Score me, Captain

Chapter 119

Blaze's POV

The drive to my parents' house feels endless. Every mile stretches longer than the last, familiar roads transformed into a gauntlet we have to survive.

Beside me, Asher's knee bounces in a relentless rhythm, up, down, up, down, nervous energy bleeding out through involuntary movement. My own knuckles are white on the steering wheel, grip tight enough to ache.

We've faced press conferences with hundreds of cameras trained on our faces.

We've survived public scandals that consumed every headline for weeks. We've weathered Jackson's calculated destruction, his years of manipulation exposed for the world to dissect.

But somehow, this terrifies us more.

"We can still turn around," Asher says quietly. "Say something came up. Reschedule for another time when we're more—"

"More what? Prepared?" I force a laugh that comes out strained. "I don't think any amount of preparation makes this easier. We just have to do it."

"Your confidence is really reassuring right now."

"I never claimed to be confident. I claimed to be willing. There's a difference."

The house appears around the final bend—the same brick colonial I grew up in, manicured lawn and hedges trimmed to perfection. Everything about it screams respectability, tradition, the careful image my parents spent decades cultivating.

I park in the driveway and cut the engine, but neither of us moves to unbuckle.

"Whatever happens in there," I say, turning to face Asher fully, "we leave together. That's the only promise that matters tonight."

He nods, throat working visibly. "Together. Right."

We walk to the front door side by side, close enough that our shoulders brush. I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles connect, the door swings open.

My mother stands in the doorway, and the warmth in her expression catches me off guard. She looks older than I remember—more lines around her eyes, gray threading through her hair that she hasn't bothered to hide.

But her smile is genuine, reaching her eyes in a way I haven't seen directed at me in years.

"You came." Her voice wavers slightly. "I wasn't sure you would, after everything. I wouldn't have blamed you for refusing."

"We're here, Mom. We said we would be."

She nods, then turns her attention to Asher. For a moment, I tense—preparing for coolness, for polite distance, for the restrained civility I've come to expect from my family. Instead, she steps forward and pulls Asher into a hug.

He goes rigid with surprise, arms hovering awkwardly before settling against her back. Over her shoulder, his eyes find mine, wide with confusion and something fragile underneath.

"Thank you for coming," she murmurs against his shoulder. "Thank you for loving my son when he needed it most. When we failed him."

"I—" Asher's voice catches. "Thank you for inviting me."

She pulls back, hands lingering on his arms, eyes glistening. "I should have tried sooner. That's a regret I'll carry forever. But I'm trying now, and I hope that counts for something."

It means everything. The words stick in my throat, too heavy to speak aloud, but I think she sees them anyway.

My father is another story.

He waits in the dining room, seated at the head of the table like a king surveying his domain. His expression is carefully neutral as we enter—not openly hostile, but far from welcoming.

The warmth my mother radiates finds no echo in his rigid posture, his tight jaw, his eyes that track our movements without softening.

Dinner starts civilly enough. Stiff small talk fills the silence—questions about the cottage, about the season, about carefully neutral topics that skirt around anything meaningful.

The food is excellent, my mother's cooking is as skilled as ever, but I barely taste it. Every bite feels like swallowing sand.

Tension simmers beneath every exchanged glance. My father addresses his comments to me, to my mother, to the air itself—anywhere except directly at Asher. The avoidance is pointed enough to sting.

Halfway through the main course, I reach across the table and take Asher's hand. A small gesture, nothing dramatic—just our fingers intertwining over the white tablecloth, visible and unapologetic.

My father's expression darkens. His fork pauses halfway to his mouth, then lowers deliberately to his plate.

The eruption is inevitable.

"I've held my tongue long enough."

His voice cuts through the fragile peace like a blade.

"This entire situation has been a disaster from start to finish, and I'm expected to sit here pretending otherwise? Smiling and making small talk while everything we built crumbles around us?"

"Richard—" My mother's warning goes unheeded.

"No, Eleanor. Someone needs to say what everyone's thinking."

He turns his gaze on me, disappointment dressed as concern, shame masquerading as practicality.

"Do you have any idea what you've thrown away? The legacy of this family, the reputation we've spent generations building—all of it sacrificed for what? Some infatuation you couldn't keep private?"

"It's not an infatuation." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "And I'm not ashamed of him. I'm not ashamed of us."

"You should be. The comments, the media circus, former fans burning your jerseys online—that's the legacy you've chosen. That's what you've traded everything for."

"I traded hiding for honesty. I traded fear for freedom. If that costs me fans who only supported a version of me that never existed, then good riddance."

"You're being naive. This will follow you forever, Blaze. Every career opportunity, every endorsement, every—"

"Enough!"

My mother's voice is steel, sharp enough to cut through my father's tirade mid-sentence. She stands from her chair, napkin falling forgotten to the floor, her small frame somehow commanding the entire room.

"I have listened to you rationalize your shame for months, Richard. I've watched you dress up your prejudice as practical concern and pretend it's about legacy when it's really about your own discomfort. But I will not sit here and let you drive our son away again."

Silence crashes through the room like a physical force. I've never seen my mother defy my father so directly—never heard her voice carry that edge of absolute certainty. She's always been the peacekeeper, the smoother of conflicts, the one who bent to maintain harmony.

Not anymore.

"If you're so ashamed of your own flesh and blood," she continues, each word deliberate, "then maybe you shouldn't be part of this family. Because I refuse to lose my son over your inability to accept who he loves."

My father's jaw tightens. For a long moment, he says nothing—no acceptance, no apology, no acknowledgment that he's heard anything she said.

Then he pushes back from the table, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor, and walks out of the dining room without a word. A door slams somewhere deeper in the house. The echo reverberates through the silence left behind.

My mother turns to us, eyes glistening but expression resolute.

"Give him time. He's stubborn, but he's not stupid. Eventually he'll realize what he stands to lose." She reaches out, squeezing my hand. "I won't let him drive you away again. That's a promise."

Later, in the car, Asher scrolls through social media while I navigate the dark roads home. The screen casts pale light across his features, and I watch his expression shift—flinching at whatever he's reading.

"Not everyone supports us," he says quietly. "Former fans have turned hateful. Comment sections are overflowing with…" He stops, throat working. "The homophobia stings more than I expected. I thought I was prepared for it, but seeing the actual words..."

I reach over and take his phone, setting it firmly in the cup holder between us.

"We can't change everyone."

My eyes stay on the road, but my hand finds his knee, anchoring us both.

"Some people will never accept us, and we'll exhaust ourselves trying to convince them. We just live our lives and focus on the people who matter. The rest is noise."

Asher leans into me, head resting against my shoulder despite the awkward angle. "When did you get so wise?"

"Learned from surviving you."

He laughs, genuine, surprised, bright enough to fill the car, and despite everything, we're okay.