BLADES & BREAKAWAYS
Prologue: Crash Landing
Blake Sinclair's POV
The cold air bites at my exposed skin as I step out of the rink, my duffel bag slung over one shoulder. My muscles ache from hours of practice, but exhaustion is something I've learned to ignore. It's just another part of the sport-another price I have to pay for perfection.
The streets outside the sports complex are buzzing with noise, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity of the ice. I hear the distant roar of an arena crowd, followed by the blaring horn of a final goal. The hockey game next door must have ended, and judging by the deafening cheers, the home team won.
I sigh, tugging my hoodie over my head and adjusting my grip on my bag. Time to get out of here before the post-game chaos spills into the streets.
But I'm already too late.
A flood of reporters and fans swarm the entrance ahead, cameras flashing like a relentless storm. In the eye of it all stands a man I recognize instantly-Ryker Hayes, the New York Titans' enforcer, the so-called "beast" of hockey.
I've seen his games before, mostly in passing when the TVs in the rink lounge are left on sports channels. He's a powerhouse on the ice, all sharp movements and raw aggression, like a wolf hunting its prey. His fights go viral, his name dominates headlines, and yet, right now, he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
His jaw is clenched, a fresh bruise forming along his cheekbone. His dark hair is damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, and his hockey jersey is still clinging to his broad frame. He's cornered against the wall, a microphone shoved inches from his face.
"Hayes! That last fight was brutal-was it personal?"
"Do you think your aggression is a liability to the team?"
"Rumors say you're in talks for a contract renewal. Any truth to that?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't flinch. Just glares, his gaze sharp enough to cut through glass.
I should keep walking. This has nothing to do with me.
But then-someone recognizes me.
"Blake Sinclair!"
I freeze.
Suddenly, all those cameras shift in my direction, and the air turns suffocating.
Crap
Panic flutters in my chest as reporters redirect their attention, voices overlapping in a chaotic blur.
"Blake, how's your recovery going?"
"Are you planning to compete next season?"
"Any comments on your withdrawal from the last championship?"
My lungs tighten. My fingers curl into the strap of my bag.
I thought I had more time before the media started hounding me again. After the accident, after the fall that nearly destroyed my career, I did everything I could to stay out of the spotlight. But fame is a double-edged blade-it cuts deep, even when you try to escape it.
I take a step back, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The crowd presses closer, cameras flashing in my face. I can't breathe.
Then, out of nowhere-a hand grabs my wrist.
I gasp as I'm yanked forward, the world tilting on its axis. My body collides with something solid-someone solid.
Heat. Strength. The faint scent of sweat and ice.
I look up, heart racing.
Ryker Hayes.
His fingers tighten around my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. His expression is unreadable, but there's a flicker of something-recognition? Annoyance?-in his dark eyes. He doesn't say a word as he starts pulling me through the crowd, shoving past reporters with the same brute force he probably uses on the ice.
"Move." His voice is low, commanding. The crowd parts instinctively, unsure whether to challenge him or let him pass.
I stumble slightly, trying to keep up with his long strides. Why is he helping me? He doesn't even know me.
But right now, I don't care.
We break free from the swarm, slipping into a quieter alley beside the arena. My breath comes fast and uneven, my pulse still erratic from the sudden escape.
Ryker finally lets go of my wrist. The warmth of his touch lingers.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then-
"What the hell was that?" I snap, my voice sharper than intended.
Ryker crosses his arms, unfazed. "You looked like you were about to pass out."
I bristle. "I had it under control."
He arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah? You sure about that?"
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because the truth is... I wasn't fine. I was seconds away from freaking out on live television.
I exhale slowly, pushing a shaky hand through my hair. "I didn't need saving."
Ryker shrugs. "Didn't do it for you."
I frown, caught off guard. "Then why?"
His gaze flickers away, as if he's only now realizing what he did. His jaw tightens. "Doesn't matter."
A beat of silence stretches between us. The distant hum of the city fills the space, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest.
Finally, Ryker exhales and takes a step back. "Just... be more careful next time."
With that, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the night without another word.
I stand there, my wrist still tingling from his touch, my heart pounding for reasons I don't fully understand.
And I realize-this isn't the last time I'll be seeing Ryker Hayes.
Not even close.