Chapter 12 #2
I didn't have an answer. The spark was currently sleeping in a grey room in my penthouse, thinking I hated her.
The scouts came down to the bench.
“Good skate, Sterling,” the Blackhawks scout said. It was the generic, polite dismissal. “We’ll be in touch with your agent.”
“Thanks,” I said. I stood up to shake their hands. My legs were trembling.
They left.
I sat back down. I put my head in my hands.
I had blown it.
I hadn't failed, exactly. I hadn't fallen on my face. But I hadn't dazzled them. I hadn't shown them the brilliance that made a franchise player. I had shown them a competent, tired center with a questionable knee.
My phone buzzed in my bag.
Father.
He knew. Somehow, he already knew.
I didn't answer.
I sat there in the empty rink, the smell of failure choking me again.
I needed to go home. But home wasn't a sanctuary anymore. It was just another place where I was failing.
I opened the door to the penthouse at 2:00 PM.
I expected silence.
Instead, I smelled… lasagna?
And garlic bread. And something sweet, like chocolate.
I walked into the living room.
Amara was there.
She wasn't working. She wasn't hiding.
She was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, which was laden with food. A massive tray of lasagna. A salad. A chocolate cake that looked slightly lopsided.
She was wearing my jersey. Number 19.
When she saw me, she didn't look angry. She didn't look hurt.
She looked determined.
“Hi,” she said.
I dropped my gym bag. “What is this?”
“This,” she gestured to the food, “is an intervention. Carbohydrate style.”
She stood up and walked toward me.
“I called Miller,” she said. “He told me the scouts were today. He told me you’ve been killing yourself all week.”
She stopped in front of me. She reached out and unzipped my jacket.
“You look like hell, Ezra.”
“I feel like hell,” I admitted. My voice cracked. “I blew it, Amara. I was… I was heavy. No spark.”
“You didn't blow it,” she said firmly. She pushed the jacket off my shoulders. “You survived it. There’s a difference.”
She took my hand and led me to the sofa.
“Sit.”
I sat. I didn't have the energy to argue.
She knelt in front of me. She started unlacing my boots.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “I was a jerk to you. I shut you out. I told you to leave me alone.”
“You did,” she agreed, pulling off my left boot. “You were a massive, colossal jerk. Robot Mode is very annoying, by the way.”
She pulled off the right boot.
“But,” she looked up at me, her eyes soft and fierce, “I realized something while I was sewing leather and cursing your name for three days.”
“What?”
“I realized that you push people away when you’re scared. You think you have to do it alone because your dad taught you that needing people is a debit.”
She stood up and moved to sit next to me on the sofa. She picked up a plate of lasagna and shoved it into my hands.
“Eat.”
I took a bite. It was hot, cheesy, perfect. I realized I hadn't eaten a real meal in two days.
“You’re not a robot, Ezra,” she said, watching me eat. “And you’re not a stock option. You’re a human being who is under an insane amount of pressure.”
She rested her head on my shoulder.
“I’m not leaving,” she whispered. “You can yell at me. You can ignore me. You can tell me to focus on my own problems. But I’m not going anywhere.”
I stopped chewing. I swallowed hard.
The knot in my chest—the one that had been tightening for days—loosened.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “Amara, I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” She rubbed my arm. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. The contract… my father…”
“I signed it,” she said.
I froze. I turned to look at her.
“What?”
“I signed the NDA,” she said simply. “And the behavior contract. I sent it back to his lawyers this morning.”
“Amara… why? You said it was indentured servitude.”
“It is,” she shrugged. “But it keeps him off your back. It buys you time. It lets you focus on the playoffs without him breathing down your neck.”
She reached up and cupped my cheek.
“I don’t care about the money, Ezra. I don’t care about his threats. I signed it because I believe in you. I believe you’re going to make the NHL. And I believe that when you do… you’ll tear that contract up.”
I stared at her.
She had signed away her autonomy to protect my peace of mind. She had looked at the monster and made a deal with him, just to give me a chance to breathe.
I set the plate down on the table.
I pulled her onto my lap.
I buried my face in her neck.
“You shouldn't have done that,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
“Too late,” she said, running her fingers through my hair. “It’s done. He’s happy. The scouts are gone. The pressure is off.”
“You’re amazing,” I said. “You’re absolutely… I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not,” she teased gently. “But you’re stuck with me.”
I pulled back to look at her.
“I love you,” I said.
The words just fell out. No filter. No calculation. Just truth.
Amara froze. Her eyes went wide. Her breath hitched.
“What?”
“I love you,” I repeated. It felt terrifying to say it. It felt like handing her a loaded gun. But it also felt like freedom. “I know it’s messy. I know the timing is terrible. But I love you, Amara Vane. You’re the only spark I have.”
Tears pooled in her eyes.
“Ezra,” she whispered. “You… you love me?”
“Yeah. I do.”
She let out a watery laugh. She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.
It tasted of lasagna and tears and relief.
“I love you too,” she murmured against my lips. “You big, stubborn idiot. I love you too.”
We held each other on the sofa as the sun went down.
The world outside was still demanding. The scouts were still judging. My father was still waiting.
But in here… we were safe.
I had failed the combine. I knew I had.
But holding Amara, feeling her heart beat against mine, I realized I had won something infinitely more valuable.
I had an anchor.
And next time I stepped on the ice… I wasn't going to be alone.