Chapter 20

Elle

The world shrinks to the size of Asher's last voicemail, playing on a loop in my head. "If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, please let me know." It's been two weeks—fourteen days of sleepless nights since I told him it was over, since my heart fractured like thin ice under a skater's blade. The silence of my home is oppressive, an unending reminder that I'm alone, surrounded by vintage trinkets and plants that don't answer when I talk to them.

I trace the line of the sun-bleached curtain with my fingertip, its fabric as worn as my resolve. My thumb finds its way to my mouth, teeth grazing the nail in a recognizable anxious rhythm. I can't go back, not to the aimless existence before Asher crashed into my life with his vibrant green eyes and laughter that made everything seem possible. He's become a part of me, a vital beat in my pulse. Without him, I'm half-living, half-dreaming of what could have been.

The urgency burns through me, a wildfire that refuses to be tamed. Our love is gasping for air, every second apart another shovel of dirt on its grave. I won't let it suffocate, be buried in misunderstandings and my own fears of vulnerability. I have to make this right, even if it means stripping myself bare, exposing all the scars I've fought so hard to hide.

"Life or death," I whisper to my reflection in the small, round mirror hanging beside the door. "This is it, Elle. Fight for him or lose him forever." And I know, in the marrow of my bones, I'd rather risk the fall than never leap at all.

My crystal blue eyes lock onto my own gaze, seeing the woman who's survived every storm, who's more than the sum of her past. There's a fierce determination there, one that steadies my breath and sets my heart to a determined rhythm.

"Time to chase what matters," I say to the empty space, my voice steady despite the tremors inside me. I'll put it all on the line—for Asher, for us. Because some things are worth fighting for, and I'm done running from the only thing that's ever felt like home.

I slide the last book on emotional intelligence back onto the shelf and let out a pensive sigh. It's been weeks of soul-searching, digging into the cracks of my own heart to understand why I pushed Asher away with that callous voicemail. I've wrestled with guilt, tumbled through memories like waves crashing against Love Beach's shore. But it's not enough to just learn and lament. I need to act, make amends in a way that speaks louder than any apology could.

A Grand Gesture, they call it. The kind you see in movies where someone holds a boombox over their head or fills a room with candles. Only mine needs to be personal, something that'll resonate with Asher's love for the game and show him he's more than just another victory to me.

I step outside, the neighborhood quiet except for the distant laughter of retirees enjoying the ocean breeze. In the midst of the setting sun, I start to plan. My fingers drum against my palm as I envision what will grab his attention. A banner, big and bold, to unfurl at the next game—his game—declaring my support, my belief in him.

"Go big or go home," I mutter, but there's no going back to that solitude. Not without him.

My flip-flops slap against the wooden planks of the boardwalk as I make my way to the local craft store. Inside, surrounded by colorful fabrics and spools of ribbon, I can almost smell the icy chill of the rink, and hear the roar of the crowd. I choose a swath of red fabric, soft yet sturdy, wide enough to hold all the important words. Black paint, brushes, and stencils follow into my basket because this has to be perfect.

"Need help with anything?" the cashier asks, her eyes curious behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

"Just making something to cheer on the Renegades," I answer, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"Good luck!" she says, ringing up my purchases. "They're going to love it."

"Thanks, I hope so," I say, though it's really just one Renegade I'm hoping to impress.

Back at my bohemian haven, I clear the tiny dining table and lay out the materials. Each stroke of the brush is a silent plea, a hope painted in stark black against the crimson background. 'ASHER GRAY, YOU'RE MY MVP IN LOVE AND LIFE.' The words are more than ink and fabric; they're my raw heart, spelled out for him—and everyone else—to see.

"Elle, you sure about this?" I whisper, holding the banner up to the light. The shadows play across the words, giving them life, making them dance.

But doubt is a luxury I can't afford. This is my shot at redemption, my chance to show Asher that I'm not just a bystander in his life—I'm his ally, his partner, his cheerleader.

"More than sure," I answer myself when the paint has dried, folding the banner gently. "It's time to step out of the stands and into the game."

The crimson banner lies folded neatly next to me, its message hidden for now. I sit in the passenger seat of my car, parked just outside the bustling arena where Asher's future on the ice hangs by a thread as thin and fragile as my own hopes. My fingers trace the edges of the fabric, a silent rehearsal of the moment I've played over in my mind a thousand times.

"Will he understand?" I murmur, the question slipping out like a secret I can't keep any longer. The air is thick with my doubt, and the lingering scent of lavender from my house does little to calm my racing heart. Will this gesture be enough?

The thought of him hesitating or worse, turning away from what I offer, knots my stomach. But the risk of not trying at all feels like a blade poised at the tender flesh of our relationship, threatening to sever what might still be saved.

