Chapter 59 59: Moved, Not Tamed
The next morning, Saint appears for practice with heavy dark circles under his eyes.
He looked starved and drunk at the same time.
"Hey, heard you had a special visit last night. Did they drop you yet?" Rode asked as he matched into the locker room, a bitter smirk on his face.
Saint pulled his jersey on, ignoring Rode and staring at the entrance like he was waiting for someone to walk in.
"Morning, Captain. Looks like you've got the Media waiting out for you in the rink," Ricky informed, nodding shortly at Saint.
Saint clenched his fists.
Of course, the media will be waiting, that's exactly what Sloane wants.
He was only hoping Baby showed up or they were really screwed for this time.
Cam suddenly walked in and Saint rushed over to him before he could even get to his locker.
"Where's Baby?" Saint added, glancing behind Cam for any signs of blonde hair and blue eyes.
There was none, just the empty hallway staring right back at him.
"Baby?" Cam asked, stepping away from Saint's rough grip.
"He's not with me, he slept at Oliver's –"
"What?" Saint snapped, pulling Cam to the side so nobody heard them, "What the fuck do you mean he slept at Oliver's? He said he was going to you." Saint frowned, his heart slowly starting to ache as he realised that while he barely slept a wink last night, Baby was probably smiling at some dumb joke Oliver was telling, forgetting his existence entirely.
Saint was mad, he felt betrayed, but he would never voice those emotions, all he could do was swallow them and let them lodge hard in his throat.
Cam sighed, "Yeah, he did come to me but my sister and... girlfriend were at mine already. My sister had no trouble sharing the room with Baby, but... he left, Oliver picked him up and that was the last I saw of... Ah, there he comes," Cam pointed to the entrance.
Baby looked well-rested, his face calm...too calm.
Saint immediately moved away from Saint as Baby approached, he didn't want to be caught asking about Baby.
He moved over to Baby's locker, standing beside it and waiting for him to make a harsh remark about how he is on his way.
However, Baby simply took what he needed from his locker, moved over to Cam and changed into his jersey.
"Meet everyone outside, let's make it fun," Baby said to his team before walking out of the locker room, his hand gently tugging his best friend with him.
Saingt's heart gradually turned to ice and cracked.
He was standing right there, yet Baby treated him like air... again.
He realised that by choosing to be "tamed," Baby has effectively become a ghost, and as Saint realises, a ghost is much harder to control than a rival.
The bright LED lights of the Westbridge rink bounced off the fresh ice, but the atmosphere was far from electric. It was sterile. As the team skated out, the flashbulbs from the media in the stands began to pop, capturing the "Co-Captains" in their natural habitat.
Saint kept his eyes on Baby, waiting for a twitch of the lip, a flare of the nostrils, or the usual spark of competitive fire. There was nothing. Baby skated with a fluid, terrifying grace, his movements as precise as a Swiss watch.
During the scrimmage, the synergy was technically flawless. It was the best they had ever played together, but it felt hollow.
Whenever the puck landed on Baby's stick, he didn't hold it for a second longer than necessary. He didn't show off. He didn't taunt. He simply looked for Saint and delivered the puck with such robotic accuracy that Saint didn't even have to adjust his stride to catch it.
At one point, Saint intercepted a pass and surged forward, expecting Baby to overlap for their signature cross-play. Baby moved into position perfectly, received the puck, and tapped it back to Saint's tape before sliding away to the opposite wing.
Saint scored, the puck hitting the back of the net with a heavy thud, but when he turned to celebrate, Baby was already skating back to the centre line. No high-five. No chest bump. Not even a glance.
"Nice shot, Captain," Baby said as he passed Saint. His voice was flat, devoid of the grit and heat that Saint had spent the last year trying to suppress.
It was a physical ache in Saint's chest. He realised that he had succeeded; he had finally tamed the wild heart of Westbridge. But looking at Baby's vacant, professional stare, Saint realised he'd rather be headbutted, insulted, or hated than be treated like a ghost.
The media was eating it up. From the sidelines, the photographers were capturing two leaders working in perfect, silent unison. They saw "Synergy."
Saint saw a graveyard.
The flashbulbs were blinding, reflecting off the ice like jagged diamonds. As the practice whistle blew, the media surged toward the barrier, microphones extended like weapons.
Saint and Baby stood side-by-side, the "tethered" captains of a legacy in the making. Saint could feel the heat radiating off Baby, but it was a cold, stagnant heat—like a machine that had been running too long.
"Captain Kross, Captain Danvers!" a reporter from The Apex Insider chirped, her eyes darting between them. "Rumours are swirling about a 'Unified Contract' and some... interesting footage from the university pool. Is it true the Consortium has placed you on a shared leash?"
Saint's throat tightened, the "CPR lie" tasted like ash in his mouth. He opened his mouth to deliver a measured, defensive response, but Baby beat him to it.
"A leash implies we need to be restrained," Baby said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly polite. He even managed a small, practised smile for the camera. "The Unified Contract is simply a reflection of our commitment to the team. As for the video—it's unfortunate that a life-saving moment was misinterpreted by people looking for a scandal. Saint acted as any partner would. We're co-captains; we keep each other alive. That's all there is to it."
Saint felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rink. Baby's words were perfect. They were exactly what Sloane Vane wanted. But they were delivered with the flat, hollow tone of a hostage reading a script.
"So, you're closer than ever?" the reporter pressed.
"We are exactly what we need to be to win," Baby replied, his eyes finally meeting Saint's for a split second. There was nothing in them. No anger, no longing, just... absence. "If you'll excuse us, we have a schedule to maintain."
The "tamed" act held together all the way through the locker room. Baby moved like a shadow, dressing in silence, ignoring the whispers of his teammates. Saint followed him out to the parking lot, his heart hammering against his ribs, desperate to break the silence before Baby vanished again.
"Baby, wait—" Saint started, reaching out.
The low, predatory thrum of a Ducati Diavel V4 cut through Saint's words. Oliver was leaning against the bike, his leather jacket glinting in the morning sun. The second Baby saw him, the "Ghost" flickered. The rigid set of Baby's shoulders relaxed, and a genuine, weary warmth flooded his face.
"You're late," Oliver called out, his eyes flicking to Saint with a sharp, territorial edge.
"Media held us up," Baby replied, his voice finally regaining its texture. He walked right past Saint as if he were part of the landscaping.
"We need to talk about the social media tag for today," Saint said, his voice sounding desperate even to his own ears. "Sloane said—"
Baby stopped, his hand on the back of Oliver's bike. He looked back at Saint, his expression unreadable. "Take a picture of the locker room, Saint. Tag me. I don't care. Just make sure the 'Perfect Captain' looks happy."
Oliver revved the engine, the jagged, raspy bark of the exhaust mocking Saint's silence. Baby mounted the bike, sliding his arms around Oliver's waist with a familiarity that made Saint want to scream.
As they sped off, leaving a cloud of exhaust and the scent of burnt rubber, Saint stood alone in the parking lot. He realised that Baby hadn't been tamed at all. He had just been moved.
Baby was only a ghost when he was with Saint. With Oliver, he was alive, he was loud, and he was completely out of reach.