The hotel room feels impossibly smaller with just the two of us.
I settle onto the edge of the bed, the cheap mattress creaking under my weight. Asher hovers near the window for a moment, like he's still debating whether staying was a mistake, before finally moving to sit beside me.
Our shoulders almost touch—close enough to feel his warmth, far enough to maintain the pretense that this is casual.
The silence isn't uncomfortable. It's heavy with everything we've never allowed ourselves to say, thick with years of suppressed longing and careful distance.
"What are we doing?" Asher asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
I don't have an answer. Don't know how to explain the pull I feel toward him, the way being near him makes everything else fade into background noise.
Instead, I reach out, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw, tracing the familiar geography I've memorized a thousand times but haven't been allowed to touch.
Asher's eyes flutter closed, leaning into my touch like a man starved for tenderness. The simple contact sends electricity through my fingertips, a reminder of how perfectly we've always fit together despite everything working against us.
"How are you holding up?" he asks suddenly, opening his eyes to study my face. "With everything that happened with Sophie. That couldn't have been easy."
The question catches me off guard. In all the chaos of Jackson's threats and emergency planning, I haven't really let myself process the Sophie situation fully.
"Honestly? I'm still angry," I admit. "Not just at her, but at my parents. At myself for not seeing it sooner."
I lean back against the headboard, suddenly exhausted. "Six months of my life built on lies. Six months of thinking I was finally moving forward when really I was just playing a role in someone else's script."
"I'm sorry. That's... fuck, I can't imagine how that feels."
"The worst part is that she's not wrong about some things. About me using her as a safe option instead of dealing with what I actually wanted." I meet his eyes. "What I've always wanted."
Asher's breath catches slightly. "Blaze…"
"I know we can't just pick up where we left off. Too much has happened, too much damage on both sides. But sitting here with you tonight, working together... it reminded me why I fell for you in the first place."
"Yeah?" There's something vulnerable in his voice, like he's afraid to hope.
"You're brilliant when you're focused on something that matters. Relentless. The way you took charge tonight, the way you refused to let Jackson win..." I shake my head. "I forgot how attractive that intensity is."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Just my intensity?"
"Among other things." I let my gaze drift over his face, relearning features I know better than my own. "I missed looking at you. Really looking, without having to hide it or feel guilty about it."
"I missed that too. Missed having the right to touch you."
"You have that right now," I say quietly.
Asher shifts closer, his hand finding mine between us on the mattress. Our fingers intertwine automatically, muscle memory taking over.
"What happens if this gets out?" he asks suddenly. "If Jackson releases whatever he has, if the whole world finds out about us?"
The question I've been avoiding thinking about. "Honestly? It'll be a nightmare at first. Media circus, endless speculation, people dissecting every interaction we've ever had in public."
"Your parents will lose their minds."
"So as yours. But maybe that's not our problem anymore." The words surprise me as I say them. "I'm tired of managing other people's comfort with my life."
"The league might not be thrilled either. Sponsorship deals, team dynamics..."
"Some sponsors will drop us. Others might see an opportunity. The league will adapt because they have to." I squeeze his hand. "The teammates who matter will still be there. The ones who don't... well, I'd rather know where people stand."
Asher is quiet for a moment, processing. "You're talking like you've already decided."
"Maybe I have. Maybe Sophie's confession showed me what living a lie actually looks like, and I don't want that for us."
"Even if it costs us everything?"
"What's everything? Money? Endorsements? The approval of people who don't actually know us?"
I turn to face him fully.
"Ash, I've spent the last year trying to build a life without you in it. Trying to convince myself that safe and comfortable was enough. It's not. It's not even close."
Something shifts in Asher's expression—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of belief.
"I love you," I continue, the words feeling both terrifying and inevitable. "I'm in love with you, have been for years, and I'm tired of pretending that's something to be ashamed of."
Asher's eyes fill with something that might be tears. "I love you too. More than I've ever been able to say."
We don't solve anything in that moment. Don't make grand plans or promises about the future.
Instead, we simply exist together—gravitating toward each other until we're tangled on the narrow bed, his head on my chest, my fingers carding through the soft curls I've dreamed about touching for months.
It's tender. Unhurried. Two people allowing themselves to hope that love might actually be enough this time.
Then our phones explode.
The sound is jarring in the quiet room—notification after notification flooding both our screens in rapid succession. Messages, tags, alerts, the distinctive ping of social media mentions creating an avalanche of digital chaos.
I reach for my phone with growing dread, Asher scrambling for his at the same moment.
The first headline makes my stomach drop to somewhere around my ankles:
HOCKEY CAPTAINS' SECRET ROMANCE EXPOSED: Blaze Wilson and Asher Carpenter's Hidden Relationship Revealed
Below it, a video plays automatically. Grainy footage, clearly taken from a distance, but unmistakably us. Me and Asher kissing with desperate intensity—the cottage, one of the other moments we thought were private and safe.
The kiss plays in an endless loop, our faces clearly visible, our intimacy broadcast to millions of strangers with their phones and their opinions and their judgment.
My hands shake as I scroll through the explosion of comments already accumulating beneath the post. Some supportive, many cruel, all of them dissecting the most private parts of our lives like it's entertainment.
"Jackson," Asher breathes, his face gone pale as he stares at his own phone screen. "He did it. He fucking did it."
More notifications flood in. News outlets picking up the story. Sports commentators already crafting their hot takes. My agent calling repeatedly, probably fielding interview requests and damage control strategies.
Our secret is no longer a secret. Jackson outplayed us.