Ryan's POV
The park bench is cold beneath my thighs, but I barely notice. My leg won't stop bouncing, nerves coiling tighter with every passing minute.
I chose this spot deliberately—a secluded corner on the outskirts of the city where overgrown hedges block the view from the main path. Somewhere the press won't think to look.
I check my phone again. Ten minutes early. The waiting is killing me.
Three days ago, I was in my new apartment unpacking boxes when the news broke. Asher's face splashed across every screen, every headline screaming variations of the same story.
Outed and exposed. His private life dissected for public consumption like entertainment.
I watched the coverage spread like wildfire, and the guilt I'd been running from finally caught up. It sank its teeth into my chest and refused to let go.
I couldn't stay silent anymore. Couldn't pretend I wasn't part of how this happened.
Footsteps crunch on gravel, and my head snaps up. Asher emerges through a gap in the hedges, and my chest tightens painfully. He looks terrible.
Pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, dark circles carved beneath his eyes, shoulders hunched like he's bracing against a storm that won't stop. The confident captain I remember has been hollowed out, replaced by someone haunted.
This is what Jackson did. What I helped him do, even if I didn't understand the full picture at the time.
"Hey." Asher's voice is rougher than I remember. He settles onto the bench beside me, leaving a careful distance between us.
"Hey." I swallow hard. "Thanks for meeting me. I know you have a lot going on right now, and I wasn't sure you'd—"
"Ryan." He cuts me off, but gently. "You said it was important. I'm here."
The words I rehearsed during the entire flight back evaporate. I stare at my hands, trying to find a way to begin.
But Asher surprises me.
"So." He leans back against the bench, something almost casual in the gesture despite the exhaustion weighing him down. "How's the new team treating you? I heard they've got a solid lineup this year."
I blink, thrown off balance. "You want to talk about hockey? Right now?"
"I want to talk about something that isn't my face on every tabloid in America for five minutes." A ghost of his old smile flickers across his lips. "Humor me. How's the city? The team? Your personal life—anyone special keeping you company out there?"
The normalcy of the questions makes my throat tight. Here he is, drowning in the worst scandal of his career, and he's asking about my life like we're catching up over coffee.
"Everything's good, actually. The team welcomed me faster than I expected."
I force myself to match his tone, even though guilt churns in my stomach.
"A few guys took me out my first week, showed me around, made sure I didn't feel like the new kid eating lunch alone. And Denver itself—it's different from Boston. Rainier, obviously, but there's something peaceful about it. Feels like a fresh start."
Asher nods slowly. "That's good. You needed that. A clean slate."
"And I, um." I hesitate, heat creeping up my neck. "I met someone. A guy. He's a physical therapist, works with the team actually. We've been together about two months now, and it's... it's really good."
Asher's smile is tired but sincere, and something in his eyes softens. "I'm glad, Ryan. Genuinely. You deserve that. You deserve someone who makes you feel like you're allowed to be happy."
The kindness cracks something open in my chest. He's sitting here, life in ruins, career hanging by a thread, and he's telling me I deserve happiness.
Meanwhile, I've been carrying a secret that helped put him in this position.
"Asher, I—" My voice breaks. I have to look away, blinking rapidly. "I'm sorry things turned out this way. I'm sorry I left without explaining, and I'm sorry I've been dodging your calls for months, and I'm sorry for so much more than you even know."
"Ryan…"
"No, let me finish. Please." I force myself to meet his eyes. "I need to tell you something, and it's going to be hard to hear, but you deserve the truth. I should have given it to you a long time ago."
Asher goes still. Waiting.
The whole truth spills out of me like poison I've been holding too long. Jackson approaching me months ago with what seemed like innocent questions.
The way he twisted information I gave him, used it to manipulate situations I didn't even realize were connected.
How I figured out too late that I'd been played—that every conversation, every confidence I shared, was ammunition he stockpiled against the people I cared about.
"I wanted to tell you. I was going to, but then I saw how close you two had gotten. And I thought—I thought you'd never believe me over him. So I ran instead. I took the transfer and I disappeared because I was too much of a coward to face what I'd done."
The words hang between us, ugly and raw.
Asher's expression flickers with hurt. I see it move through him—the sting of another betrayal, another person he trusted turning out to be complicit in his destruction. But he doesn't explode. Doesn't lash out.
He just exhales slowly, like he's releasing something heavy.
"Jackson played a lot of people," he says quietly. "You weren't the only one who didn't see him clearly. I certainly didn't, and I had more reason to be suspicious than most."
"That doesn't excuse what I did. I should have been braver. I should have told you the truth before I left, no matter how hard it was."
"Yeah." Asher's jaw tightens. "You should have. But you're here now, and that matters."
He turns to face me fully, something sharper entering his gaze.
"We need allies right now, Ryan. People willing to stand against Jackson publicly. He's been untouchable for too long because everyone's too scared to speak up."
"I'll testify." The words come out firm, certain. "Publicly, if that's what it takes. Whatever you need. I experienced his manipulation firsthand—I can tell people exactly how he operates, how he gains trust and then weaponizes it. If that helps bring him down, I'm in."
Asher studies me for a long moment. Then he shares the plan Sophie devised—the evidence she gathered, the strategy for exposing Jackson without giving him room to spin the narrative. I listen carefully, and when he finishes, I offer myself again.
"Use me as a witness. Someone who can corroborate the pattern. I'll stand up in front of cameras and tell the whole world what he did if that's what it takes."
Asher goes quiet. Something shifts in his posture—the exhaustion doesn't disappear, but beneath it, I see steel forming. Decision crystallizing.
He pulls out his phone. Dials a number. A contact's name flashed on the phone screen—Sophie.
"Hey, It's me," he says, voice steady for the first time since he arrived. "I'm ready. Set up the press conference."