Asher's POV
It's final now.
The conversation at the cottage settled it with brutal clarity—Blaze and I have no future together. We've both admitted it, faced the truth we've been dancing around for years.
Our love isn't enough to overcome everything working against us. The fear, the secrecy, the fundamental incompatibility of what we each need to survive in this world.
The pain is constant now, a dull ache beneath my ribs that follows me through practices and team meetings and sleepless nights. But perhaps this is the right path. Perhaps letting go is the kindest thing I can do for both of us.
Blaze deserves someone who can love him openly. Someone brave enough to fight for him when the world pushes back. Someone who won't choose safety over happiness every time it matters.
I'm not that person. I never was, and pretending otherwise only causes more damage.
But before I can start whatever comes next, this new chapter where I learn to live without him, I need closure. Real closure, not the messy half-truths we left each other with at the cottage.
That's why I find myself in the parking lot of a state correctional facility on a gray Tuesday morning, staring at concrete walls and razor wire while I work up the courage to go inside.
The man Jackson identified as my tormentor sits across from me in the visitor's room, separated by reinforced glass and the weight of everything I need to understand.
He's exactly what I expected—rough around the edges, heavily tattooed, the kind of person who's spent more time on the wrong side of the law than the right side.
"You're that hockey player," he says when I sit down, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Saw you on the sports coverage. Pretty boy captain, right?"
"That's me." I pick up the phone on my side of the glass. "I wanted to talk to you about some messages you sent me."
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair with the casual indifference of someone who's already been sentenced. "What about them?"
"I want to know why. What I did to make you target me specifically."
The conversation starts normally enough. He's unapologetic about his crimes, listing them with the detachment of someone reading a grocery list.
Theft, fraud, assault, drug possession—he admits to all of it without shame or remorse, unbothered by adding to his confessions.
"Look, kid, I've done a lot of shit I'm not proud of," he says, leaning forward slightly. "Hurt people who didn't deserve it, stolen from folks who couldn't afford it. I own all that."
"And the messages?"
"What messages?" His expression shifts to genuine confusion. "What are you talking about?"
My stomach drops. "The threats you sent to my phone for months. Anonymous number, but they traced it back to you."
The man stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I never sent you any messages."
"The harassment, the blackmail. The things about my personal life, my team—"
"Son, I don't even know who you are beyond seeing your face on TV sometimes. Why would I waste time threatening some hockey player I've never met?"
The words hit me like cold water. "But they found evidence on your devices. Drafts of messages, search histories…"
"What devices? They confiscated my phone when I got arrested, and it was a piece of shit flip phone that could barely send regular texts." He shakes his head, genuine confusion clouding his features. "You've got me confused with someone else."
"No, that's not... Jackson said they found proof. His contact traced everything back to you."
"Who's Jackson?"
My blood turns to ice as the implications hit me. "You've never sent threatening messages to anyone? Never researched hockey players online?"
"Kid, I can barely work a computer. And why would I threaten some athlete I don't know from Adam?" He studies my face through the glass. "You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost."
I leave the prison with my mind racing, hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the steering wheel. Something is deeply, catastrophically wrong.
Jackson lied to me. About the investigation, about finding the source, about everything. But why? What possible reason would he have to fabricate an entire story about catching my harasser?
Unless...
The thought crystallizes with horrifying clarity. What if Jackson didn't find my tormentor? What if he is my tormentor?
I drive straight to my apartment and start making calls. Not to Jackson's mysterious contact, but to someone I can trust.
A private investigator I've worked with before on completely unrelated matters—someone who specializes in digital forensics and has no connection to my team or my personal life.
The investigation takes three days. Three days of waiting while my entire worldview shifts beneath my feet. Three days of pretending everything is normal while suspicion eats me alive from the inside.
When the results arrive, they confirm my worst fears with surgical precision.
The messages came from Jackson. All of them.
The IP addresses were masked through multiple proxy servers, but the digital fingerprints are unmistakable once you know how to look.
The timestamps align perfectly with Jackson's schedule. The technical sophistication matches his computer science background that I never thought twice about.
Even more damning: the evidence shows he somehow routed a call through Chad's phone number, making it appear like Chad was the source when I called that day in the locker room.
A digital sleight of hand designed to frame an innocent teammate while covering his own tracks.
The report is thorough, devastating, and undeniable. Every threatening text, every psychological manipulation, every moment of paranoia and fear—orchestrated by the man I trusted like a brother.
I sit alone in my apartment with the evidence spread before me like pieces of a puzzle I never wanted to solve.
Bank records showing payments to various technical services. Server logs proving the messages originated from accounts linked to Jackson's digital footprint. Screenshots of deleted draft messages that were recovered from temporary files.
My hands tremble as I flip through page after page of betrayal.
Jackson has been playing me for years. Not just months—years. The supportive friend who was always there when I needed him. The loyal teammate who never judged, never pushed too hard, never made me feel like my fears were unreasonable.
All of it calculated. All of it designed to position himself as my confidant while systematically destroying my peace of mind.
But why? What did I ever do to deserve this level of psychological warfare from someone I considered family?
The answer doesn't matter right now. What matters is that Jackson is still out there, still pretending to be my friend, still positioning himself as my most trusted advisor. And if he's capable of this level of deception, what else is he planning?
I think about all the times he's been alone with sensitive team information. All the conversations where I've shared personal details, vulnerabilities, fears. All the trust I've placed in someone who's been using it as ammunition against me.
My phone buzzes. Text from Jackson: Hey, want to grab dinner? Got some updates on your situation.
My situation. The situation he created.
I stare at the message for a long moment, rage and betrayal warring in my chest with something that might be fear.
Jackson has been playing the long game, and I've been his willing victim. But now I know the truth.
The question is: what is he planning to do next? And can I prove his betrayal before he destroys me first?