It’s now or never. I step out of the car and into the night. The buzz of eagerness from the crowd inside vibrates through the soles of my shoes, up my legs, settling somewhere deep in my chest. It's game night, and the air crackles with energy like the ocean during a storm back at Love Beach.

I move toward the entrance, each step heavy with determination. The cacophony of excited voices swells as I push through the doors, the atmosphere as charged as the sky before lightning strikes. Fans adorned in red and black swarm around, their cheers creating a pulsing rhythm that echoes my heartbeat.

"Let's go, Renegades!" someone shouts, and the chant picks up, rolling through the throng of bodies like a wave. I allow it sweep me along, letting their fervor bolster my courage. The icy chill of the rink hits me, spreading goosebumps across my skin, and there, beyond the glass barrier, is the gleaming expanse of ice.

Asher is out there somewhere, a warrior among warriors, his muscular form gliding across the rink with effortless grace. His wavy black hair is a dark blur beneath his helmet, those piercing green eyes surely fixed on the puck, on the win, on everything but me.

"Jet! Jet! Jet!" The nickname they love to chant crashes against my ears, reminding me of how high he flies on the ice—and how far we've both fallen off it.

My fingers curl around the banner, the fabric suddenly feeling like the only lifeline I have left. There's no turning back now. This is it—the moment to lay bare my heart in the boldest way I know.

"Please, let this work," I whisper into the clamor, a prayer for both of us, for the love I'm not ready to leave behind on cold ice.

The sounds around the arena are like a tidal wave of noise that you can almost ride like the surf back at Love Beach. I'm tucked away in the stands, flanked by Florence and Calvin, their faces painted with Renegades red and black, mirroring the fervor of every soul here.

"Elle, you look like you're about to jump out of your skin," Florence says, her hand squeezing my shoulder—a tether to reality when all I want to do is float away on this sea of anxiety.

"Or pass out," Calvin adds, passing me a bottle of water, his brow furrowed with brotherly concern.

I take a shaky sip, my fingers fumbling against the cold plastic. "Just waiting for the right moment," I manage, my voice barely audible over the roar of the spectators.

The game is a blur of motion, a ballet of brawn and ice, but all I can focus on is the banner crumpled in my lap, its message hidden just like the jumble of emotions knotting my stomach. The fabric feels like sandpaper against my sweaty palms, a stark contrast to the smoothness of Asher's jersey clinging to my body—a talisman worn for luck, for love, for everything I'm daring to hope for.

"Look, there he is!" Calvin points, and my gaze shoots to number 17, Asher, my Asher, maneuvering the puck with the kind of skill that makes it look like child's play. My heart hammers against my ribs, threatening to burst free. It pounds in time with the staccato beat of skates on ice, with each cheer that rises from the depths of the arena.

"Time to make your move, Elle," Florence nudges me, her eyes sparkling with mischief and encouragement.

"Okay." The word is a ghost of sound, but it's all I need to propel myself up from my seat.

And then I'm moving, threading through the rows of spectators, their shouts and whoops creating a soundtrack to my mission. With each step, I feel as if I'm shedding a layer of the old Elle— the one who would've never had the guts to do what I'm about to do now.

I reach the railing, the edge of the world as far as I’m concerned, and unfurl the banner with trembling hands. It catches the light, the bold letters screaming the truth for all to see: "ASHER GRAY, YOU'RE MY MVP IN LOVE AND LIFE."

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by an eruption of cheers and whistles. Heads turn, eyes wide, searching for the source of the interruption—searching for me.

On the ice, Asher's stride falters, just for a heartbeat. His head snaps up, those striking green eyes scanning the stands until they find the message, find me. There's a stillness that hangs heavy in the air, a silent stretch of time where everything and everyone seems to hold their breath.

Then, the crowd goes wilder than before, their excitement shifting from the game to the drama unfolding off the rink. They've always loved a good love story, especially when it plays out live, larger than life.

"Elle! You did it!" Florence's shout barely registers above the chaos, but her hug says it all—pride, joy, solidarity.

"Man, look at him. He's shell-shocked," Calvin chuckles, clapping a hand on my back.

My whole body vibrates, every nerve ending alight with the hope that this grand gesture bridges the distance between our hearts. I stand there, the banner lifted high, and I know that the true surprise isn't just the words on the fabric—it's the raw vulnerability behind them, the promise of a forever that starts with forgiveness.

"Please," I whisper to no one and everyone, to the universe that's carried me this far, "let this be enough."

