Chapter 85 85: FOREVER YOURS
The chill of the arena felt different now—no longer a cold war, but a stage. Saint and Baby took to the ice with Cam acting as a silent, watchful sentinel, skating between them like a human buffer.
For the first fifteen minutes, the "Hate" was easy to fake. They avoided eye contact, snapped crisp, impersonal passes, and kept their distance during the initial skating drills. But the problem with falling in love with your rival is that your body eventually forgets the script.
The drill was a high-speed transition play. Baby was flying down the wing, his midnight blue jersey a blur against the white ice. He was pushing his limits, the adrenaline from the locker room reconciliation fueling his speed. He cut hard toward the centre, intending to pivot and take a shot, but he hit a rut in the ice—a jagged scar left by a previous scrimmage.
His left skate caught. His balance vanished in a heartbeat.
At that speed, hitting the boards or the ice meant a high risk of a concussion or a shattered shoulder.
Saint didn't even think. He didn't process the "Shadows" or the "Unified" lie or the dozen pairs of eyes watching from the bench. He saw Baby falling, and his body reacted with the singular focus of a man protecting his entire world.
Saint pivoted, his blades screaming against the ice as he accelerated into Baby's path. He reached out, his big hands catching Baby by the waist and pulling him flush against his chest to absorb the momentum. They skidded together for a good ten feet, the sound of their skates carving deep into the rink.
The locker room hadn't prepared them for the silence that followed.
Saint didn't let go. His hands were braced firmly on Baby's hips, his head bowed close to Baby's, his breath hitching in his chest. "You okay?" he whispered, his voice thick with a tenderness that could be heard three rows back. "Baby, look at me. You hurt?"
Baby was leaning into him, hands clutching Saint's forearms, his mask completely shattered by the scare. "I'm fine," he breathed, his eyes wide and searching Saint's. "You caught me."
"Always," Saint murmured, his thumb instinctively grazing the side of Baby's hip through the heavy hockey pants.
"Whoa," Rode shouted from the bench, a long, low whistle following. "That was... intense. You guys practising for a Disney on Ice audition or what?"
The team erupted. Wong was laughing, slapping his stick against the boards. "Careful, Kross! You keep catching him like that and the internet is gonna think you actually like the guy!"
Cam saw the danger instantly. He saw the way Saint wasn't pulling away and the way Baby was looking at him—like Saint was the only thing keeping him grounded. He saw Nickel's eyebrows shooting toward his hairline.
"Get off him, Kross!" Cam roared, charging across the ice.
He didn't just skate over; he lowered his shoulder and shoved Saint hard, forcing him to break his grip on Baby. It was a brutal, convincing hit that sent Saint stumbling back a few feet.
"You trying to take him out of the season with a tackle?" Cam barked, stepping between them, his face a mask of calculated fury. "He tripped! He didn't need a hug, he needed space! Watch where you're going, you arrogant bastard!"
Saint blinked, his captain-senses snapping back into place as he realised what Cam was doing. He straightened his jersey, his eyes darkening with fake anger. "I was stopping him from hitting the boards, Cameron. Maybe if your team knew how to skate, I wouldn't have to do your job for you."
"My team is doing just fine," Cam snapped, turning to Baby and grabbing his jersey to haul him to his feet. "You alright, Danvers? Or did Kross break a rib with that 'rescue'?"
Baby took the cue, shaking his head and leaning into Cam's support. "I'm fine. He just got in the way, as usual." He turned and spat on the ice, a classic gesture of Danvers' disdain. "Next time, let me hit the boards. It'll hurt less than your grip, Kross."
"Fine by me," Saint grunted, turning his back on them and skating toward the other end of the rink.
The teammates on the bench settled down, the "Shipping" jokes dying out in the face of what looked like a genuine, heated confrontation between the three most powerful players on the ice.
Cam leaned in close to Baby's ear as they skated toward the bench. "That was too close, Baby. One more 'Disney' moment and I'm telling Nickel you both have a fever and need to be quarantined."
"Thanks, Cam," Baby whispered, his heart finally slowing down.
"Don't thank me," Cam muttered. "Just remind your boyfriend that 'Hate' doesn't involve catching people like they're made of glass."
"I got you," Baby said, skating away.
After the match, Cam made sure Baby was with him all through their other activities: lectures, cafeteria, and even took him away after school.
He needed them to appear less together in public if they were really willing to prove to the world that they hated each other.
"See you tomorrow, Baby. You're looking like this, I can't imagine how that bastard's holding up," Cam scoffed, parking in front of Baby's apartment.
"I really hate to imagine what you two are about to do up there," he murmured.
Baby pushed the car open, smiled at his best friend, "Don't think about it, Cam," he leaned over, ruffling Cam's hair, "I'll see you tomorrow, bestie."
