Blaze’s POV
Three days without Asher on the ice feels like missing a limb.
I go through the motions of practice—drills, formations, scrimmages—but my eyes keep drifting to the empty space where he should be. His absence creates a hole in the team's rhythm that everyone can feel, even if no one mentions it. Passes go to spots where he should be standing. Plays break down because his instincts aren't there to fill the gaps.
Coach Wellington told us he's sick. I know better.
I check my phone between every drill. His reply from yesterday—that single "Yeah"—sits in our text thread like a lifeline I'm afraid to pull. He's not okay. I know he's not okay. But at least he responded. At least he's not completely shutting me out.
I want to text again. Want to show up at his apartment and force him to talk to me. Want to hold him the way I held him in that shower, when all his walls came down and he was just Ash—raw and vulnerable and finally, finally letting himself feel.
But I know him. Pushing too hard will only make him retreat further into that fortress he's built around himself. So I wait. I practice. I try not to think about the steam, his body against mine, the way he fell apart in my hands like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to touch him like that.
The way he moaned my name. God, I can't stop hearing it.
I can still feel him on my skin. That's the worst part. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his warmth, hear his desperate breathing, see the look on his face when he finally let go—terrified and raw and more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.
"Wilson! Head in the game!"
Coach's bark snaps me back to reality. I've missed my assignment, left a gap in the formation that lets the opposing line score easily.
"Sorry, Coach."
He gives me a look that says we'll be talking later. I force myself to focus, to push Asher out of my head for the remaining drills. It mostly works. Mostly.
When practice finally ends, Wellington blows his whistle again, calling us in. The team gathers at center ice, sweat-soaked and tired. Something in his expression tells me this isn't just another end-of-practice debrief.
"Listen up." His voice echoes through the empty arena, hard and commanding. "I've got news."
The team falls silent. Wellington paces in front of us, hands clasped behind his back.
"Regional championship. Three weeks out."
A murmur ripples through the group. This is what we've been building toward all season—the biggest game of the year, the one that could define careers.
"Scouts will be watching," Wellington continues. "NHL representatives from at least five different organizations. Professional opportunities are on the line for those who prove themselves." His eyes sweep the room, landing briefly on me. "I need every single one of you locked in. No distractions. No drama. No bullshit."
The weight of his words settles on my shoulders. As captain, the pressure falls heaviest on me. I'm supposed to lead this team to victory, supposed to keep everyone focused and unified.
But my best player is hiding in his apartment, avoiding me because I made him feel something he wasn't ready to face.
"We have the talent to win this," Wellington says. "But talent means nothing without unity. I need this team functioning as one organism. That means everyone pulling their weight, everyone showing up, everyone putting the team first." Another pointed look in my direction. "Make sure Carpenter gets the message when he's feeling better."
"Yes, Coach."
The meeting disperses. I linger on the ice, lost in thought, until a familiar voice cuts through the silence.
"Heavy is the head that wears the crown, huh?"
Jackson skates up beside me, that easy grin on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes. We've known each other three years, won two championships together, transferred across the country as a unit. But lately, something feels off between us. A tension I can't quite name.
"Something like that," I say.
"Walk with me." It's not a request.
We change out of our gear in relative silence, then head toward the parking lot. The cold night air bites at my skin, a sharp contrast to the memory of steam and hot water that won't leave me alone.
"So." Jackson stops near his car, turning to face me. The streetlight catches the scar near his eye—a remnant from a game two years ago that he wears like a badge of honor. "Carpenter's been out three days."
"He's sick."
"Is he?" Jackson's eyes narrow. "Because I heard he's been avoiding the rink entirely. Won't even answer the door when teammates stop by. Danny tried to bring him soup yesterday. No response."
I keep my expression neutral. "How would you know that?"
"I asked around." He shrugs, but there's nothing casual about it. "Seemed weird that our star player suddenly disappears right when we're gearing up for the biggest game of the season. Wanted to make sure everything was okay."
"Everything's fine."
"Is it?" Jackson steps closer, voice dropping. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've got your head so far up Carpenter's ass that you're forgetting what actually matters here."
The words hit like a slap. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Jackson's mask slips, revealing something harder underneath. Something I've never seen from him in three years of friendship. "You beat Marcus bloody for him. You spend every free moment practicing with him. You transferred across the country for him—don't think I don't know what this is really about."
He jabs a finger at my chest. "I've been your partner for three years, Blaze. Three years. Two championships. I had your back through everything. And suddenly some guy from your childhood shows up and I'm what? Second string? Yesterday's news?"
I stare at him, genuinely stunned. This isn't the Jackson I know. This is someone else entirely—someone bitter and territorial and barely holding it together.
"Jackson, that's not—"
"Save it." He holds up a hand. "I don't need explanations. I need you focused. We have a championship to win, and I'm not losing it because you're too busy chasing someone who clearly doesn't want to be caught."
He turns and stalks toward his car. I watch him go, unsettled in ways I can't articulate.
That wasn't concern. That was jealousy. Possessiveness. Something uglier than I've ever seen from him.
I stand alone in the parking lot for a long time, breath fogging in the cold air. Jackson's words echo in my head alongside Wellington's announcement. Championship. Scouts. Unity.
And Asher, hiding in his apartment, trying to outrun the truth we both felt in that shower.
I pull out my phone. Open our text thread. His "Yeah" stares back at me, twenty-four hours old.
I type slowly, choosing each word with care: "We need to talk. Not about us. About the game."
I hit send.
The message shows delivered. Then read.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Finally: "Coffee shop on 5th. Tomorrow. 10am."
My heart stutters. It's not much—not an explanation or an apology or any acknowledgment of what happened between us. But it's something. A door cracked open instead of slammed shut. A chance to talk, even if it's just about hockey.
I'll take it. I'll take anything he's willing to give me.
I type back: "I'll be there."
Then I pocket my phone and walk to my car, Jackson's warning still ringing in my ears alongside the memory of Asher's voice moaning my name.
Something is shifting. In my friendship with Jackson, in my relationship with Asher, in the careful balance I've been trying to maintain since I got here. The ground beneath my feet is unstable, everything I thought I understood rearranging itself into new patterns.
I don't know where any of it is heading. Don't know if Asher will show up tomorrow, or what he'll say if he does.
But for the first time since he went silent, I feel something like hope.
And that's enough. For now, that's enough.