Blaze's POV
The press conference room buzzes with anticipation on the other side of the curtain. I can hear it—the murmur of dozens of voices, the mechanical click of cameras being adjusted, the restless energy of reporters who smell blood in the water.
Every major outlet in the country sent someone. This story is too big, too scandalous, too irresistible.
Two hockey captains. Rivals. Lovers. The scandal that's consumed sports media for days.
And we're about to walk out there and face it head-on.
Asher's fingers are intertwined with mine backstage, and I draw strength from his presence like oxygen.
His palm is slightly damp—he's nervous too, even if his expression stays carefully neutral. We've been through so much to get here. Betrayal, heartbreak, years of hiding, a manipulator who nearly destroyed us both.
Now we stand on the edge of something irreversible.
"Microphone check in five," a technician calls out, and Sophie immediately springs into action.
She's been a whirlwind of nervous efficiency all morning—checking microphones, confirming schedules with venue staff, triple-checking the seating arrangement.
Her heels click rapid-fire across the floor as she moves between stations, tablet clutched against her chest like a shield.
"The lighting needs to be softer on the left side," she instructs someone.
"And make sure the backup audio system is ready. I don't want any technical failures giving them an excuse to cut away from the statement. This needs to be seamless, do you understand me? Absolutely seamless."
I watch her work, still processing the strange reality that Sophie, the woman who helped my parents manipulate me, is now orchestrating our public redemption.
Trust doesn't come easy after everything that happened. But she's proven herself these past weeks, and right now, we need every ally we can get.
Sophie stops dead in the middle of the room, staring at her phone.
"Holy shit."
My stomach drops instantly. We've had too many nasty surprises lately. Too many moments where the ground shifted beneath our feet without warning.
"What now?" I ask, voice tight. "Did Jackson leak something else? Did one of the witnesses back out? Sophie, what the hell is happening?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Her eyes stay fixed on the screen, scrolling, her expression shifting through something I can't quite read. Then she crosses to us, extending her phone with a hand that trembles slightly.
"Your mother posted something."
My heart stops.
I've barely processed everything with my parents—my father slipping Sophie money at that restaurant, the calculated arrangement they made to "fix" me, the way my mother stood silently beside him while they tried to erase who I am.
The confrontation was brutal. The silence afterward was worse.
I brace for another blow. Another betrayal. Another knife in a wound that hasn't stopped bleeding.
Then I start reading. The post is public. Unambiguous. My mother's name attached to words I never expected to see from her.
"I have spent years being afraid. Afraid of what people would think. Afraid of losing the son I thought I was supposed to have. Afraid of a future I couldn't control.
That fear made me do things I will regret for the rest of my life. It made me fail my child when he needed me most."
My throat tightens. I keep reading.
"But fear is a coward's excuse, and I am done being a coward. My son is brave. He has always been brave—braver than I ever gave him credit for. He loves deeply and honestly, and I was too blind to see what a gift that is."
The words start to blur. I blink rapidly, but the tears come anyway.
"To my son: I am sorry. I am so deeply, profoundly sorry for every moment I made you feel like you weren't enough. You have always been enough. You have always been worthy of love exactly as you are.
I should have told you that every single day of your life, and instead I let fear silence me."
Asher's hand tightens around mine. I can feel him reading over my shoulder, his breath catching.
"I really hope to soon meet my son's boyfriend and be the family they come to with any problems, not just ones who shake them up."
I can't speak.
The words dissolve something frozen inside me—years of doubt, of wondering if my parents could ever truly accept me, of building walls to protect myself from the rejection I always assumed was coming.
My mother chose me. Publicly and in a way, permanently. She put her name on a declaration that can never be taken back, consequences be damned.
"Blaze?" Sophie's voice is gentle. "Are you okay? I know this is a lot to process right before…"
"She chose me." The words come out cracked, barely audible. "After everything, she actually chose me."
Asher shifts closer, his free hand coming up to cup my jaw. His thumb brushes away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You okay?"
I nod, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. The pressure in my chest isn't pain anymore—it's something lighter. Something that feels almost like hope.
"Yeah." My voice steadies. "I think I finally am."
The strength carries us forward.
When the stage manager signals, we step into the blinding lights together, hands clasped, and take our seats before the hungry crowd. Cameras flash immediately—a wall of white light that makes me squint.
The murmur of voices swells, then hushes as we settle behind the long table covered in microphones.
Sophie's prepared speech sits in front of Asher. I watched her craft it over hours of careful deliberation—every word chosen to control the narrative without explicit declaration.
Strategic ambiguity. Plausible deniability. A statement that addresses the scandal without confirming anything that could be used against us later. It's smart, safe, and exactly what we agreed to do.
Asher picks up the paper, clears his throat and begins reading.
"Thank you all for coming today. Recent events have brought unwanted attention to matters I consider deeply personal, and I appreciate the opportunity to address—"
Then he suddenly stops, words dying in his throat. The paper in his hands lowers slowly.
Asher stares at the cameras, jaw tight with determination, something shifting behind his eyes that I recognize. I've seen that look before—on the ice, in crucial moments, when he's about to either do something reckless or brilliant.
I hold my breath. From the corner of my vision, I see Sophie freeze mid-step. Her lips move silently, forming words that look distinctly like “what are you doing?!”
The room falls completely silent. Dozens of reporters lean forward in their seats. Cameras zoom closer. The tension is thick enough to choke on.
Asher's grip on my hand tightens under the table. And I realize he's about to throw away the script entirely.
Right now, Asher will either change history or destroy everything completely.