"Just go," Cam pushed Baby's hand away, pointing him to the door.
As Baby rode up the elevator. The lingering fear from the fall and the electric hum of Saint's hands on his waist returned. He had spent the day pretending like it never happened. As he fumbled his keys into the lock of their apartment, his heart fluttered in anticipation of seeing Saint after a long day.
The apartment was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Baby dropped his gear bag by the door with a heavy thud, his body aching from the day's performance. He expected to find Saint in the kitchen or brooding on the sofa, but the living room was empty.
He walked into his bedroom, the shadows long and blue in the twilight. He was halfway to the bathroom when he saw it.
Resting in the centre of his duvet was a small, sleek box wrapped in heavy charcoal paper. There was no card, no name, but the scent of woody cologne clinging to the ribbon was a signature in itself.
Baby sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled the ribbon. Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a heavy, high-end leather wristband—thick enough to cover the faint red marks from the handcuffs, but stylish enough to pass as a "Golden Boy" fashion statement.
More importantly, engraved on the inner silver clasp, hidden against the skin, were two words in a precise, sharp script: FOREVER YOURS.
A soft footfall sounded in the doorway.
Saint was leaning against the frame, wearing his joggers, his chest bare. He looked at the box in Baby's lap, then up at Baby's eyes. The stoic Captain from the ice had vanished, replaced by the man who had almost suffered a heart attack watching Baby fall.
"Cam hit you pretty hard," Saint said, his voice a low, rough vibration in the quiet room. "I wanted to hit him back. But I realised he was saving us."
Baby looked down at the leather band, his thumb tracing the engraving. "He was. But it's getting harder, Saint. Every time we're out there, the 'Hate' feels like a lie I don't want to tell anymore."
Saint walked over, sinking onto the bed beside him. He took the leather band from the box and took Baby's right hand, his touch reverent as he buckled the leather over the raw, red skin. It fit perfectly—a shield and a secret all in one.
"I hated catching you like that," Saint whispered, his eyes dark with the memory. "Not because I had to hide it, but because for a split second, I thought I was going to lose the only thing that makes the ice worth skating on."
He pulled Baby's hand to his lips, kissing the leather, then the pulse point just above it.
"I bought it this afternoon," Saint admitted, his gaze intense. "To remind you that even when we're shouting at each other in front of the cameras, or when Cam is shoving me into the boards... I'm the one holding you. Always."
Baby let out a shaky breath, the tension of the day finally melting away. He reached out, his fingers threading into Saint's hair, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched.
"Always mine, huh?" Baby repeated, a small, honest smile finally breaking through.
Saint's smirk was slow and wicked, the shadows of the room deepening as he leaned in. "It's a promise, Baby. And tonight, I intend to make sure you don't drift anywhere."
They were sealed away from a world that demanded they be enemies.
Saint didn't let the moment linger in silence. He crowded into Baby’s space, his hands sliding from Baby’s waist up to his shoulder blades, pulling him flush against his bare chest. The contrast was staggering—Saint’s skin was radiating a feverish heat, while Baby still felt the phantom chill of the rink in his bones.
"I spent the whole day watching Cam haul you around," Saint rasped, his lips ghosting over Baby’s ear. "Watching him touch you, watching him take you away from the rink. I know why he did it. I know it was necessary. But God, Baby... it nearly killed me to stand there and play the part of the 'Arrogant Bastard' while you were walking out the door."
Baby tilted his head back, his eyes fluttering shut as Saint’s teeth grazed his jawline. The leather band on his wrist felt like a brand, a heavy reminder of the man currently staking a claim on his soul.
"I was right there," Baby whispered, his fingers digging into the muscles of Saint's back. "Every time I looked at Cam, I was looking for you. Every time I laughed at a joke in the cafeteria, I was wishing it was you making me laugh."
Saint groaned, a low, predatory sound, and swung his legs over Baby’s, pinning him back against the pillows. He looked down at the blonde boy, his grey eyes dark with a possessive intensity that no camera would ever be allowed to capture.
"No more laughing with anyone else tonight," Saint commanded, his voice dropping into that rough 'Captain' register. "Tonight, you’re just mine. No masks. No 'Golden Boy'. No best friends."
He reached down, his fingers catching the hem of Baby’s shirt and pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He paused then, his gaze dropping to the leather band he’d just buckled onto Baby’s wrist. It looked lethal and beautiful—a perfect symbol of their bound reality.
"Forever yours," Baby murmured, repeating the engraving as he reached up to frame Saint’s face. "You made a promise, Kross. Don't let me drift."
"I never plan to," Saint replied, before crashing his lips against Baby's in a kiss that tasted of salt, longing, and the absolute destruction of the 'Unified' lie.