CHAPTER 7

BLADES & BREAKAWAYS

Chapter 7: Lines Blurred

Ryker Hayes' POV

Blake Sinclair is the most stubborn person I've ever met.

And that's saying something, considering I've spent my entire career surrounded by hotheaded hockey players who'd rather lose a limb than sit out a game.

But Blake? He takes it to another level.

His knee is still healing, but that doesn't stop him from pushing himself too hard. Every time he wobbles during therapy exercises, his jaw clenches, frustration flashing in his eyes. He doesn't complain, doesn't ask for help-just keeps grinding his teeth and trying again.

It pisses me off.

Not because he's struggling, but because he won't let himself struggle.

"You're gonna wreck your knee all over again," I say, arms crossed as I watch him attempt another balance drill.

He ignores me. Shocking.

I step closer. "Blake."

Still nothing.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "You know, you're allowed to take a break. It's not a crime."

Blake exhales sharply, finally looking at me. "I don't need a break. I need to get better."

His voice is tight. Controlled. But I can see the frustration in the way his fingers curl into fists.

I don't know why I do it, but I reach out. My hand lands on his shoulder, firm but not forceful. "You will."

He blinks, caught off guard.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

Then, quietly, he asks, "What if I don't?"

The honesty in his voice hits harder than I expect.

I don't know how to fix this for him. I don't know how to tell him that it scares me too-the idea of losing the one thing that defines you.

So I just squeeze his shoulder and say, "Then we'll figure it out."

There's something different about skating at night.

The rink is empty, the usual noise of practice replaced by the soft scrape of blades against ice. It's just me and Blake, moving in sync, our reflections stretching across the glassy surface.

I don't know how we got here.

One minute, Blake was venting about his recovery. The next, we were lacing up our skates, wordlessly stepping onto the ice like it was the only place that made sense.

Now, we move together. Not talking, not thinking-just skating.

Blake glides effortlessly, his movements fluid in a way I'll never master. But somehow, I keep up. Somehow, our rhythm matches.

It shouldn't feel this natural.

But it does.

I don't realize how close we are until he turns, stopping just inches from me. His breath is visible in the cold air, his expression unreadable.

I should step back.

I don't.

Neither does he.

The air between us feels different. Charged.

Blake's gaze flickers to my mouth for a split second-so quick I almost miss it.

Almost.

Then, just as fast as it happened, he steps away, clearing his throat. "We should head back."

I nod, even though my pulse is still racing.

We don't talk about it.

But we both felt it.

I don't know how I let Cole talk me into this.

A team dinner with the Titans is always a disaster. Too much beer, too much yelling, too many inside jokes that usually end with someone getting tackled in the parking lot.

And somehow, Blake is here.

I don't even know how it happened. One second, I was telling Cole I couldn't come because of Blake's recovery. The next, Blake was grabbing his jacket, saying, "Let's just get this over with."

Now we're sitting at a long table in the loudest steakhouse in New York, surrounded by my idiot teammates.

And they won't shut up.

"Didn't think you were the dating type, Hayes," one of the guys teases, nudging me with his elbow.

I roll my eyes. "I'm not."

"Uh-huh." Cole smirks, glancing between me and Blake. "So what do you call this?"

I glance at Blake. He's got his arms crossed, watching the conversation like it's a slow-motion car crash.

I should correct them. Should say it's not like that. Should remind them that this whole thing started as a PR stunt.

But I don't.

Instead, I just shrug. "Does it matter?"

The words leave my mouth before I can think about them.

And the second they do, Blake's entire posture changes.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't react. But the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss.

I don't know why I said it.

I just know I can't take it back.

The second we step outside, Blake turns to me. "Why didn't you correct them?"

I exhale, shoving my hands in my pockets. "I don't know."

He narrows his eyes. "That's not an answer."

I shake my head. "Neither was your silence."

That makes him pause.

For a second, we just stand there, the city buzzing around us, headlights flashing past.

Then, softer, Blake says, "Ryker..."

I look at him.

Really look at him.

He's not just frustrated. He's confused.

And for the first time, I realize-he's probably just as lost in this as I am.

We don't go home right away.

Instead, we end up outside the rink, standing in the cold like idiots.

Neither of us says anything for a long time.

Then Blake breaks the silence. "I think I've been running from things my whole life."

His voice is quiet. Almost like he doesn't want to admit it.

I don't know why, but my chest tightens.

I swallow hard, glancing down at the ice beneath our feet. "Yeah... me too."

Blake exhales, his breath visible in the night air. "What are we doing, Ryker?"

I don't have an answer.

Because for the first time in my life, I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do.

All I know is that Blake is standing in front of me, looking at me like he's waiting for something.

And I don't think I'm ready to give it to him.

Not yet.

But maybe... soon.