Chapter 72 72: The Maze of Fame & Lies
The following forty-eight hours were a cold war fought in the same hundred square feet of living space. They moved through the apartment like two magnets with the same polarity, repelling each other the moment they got too close. No morning kisses, no lingering touches in the kitchen—just the hollow echo of the "Unified" contract.
The deadline for Shannon's project arrived like a looming storm. Cam had dropped off the recording equipment, leaving them alone in the living room to film the "Partnership and Trust" segment.
They sat on opposite ends of the sofa—the same sofa where, forty-eight hours ago, Saint had pinned Baby's wrists and ignited a fire that was now threatening to consume them both.
"The prompt is 'Reliability,'" Saint muttered, staring at the camera lens on the tripod. He was wearing a high-collared sweater to hide the marks on his neck, his face a mask of professional stoicism. "We just have to talk for three minutes about why we trust each other on the ice."
Baby didn't look at him. He was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the call log. "Fine. Let's just get it over with. Press record."
Saint reached over, his hand brushing against Baby's knee for a fraction of a second. Baby flinched as if he'd been burned.
"Baby—" Saint started, his voice cracking.
"Record, Saint," Baby repeated, his voice like ice.
Saint hit the button. For the next two minutes, they performed. They spoke about "predicting movements," "covering the blind side," and "shared goals." It was a masterclass in deception. Saint looked at Baby with a practised, captain-like respect, while Baby delivered his lines with the clinical precision he had perfected over years of lying to the world.
"...and that's why the Unified contract works," Baby concluded, forcing a small, tight smile for the lens. "Because at the end of the day, Saint Kross is the only person I know who will always have my back."
The irony was so thick it felt like it was choking them.
Saint reached out to stop the recording, but before his finger touched the screen, Baby's phone began to vibrate violently on the coffee table.
The caller ID flashed: MOTHER.
Baby froze. His breath hitched, the "player" mask shattering instantly. He hadn't expected a call back; he hadn't expected her to acknowledge his existence outside of an "official email."
"Don't," Saint whispered, sensing the sudden spike in Baby's heart rate. "You don't have to answer her right now."
Baby ignored him, his fingers trembling as he slid the green icon. He didn't even move away for privacy.
"Hello?" Baby's voice was small, the voice of the child who was never enough.
"Bbay," his mother's voice came through, unhurried, calm. "I saw the Heritage Gala photos. Your hair was a mess, and your posture next to the Kross boy was lacking. You looked... distracted."
Saint's jaw tightened. He could hear every word. He watched Baby's shoulders slump, the light dying in his eyes.
"I was just tired, Mother," Baby murmured.
"Tired is for those without ambition," she stated "I'm calling because your father and I are considering a public statement regarding your 'Unified' status. You know how much he hates comparison and that Kross boy... he's bringing unnecessary attention, Baby," Not once did her voice rise, but the disappointment was leaking from her tone.
"Also, rumours about your... late-night associations have been reaching our ears... I know it's just rumours, Baby, right? My baby is too perfect for such," His mother's voice dripped with warning.
"They're just rumours," Baby murmured, his fingers clutched around his knees.
"Good. Do not do anything to tarnish the Danvers name. And, whatever you're doing with the Kross boy, do not lose, or you will be cut off before the season ends. Am I clear?"
Baby looked at Saint. Saint was watching him with a mixture of raw agony and protective rage, his hand reaching out, desperately wanting to take the phone and scream at the woman on the other end.
"Crystal," Baby whispered, the same word Saint had used with Sloane.
"Good. Always reach out via email, son. You know how busy Mummy is. Keep your hockey drama at bay. Goodbye."
The line went dead.
The silence that followed was deafening. Baby's soul had finally been broken for the last time.
Saint was right, he was a broken toy. If not, why had he called a woman who forgot he existed the moment she pushed him out in the delivery room?
He shouldn't have.
"Baby," Saint breathed, moving across the sofa, the "don't touch me" rule making his heart bleed.
Before Saint could reach him, Baby stood from the sofa, shoving his phone into his pocket.
"I'll send it in," He said and grabbed the camera off the table.
Saint sat like a defeated hero as he watched Baby leave the apartment.
Again, it was the wrong time to push for a conversation.
He finally got a glimpse into Baby's life, and he now understood why he had built such a persona: someone who was careless, carefree, and emotionally unavailable.
Baby was scared of being left again by an important person.
He was using his conquests ts to make up for the attention he never got, using his mischievous ways to keep himself seen by the world.
Saint sighed, lowering his face to the floor.
They were the same, just in different ways
Baby depended on his chaos to be seen, whole Saint depended on perfection to stay valued.
Each of them had a family to please, a world to prove something to, and a lie for a life.
He wished there were a way they could do things differently. Unfortunately, life has thrown them into an unescapable maze of fame and lies.