Score me, Captain

Chapter 106

A week of silence.

Seven days since I confessed everything to Blaze and watched his face transform from confusion to horror to cold fury.

Seven days of my calls going straight to voicemail, his voice on the automated message so familiar it makes my chest ache every time I hear it.

My texts sit unread, the little "delivered" notifications mocking me every time I check my phone with desperate, pathetic hope.

I've tried his apartment multiple times—standing outside his building at different hours, hoping to catch him coming or going. Either Blaze isn't there, or he refuses to open the door when he hears my voice through the intercom.

Yesterday I waited for three hours in the lobby until the building manager asked me to leave. I've become a ghost he's determined not to see.

The worst part isn't his silence—it's that I understand it completely. I deserve every ignored call, every deleted text, every slammed door. What I did to him was unforgivable, and I don't have the right to expect anything different.

Meanwhile, my phone buzzes constantly with increasingly furious messages from his father.

Blaze confronted his parents after I confessed, and now Mr. Wilson blames me for destroying their arrangement, their family, everything they've worked toward for months.

You had one job. ONE JOB.

Do you have any idea what you've done? The damage you've caused to our family?

We trusted you with something precious and you threw it away for what? A guilty conscience?

This arrangement was mutually beneficial. You were supposed to be smarter than this.

Don't expect the final payment. You've violated our agreement in the worst possible way.

The accusations pile up until I can barely breathe when I see his contact name appear on my screen. Each message is a fresh reminder of how spectacularly I've failed everyone involved—Blaze, his parents, myself.

But worse than that, they're reminders that I'm still trapped. Without the final payment, I'm back where I started six months ago: drowning in debt with dangerous people expecting money I don't have.

The creditors have started calling again. Polite inquiries about my payment timeline that carry undertones of barely contained threat. Two weeks until they explore "alternative collection methods"—their euphemism for whatever comes after patience runs out.

I can't take this anymore. The guilt is eating me alive, but it's more than that. I need to do something, anything, to fix even a small piece of the damage I've caused.

I can't undo the lies or take back the months of deception, but maybe I can help Blaze understand why his parents did what they did. Maybe I can explain that their manipulation came from a twisted place of love, not malice.

It won't earn me forgiveness, but it might give him some kind of closure.

The practice facility becomes my only option for reaching him. I've been here before, back when things were normal between us, when I'd occasionally pick Blaze up after training sessions.

The security guard recognizes me, waves me through without question despite the week that's passed since anyone's seen me with Blaze.

Muscle memory guides me through corridors that smell of disinfectant and equipment rubber, past trophy cases and motivational posters that feel like artifacts from someone else's life.

But when I reach the Ottawa team's section, it's empty. Practice ended hours ago, according to the schedule I found online.

"Excuse me," I call to a maintenance worker mopping the hallway with methodical precision. "Do you know when the Ottawa Otters practiced today?"

He pauses, leaning on his mop handle. "The schedule's been all mixed up lately. Some of the guys requested changes. Privacy issues or something."

Privacy issues. Blaze changed his routine to avoid me.

The realization hits harder than it should. I've become something he needs to hide from, someone whose presence disrupts his ability to function normally. Another layer of damage I've caused without even realizing it.

"Any idea where I might find information about the new schedule?"

"That's above my pay grade, lady. Try the main office, but they probably won't tell you anything without player authorization."

Player authorization. Which Blaze will never give me.

I'm standing in the empty corridor, feeling completely lost, when a desperate idea takes hold. Asher. If anyone might be willing to help me reach Blaze, it would be him. It's a long shot, but it's the only shot I have left.

I make my way toward the Boston team's section, hoping their schedule hasn't changed as dramatically as Ottawa's.

The corridors here look identical—same industrial carpet, same motivational posters, same lingering smell of athletic determination and disappointment.

The locker room is mostly empty when I slip inside, showing signs of recent use but no current occupants. I settle onto a bench to wait, checking my phone obsessively for any sign that Blaze might have changed his mind about talking to me.

Nothing.

I'm shifting restlessly when my elbow catches a gear bag on the bench beside me. It tumbles to the floor, contents scattering across the tile—documents, papers, what looks like a second phone separate from a regular one.

Jackson Blake embroidered in neat block letters on the bag.

“Shit…” I sit down, raking up the scattered things, getting ready to put everything back in its place, but something about the scattered papers catches my attention. The organized way they're arranged, like someone's been maintaining careful files.

Curiosity wins over common sense.

The documents make my blood run cold. Printed emails about "digital routing services" and "untraceable messaging platforms." Screenshots of threatening texts that make my skin crawl with their intimate cruelty and psychological precision.

A printed list of dates and times that look methodical, calculated, deliberate.

Then I see the names. Asher Carpenter mentioned repeatedly. References to "the target's psychological profile" and "escalating paranoia levels" and "optimal timing for maximum impact."

My hands tremble as I flip through pages that read like a psychological warfare manual. This isn't just harassment—it's systematic psychological torture, documented with clinical precision.

The second phone lights up with a notification. I know I shouldn't look. This is already too far, too much invasion of privacy. I look anyway.

The message is from an unknown number: The video about your two gay boys is ready. Let me know when to post it.

Everything clicks into place with horrifying clarity. Jackson hasn't been Asher's friend—he's been his tormentor. And now he's planning something that involves both Asher and Blaze.

My fingers shake as I photograph everything I can with my phone—the documents, the phone screen, the list of dates. Evidence of months of calculated cruelty.

I'm reassembling the scattered papers when I hear footsteps approaching. Panic floods my system. I shove everything back into the bag and step away just as Jackson appears in the doorway.

His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. "Sophie? What are you doing here?"

"Looking for someone," I say, forcing casualness into my voice despite my racing heart. "Got a bit lost."

Jackson studies my face with predatory intensity. "Who were you looking for?"

"Just... trying to find my way to the main office."

He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes.

I'm moving toward the exit when Asher appears at the end of the hallway, gear bag slung over his shoulder, looking exhausted in a way that goes deeper than physical tiredness.

Before Jackson can see him and insert himself into whatever conversation we're about to have, I grab Asher's arm and pull him back toward the main corridor.

"Sophie? What are you—"

"We need to talk," I say urgently. "Now."