CHAPTER 3

BLADES & BREAKAWAYS

Chapter 3: Cracking the Ice

Ryker Hayes' POV

I never liked mornings.

Not because I wasn't a morning person-hell, hockey practice started at the crack of dawn most days-but because mornings were when my mind was too quiet.

No roaring crowd. No snapping skates. No fists flying. Just me, my thoughts, and the past I never wanted to deal with.

I rolled my shoulder, feeling the dull ache that never really went away. Years of pushing my body past its limits left their mark, but this pain was different. Deeper. Older.

With a sigh, I pulled on my hoodie and grabbed my keys. The rink was already calling, and if I had to spend another day skating with Blake Sinclair, I wasn't going to show up unprepared.

The cold air hit me the second I stepped onto the ice. It was familiar. Comforting.

But it wasn't the same.

In hockey, the rink was a battlefield. You fought, you skated, you played until your lungs burned and your body screamed at you to stop. In figure skating, though? It was controlled. Precise. Every move had to be deliberate.

I hated it.

I hated how it reminded me of the one time I wasn't in control.

I clenched my jaw, shutting the thought down before it could go any further.

Focus, Hayes.

I pushed off, skating fast, almost recklessly, the way I always did. The wind cut through me as I picked up speed. For a moment, it felt like I was back in my own world-where nothing else mattered.

Then a voice snapped me out of it.

"You skate like you're running from something."

I gritted my teeth and slowed down, turning to see Blake standing near the boards, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but his blue eyes were sharp.

I exhaled through my nose. "Didn't realize I was getting psychoanalyzed today."

Blake didn't smile. "You're tense. And you don't trust the ice the way you should."

"Thanks for the observation, coach."

He ignored my sarcasm and skated closer. "You never talk about hockey outside of games or interviews. Why?"

I stiffened.

"Do I need to?"

"Most players do. You don't."

I shrugged. "Not much to say."

Blake studied me for a long moment, like he was trying to see through me. I didn't like it.

"Let me guess," he said finally. "Daddy issues?"

My jaw locked. "Watch it."

Blake raised an eyebrow. "Hit a nerve?"

I turned away, forcing myself to breathe. I wasn't doing this. Not with him.

Not with anyone.

The next hour was filled with drills, corrections, and way too much of Blake's smug commentary.

"Your footwork is sloppy."

"Your balance is off."

"Jesus, do you only know how to move aggressively?"

By the time we took a break, I was one comment away from losing it.

Blake sat on the bench, stretching his legs. "You know, for someone who plays a sport that requires skating, you kinda suck at the technical stuff."

I exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Blake."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He grinned. "Make me."

I turned to him, narrowing my eyes. "You really don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

"And you don't know how to open up."

My hands clenched into fists. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Blake stood up, meeting my glare head-on. "I mean, you act like you don't care about anything, but I see it. You overthink every move, every word. You're scared of something, Hayes."

I felt something snap.

"You don't know a damn thing about me," I said, voice low.

Blake didn't back down. "Then tell me."

I scoffed. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because I think I get it," he said, eyes burning into mine. "You've spent your whole life living up to some impossible expectation, haven't you? Always trying to be the perfect player, the perfect teammate, the perfect-"

"Shut up."

He didn't.

"And now, you're stuck here, doing something that isn't hockey, and it's driving you insane because you don't know how to just let go."

I grabbed his wrist before I even realized what I was doing.

"Blake."

He blinked, surprised by the contact, but he didn't pull away.

Neither did I.

The room felt too small. Too quiet.

Blake's breathing was steady, but I could feel the tension in the air.

His wrist was warm under my grip, his pulse steady. Too steady.

"Let go," he said, but there was no heat in his voice.

I should have.

I didn't.

Instead, I stepped closer, my grip loosening but not leaving. His eyes flickered-hesitation, curiosity, something else I couldn't place.

"Why do you care so much?" I asked, voice lower than I meant it to be.

Blake swallowed. "I don't know."

Honest. Direct. Just like him.

I don't know either.

His gaze flicked to my lips for half a second.

It was enough.

Enough to make my stomach twist. Enough to make my grip finally loosen. Enough to make me step back before I did something stupid.

Blake exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Well."

I turned away before I could see whatever expression was on his face.

"We're done for today," I muttered.

Blake didn't argue.

For once, neither of us had anything to say.