get back.

I meet Ryker's gaze, my heart pounding. His eyes search mine, waiting.

And then, for the first time in a long time, I smile.

"I'm back," I whisper.

And as Ryker pulls me into a kiss, I know-

So is he.

So are we.