The roar of the crowd pulses in my ears, a din that somehow sharpens my focus on him—on Asher. He's gliding over the ice, a picture of grace and power, but now, he's come to an abrupt halt. His gaze locks onto the banner, onto the declaration of my heart splayed out for all to see.

"Elle...?" His voice is a distant echo, carried across the rink by a microphone someone hands him in the confusion. The word hangs amongst us, a plea, a question, laced with a vulnerability I've never heard from him before.

"Come on, Asher," I murmur under my breath, willing him to understand, to accept this leap of faith. Around me, the spectators are a blur, their excitement a mere backdrop to the drama at center ice.

His eyes remain fixed on the banner, on me, as if he's trying to read the subtext woven into every thread—my apology, my hope, my love. The muscles in his jaw flex, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, the internal battle playing out behind those piercing green eyes. Does he dare believe? Is he ready to trust that what we had isn't lost?

"Jet! Jet! Jet!" The chant builds around us, the fans rallying behind their star player, but it's not his prowess with the puck they're cheering for now—it's the possibility of a love rekindled, right there on the ice.

Then, he skates closer, close enough that I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his chest heaves beneath the red and black jersey. Every stride he takes resonates through the soles of my feet standing there in the stands, the thud of my heartbeat keeping time.

"Elle," Asher says again, and this time it's not a question but a realization. His voice breaks, barely audible over the dissonance, but I feel it deep in my bones. It's the sound of walls crumbling, of defenses giving way to the tidal wave of emotions that I've unleashed with a single, grand gesture.

"God, Elle," he whispers, voice cracking like thin ice under the weight of everything unsaid. "I had no idea."

A tear escapes, trailing down my cheek, as warm as the blood coursing through me, as salty as the ocean air that envelops Love Beach. This moment is fragile, precious—a turning point that could mend or break us.

"Neither did I," I reply, though he can't hear me over the distance and noise. But it doesn't matter; he sees it in my eyes, reads it in the tremble of my lips.

And then, something shifts. A smile cracks Asher's solemn expression—a small, hesitant upturn of his lips that speaks volumes. It's a smile that says he's beginning to grasp the depth of what I feel for him, that maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

"Elle..." Asher breathes out, and it's like a benediction, a sign that the door to his heart is still open, that the game isn't over yet. It's not the resounding yes I hoped for, but it's enough of an invitation to keep hope alive.

"Fight for it, Jet," I silently urge him, my entire being vibrating with the intensity of the moment.

"Fight for us."

The roar of the crowd dulls to a distant hum as Asher skates toward me, his strides pushing past the barriers that have kept us apart. I'm standing at the edge of the rink, my heart hammering against my ribs, every breath I take is shaky.

"Elle," he says again, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the hurricane of emotions within him. The ice beneath his skates crunches, a sharp contrast to the softness in his gaze.

I step closer, close enough to see the flicker of resolve in those piercing green eyes. "Asher," I reply, my voice a mere whisper, but it's enough. It's always been enough for him to hear.

We're both silent, the space between us thick with unspoken apologies. But it's different now. We've grown, shed our fears like heavy coats that no longer fit, and what's left is raw and real. There's no turning back, and I don't want to—not without him.

"Elle, I've been such an idiot," he begins, but I place a finger on his lips, silencing him.

"Shh, we both were," I admit, my thumb brushing over his lower lip, remembering each curve, each line. "But we're here now, and that's all that matters."

He nods, the tension in his shoulders easing as he takes my hand, his touch sending sparks through my veins. His thumb rubs circles on the back of my hand, a gesture that whispers of forgiveness.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he asks, vulnerability etched into the furrow of his brow.

"Only if you can forgive me, too," I say, locking my gaze with his. "We're a team, Asher. On and off the ice."

A laugh escapes him, rough and warm like the sand of Love Beach under the summer sun. "Deal," Asher grins, pulling me into his arms.

His hug is a safe harbor, the kind I've dreamed of returning to since the day I pushed him away. My arms wrap around his muscular frame, feeling the power of his body, the heartbeat that synchronizes with mine.

"Elle," he whispers against my hair, "You're my home. Always have been."

"Take me home, then," I murmur, tilting my head up to meet his lips with mine. The kiss is a promise, a seal over our renewed vows, gentle yet charged with the electricity that bolts to my core. It tastes of redemption, of second chances.

We pull away, breathless and smiling, our foreheads resting against each other as we share this quiet moment amid the chaos. Around us, life goes on—the shouts, the cheers, the crackling energy of the game—but within the circle of Asher's arms, there's peace.

"Let's not waste another minute," Asher says, his eyes reflecting the bright lights of the arena, yet focused solely on me.

"Agreed," I answer, feeling the weight of loneliness lift from my chest, replaced by the lightness of hope.