Chapter 73 73: A Painful Mask
The energy in the stadium was electric, a roar of sound that usually fed Saint's focus. But tonight, it was white noise. The ice felt colder, the lights too bright, and his eyes were anchored to a single point on the rink.
Baby was performing. He was a whirlwind in midnight blue, skating with a lethal, effortless grace that had the crowd screaming his name. Every time he scored, he was high-fiving teammates, flashing that trademark grin that made him the darling of the sports headlines.
To the thousands in the stands, he was the Perfect Golden Boy.
To Saint, watching from the defensive line, he was a shattered masterpiece held together by sheer willpower. Saint saw the way the grin didn't reach Baby's eyes. He saw the slight tremor in Baby's hands during the face-offs. He realised with a sharp, stabbing panic that Baby had retreated behind the one wall Saint couldn't climb: the "Player" persona.
Saint's heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. The thought of Baby going back to "conquests" and meaningless noise to drown out his mother's voice was unbearable. He had tasted the real Baby Danvers—the vulnerable, breathless man under his body—and he wasn't about to let him slip back into the shadows of a lie.
The post-game adrenaline was thick in the locker room, a chaotic mix of steam, shouting, and the smell of ice and sweat. Most of the guys were already stripping down, headed for the showers, but Baby remained in the corner, leaning against a locker with his arm draped over Cam's shoulder.
"Don't forget the cinema tonight, Cam," Baby said, his voice loud enough to carry, a forced brightness in his tone. "I need a distraction, and you're the best at being a nuisance."
Saint moved through the crowd, his intention to be subtle failing the moment he reached them. He didn't just walk by; he stopped. He stood there, half-dressed in his gear, his chest heaving not from the game, but from the sheer weight of the longing he was carrying.
He didn't hide it. Not this time. He looked at Baby with raw, pleading eyes, his gaze a silent scream for Baby to look at him—really look at him—instead of hiding behind Cam. The nights without Baby had been a nightmare of empty sheets and silence.
Cam, feeling the sudden atmospheric shift, stopped laughing. He looked at Saint, who was staring at Baby like a man dying of thirst, and then at Baby, who was pointedly looking at a spot on the wall.
"You alright there, Kross?" Cam asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stepped slightly in front of Baby, a protective instinct he couldn't quite name taking over. "Is eavesdropping your new skill, or did you just lose your way to the showers?"
Saint didn't even blink. He kept his eyes locked on the side of Baby's face.
"The latter, Cameron. Do you mind leading me to a shower?" Saint asked politely, his own sarcasm as clear as day.
"Meet in twenty, buddy," Cam patted Baby's shoulder, his eyes narrowing at Saint before he walked away.
Not a second was wasted before Baby turned and walked away as well. He dared not look at Saint because, he knew those grey orbs had the power to see through the exhausting mask he'd worn.
He hated his mother, but he had taken a few things from their last conversation.
She had called him 'Perfect'. And, he was, until Saint came along.
Maybe, if he went back to being 'perfect' all his problems would disappear... maybe...
After showering, Baby quickly left before he would run until the man who made his heart beat faster.
Outside, the night was already dark but busy as people still hung around after watching the match.
He was walking toward his car when he saw the familiar figure leaning against his car.
He paused, sighing in exhaustion as he thought of having to face Oliver.
He wasn't yet ready for anyone, not even Oliver's distraction could take his midnight away from his 'problem'.
With a slow drag of breath, he resumed walking, determined to be on his way as soon as possible.
"Oliver," He called, standing on the other side of the car.
The excitement was obvious in the way Oliver lifted his face.
"Hey, Champ. Ready to celebrate your win?" Je smirked, walking over to Baby.
Baby smiled, holding Oliver's blue gaze, "I'll pass, Oliver. Man's tired," he said, scratching the side of his head.
"Nothing loud, nothing crowded. Just the two of... it'll be relaxing, I promise," Oliver stepped closer, leaning beside Baby.
"I..." Baby paused, watching the matte black car blink slowly as it drove toward them.
The matte black car didn't just drive; it prowled, cutting through the humid night air like a shark through deep water. As it rolled to a crawl beside Baby’s parked vehicle, the engine emitted a low, predatory thrum that seemed to vibrate right through the asphalt and into Baby’s heels.
The window slid down with a silent, mechanical hiss.
Saint was behind the wheel, his silhouette sharp against the interior's dim red dashboard glow. He didn’t look at Oliver. He didn't look at the bustling crowd nearby. He looked at Baby.
The world stopped. The chatter of fans, the distant honking of horns, and the cool night breeze all vanished into the vacuum created by that single, weighted stare. Saint’s eyes were dark, stormy, and absolutely ravaged by the distance Baby had forced between them. It wasn't the gaze of a teammate; it was the look of a man who had been stripped bare and left in the cold, watching his only warmth stand next to a rival.
Baby felt his heart hammer against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that threatened to break the "perfect" composure he’d spent the day rebuilding. He wanted to look away, to prove he was still the untouchable golden boy, but he was trapped in that grey orbit. The silence between them was a physical bridge, heavy with the memory of ruined silk shirts and whispered promises in the dark.
Oliver’s eyes flickered between the two, his smirk faltering as he sensed the sheer, electric density of the air. He felt like an intruder in a conversation that was happening entirely without words.
"Hey," Oliver said, the word cutting through the frost as he reached out and tapped Baby’s shoulder. "You were saying? About celebrating?"
The physical touch acted like a circuit breaker. Baby jumped slightly, his gaze finally snapping away from Saint to look at Oliver. The sudden loss of contact made Saint’s jaw tighten so hard the muscle ticked visibly. His hands, gripped tight at the ten-and-two position on the steering wheel, turned his knuckles a ghostly white.
"I... I can't tonight, Oliver," Baby managed to find his voice, though it sounded thinner than he liked. He forced a small, apologetic smile that felt like paper. "I’m really drained. Let’s do it another time. Next week, maybe? I’ll call you."
Oliver hesitated, his gaze lingering on the dark car and the man inside it. He wasn't stupid; he knew a "rival" when he saw one, and he knew a threat when he felt it. But he nodded slowly, stepping back. "Next week. Don't leave me hanging, Champ."
Saint didn't wait for Oliver to move. The moment Baby had finished speaking, the engine roared—a sudden, violent burst of sound that echoed off the stadium walls. He shifted into gear, his eyes flashing one last, piercing look at Baby that felt like a silent accusation. 'You’re lying to everyone, including yourself.'
With a screech of tyres that left a ghost of burnt rubber in the air, the black car surged forward, disappearing into the city traffic without a backward glance.
Baby stood there, frozen, the echo of the engine still ringing in his ears. He had dismissed Oliver, but as he watched the red taillights of Saint’s car fade into the distance, he realised he hadn’t escaped anything. He was still in the maze, and the man with the thread had just driven away in a fit of silent, beautiful rage.
Baby is finally alone, but the silence of his own car feels louder than the stadium.