CHAPTER 20

BLADES & BREAKAWAYS

Chapter 20: New Beginnings

Ryker Hayes' POV

The world is louder than I expected.

The Olympic arena is packed, a sea of people stretching in every direction. Cameras flash, reporters murmur, and somewhere in the distance, the commentators are analyzing every second of what's happening on the ice.

But I don't hear any of it.

All I can focus on is him.

Blake Sinclair, standing at the center of the rink, the Olympic rings glowing beneath his skates.

He's poised, every inch of him radiating the kind of quiet confidence I've only ever seen in the best athletes-the ones who don't just compete, but own the ice, command the moment.

And then the music starts.

His body moves before my brain can even register it. Fluid, effortless, like he was born to do this. Every jump, every spin, every extension-it's all perfection, but it's more than that. It's him.

He's not just skating a routine. He's telling a story.

I sit at the edge of my seat, my fingers gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that my knuckles turn white. My teammates-my new teammates-are beside me, but I barely register their presence.

This is it. The moment he's worked his whole life for.

And all I can think about is how damn proud I am of him.

The second his routine ends, the arena erupts into cheers.

Blake glides to a stop in the center of the rink, his chest heaving, his face tilted upward as if he's trying to soak in the moment. The scoreboard hasn't even updated yet, but it doesn't matter.

He did it.

I barely register the people moving around me. The announcers, the fans, the athletes backstage-none of them exist in this moment.

Because Blake's eyes find mine.

And then he moves.

Before I even realize what's happening, he's off the ice, pushing through the barriers, skates clicking against the flooring as he makes his way toward me.

I don't think. I just stand.

He crashes into me, arms wrapping around my neck, face buried against my shoulder. I hold him tight, not giving a damn about the cameras, the reporters, the world watching us.

"You did it," I murmur against his hair.

His breath hitches. "We did it."

And despite everything-the pressure, the expectations, the weight of the world on our shoulders-I know he's right.

We made it here together.

The adjustment to a new team was easier than I thought it would be.

I expected backlash. I expected tension in the locker room, teammates keeping their distance, awkward stares after my relationship with Blake became public.

But instead, I got something else.

Support.

Not from everyone-there will always be people who hold onto their outdated views-but from the people who mattered. Cole, of course, never wavered. My coach backed me from day one. And my new teammates? They cared about one thing-whether or not I could play.

And I could.

Hockey has always been the one thing in my life that made sense. The sport didn't care about my fears, my doubts, the chaos that followed me off the ice. It only cared about one thing-how hard I was willing to fight.

And I was done running.

So I fought. I played harder, trained smarter, learned to balance the intensity of the game with the life I was finally allowing myself to have.

A life that, for the first time, wasn't just hockey.

It was Blake.

Moving in together happened naturally.

It wasn't some big conversation, drawn out and dramatic. There was no official moment where we sat down and made the decision.

It just... happened.

One day, Blake's stuff was in my apartment. His skates lined up next to mine, his coffee mug sitting beside mine in the kitchen, his clothes mixed in with mine in the closet.

And one day, I realized I couldn't picture my life without him in it.

The space became ours.

Our home.

Blake still had a habit of leaving his music playing too loud in the mornings. I still forgot to put my gear in the laundry. We argued over the thermostat, over who had to cook dinner, over whether or not figure skating was harder than hockey.

(He insisted it was. I disagreed. He won.)

But at the end of the day, none of it mattered.

Because this was ours.

We weren't just sharing space. We were building something.

A life.

The snow falls outside the window, blanketing the city in quiet white. The lights from the buildings glow against the cold, casting a soft reflection onto the glass.

Blake is curled up beside me on the couch, his head resting on my shoulder, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the fabric of my sweater.

The apartment is quiet, the only sound the steady rhythm of our breathing.

After everything-the chaos, the pressure, the constant battle to prove that we belonged-this is what it came down to.

Us.

"You ever think about it?" Blake murmurs, his voice quiet.

I glance down at him. "Think about what?"

He hesitates, then lifts his gaze to mine. "If it was worth it. Everything we went through to get here."

I don't answer right away. Not because I don't know the answer, but because I want to say it right.

I turn slightly, shifting so I can look at him fully. He watches me, his expression unreadable, but I know him well enough to recognize the uncertainty in his eyes.

So I do the only thing I can.

I reach for his hand, intertwining our fingers, grounding him the way he's always managed to ground me.

And then I say the only thing that matters.

"Not a single second."

Blake exhales, something in his expression softening. And then he smiles-the kind of smile that still manages to knock the breath out of me, even now.

I pull him closer, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his forehead.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

Inside, everything feels warm.

And for the first time in my life, I know-

I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.