He Walked Through the Storm

The moment he secured the trophy, Blake Pierce posted it to his socials.

The post was quickly scraped by someone and reposted to Twitter. The replies flooded in:

"Congrats, King! You’re the light, the spark, the only legend! You’ve pierced my soul, Blake—this shot is aimed straight at my heart!"

"The training camp actually worked! He feels like a completely different player now."

"Right? His temperament on the court is so much steadier than before. No more of that desperate, back-to-the-wall scrambling to catch up. As a fan, I’m finally living in peace!"

"Wait, everyone else is holding the trophy, but what’s that in your hand? A pink tennis ball? I’m dying—he’s such a softie, I’m going to melt!!!"

Violette Ellis hadn't seen the post, and she certainly wouldn't be checking Twitter. She had no idea the tournament was over and that he’d walked away with the win.

At the thought of her, Blake’s eyes drifted downward. The rain was coming down in sheets; no matter how he tried to shield himself, the droplets lashed at his face, sliding down his lashes one by one. He considered wiping his face, but decided it felt fine just like this. The rain was freezing, and nobody needed to know about the heat that was currently burning through his veins.

The trek over those few miles had been a chaotic stumble.

When they finally knocked on the door of the water treatment facility’s security office, Violette’s pants were caked in mud. Her upper body, shielded by a poncho, had fared better, though the arm she’d used to hold the flashlight was soaked to the elbow.

Blake followed her inside, bracing the door frame with one hand as he set Macy down.

When he looked up, Violette noticed his eyes were startlingly red.

While Macy handled the logistics with the guard, Violette pulled a few napkins from her pocket and handed them to him. "Clean yourself up."

He took them, shaking his head like a dog after a bath, sending a spray of rainwater flying. He balled the sodden paper in his palm and stood under the dim light, studying Violette. Her face was deathly pale from the cold, her lips colorless, but at least she was still standing—unlike that unfortunate soul, Macy.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice rough.

"No," Violette said. "Just lucky."

A few seconds of silence hung in the air. She tilted her head to look at him. "And you?"

"Nothing," Blake said, his tone dismissive. "I’m just as lucky."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Fortunately, the facility manager arrived, ushering them into a guest room.

"So, you two were stuck just a few miles from the plant for the better part of the day?" The manager rubbed his hands together, still visibly shaken. "We only had eight people on-site tonight. I was just organizing a search party, and they say the hotel down the mountain is sending people up the trail, but you know how it is—in this weather, it’s suicide to go out there..."

As he spoke, several young men in full rain gear knocked on the door, asking when they were heading out.

The manager waved them off. "They’re already here! Thank heavens."

The manager glanced at the young man who had appeared out of nowhere, recalling that only Violette and Macy had left in the car that evening. "...And you are?"

Blake couldn't be bothered to explain, nor did he want to invite unnecessary drama.

"Sent from the hotel," he said, keeping it vague.

"That fast?" The manager looked surprised. "I heard a section of the road collapsed. How did you even get up here?"

He didn't give a straight answer, just looked past him, unbothered. "Just climbed."

The manager realized he wasn't interested in chatting and wisely shut his mouth, turning his attention to Macy. After a dose of painkillers, Macy’s leg had settled into a dull throb; as long as she stayed off it, she’d manage.

Macy began to chatter away, finally finding the energy to complain about the relentless rain. Violette sat in the corner, listening to the drone of their voices while she plugged her phone into a charger.

In the silence of the room, she glanced over.

Blake was still sitting where he’d collapsed. He’d been the most composed of them earlier, but now he was drenched, his pants covered in scratches, tears, and thick mud. He had his forearm draped over his eyes, his body leaned back, likely trying to soothe the stress the long, weighted trek had put on his frame.

Violette retrieved the medicinal spray from Macy’s bag and walked over, sitting beside him.

"Anywhere else hurting?"

Blake cracked an eye open. "You don't need to waste that on me."

She said nothing, instead dipping a towel into hot water and wringing it into a long strip. "Here."

Blake’s dark eyes softened at the edges, a curve appearing in their depths. He didn't say anything snarky; he simply took the towel and draped it over his aching shoulders. When it went cold a moment later, he rose to rinse it in the hot water himself.

Tired of the sound of his pacing, Violette walked out of the room. When she returned, she brought back two borrowed items: a plastic basin and a large, fresh towel.

"Change your clothes," she said.

Steam rose from the basin. After the violence of the storm and the fear of a landslide, everything in this small, sheltered room felt precious.

There was a rustle of fabric as Blake changed. It wasn't as smooth as when he’d handed his hoodie to her in the car. He had nothing on under his training top; as he pulled it off, his lean, sculpted muscles were laid bare.

Violette looked away.

When the sounds stopped, she turned back to find him wrapped in a bath towel. His hair was damp and falling over his forehead, his eyes dark and bright, making him look surprisingly vulnerable. She handed him the fresh, steaming towel for his shoulders.

Once that was settled, she turned back to her phone. It had finally flickered to life.

With only 8% battery, the device hummed incessantly as messages flooded in.

First was Emma Fox, asking why she hadn't reached the hotel yet. Then, missed calls from the producer. Finally, a message from Charles Ellis back in the city, asking how the weather was.

Only a few people knew they’d been stranded; it was hardly global news. Violette replied to them one by one.

When she backed out of her messages, a new one popped up from Emma.

Emma: *Master, I was terrified!!! I hate myself! Why did I have to lose the recorder? If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself!!!*

The exclamation points seemed to scream off the screen. Violette felt a wave of fatigue, typing out a calm response: *I'm really fine.*

Emma was a mess of relief and panic. She was torn: should she tell Violette that Blake Pierce had gone up the mountain alone to find her? It sounded insane. If she told her and they hadn't crossed paths, she’d just be creating unnecessary worry. If she didn't tell her and they had met, the point was moot.

But a grown man climbing a mountain in a storm? If something happened to him, she’d be responsible. That was her "ex-lover" archetype! The one with the real baggage!

Emma grabbed the hotel lobby phone and called the rest of his club.

"The... uh, the ex. I mean, Blake. Did you reach him? He’s okay? Thank god. No, I’m nobody, just a fan! A fan, okay?!"

She hung up and slumped into a chair in the lobby. She’d been shaking for hours, too anxious to eat. She’d just ordered a delivery, which was currently on its way.

A few minutes later, a black car pulled up to the rotating doors.

The metallic rims and the sleek frame caught the light—a car that cost more than a house. Emma watched, bored, as a driver in white gloves stepped out, opening the rear door for a guest. A bellhop hurried over to assist with the luggage.

The glass door spun, and Emma finally saw the face of the man everyone was fawning over.

His features were refined, his air impossibly arrogant. He was frowning, his eyes glued to his phone—checking it, over and over, as if waiting for a message that refused to arrive.

He looked up, and their eyes locked.

Emma jolted to her feet. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.