Blaze's POV
The arena roars with divided energy.
I stand in the tunnel, heart hammering against my ribs, listening to the chaos above. Cheers mix with boos in a dissonant symphony that echoes through the concrete corridor.
Signs wave in the crowd—I caught glimpses during warmups. Some rainbow-colored and supportive, messages of love and acceptance held high. Others cruel enough that security confiscated them before the cameras could linger.
This is our first game since the world learned our secret. Ottawa versus Boston. Blaze versus Asher. Nothing and everything has changed.
My teammates file past, offering shoulder claps and subtle nods. The support isn't loud or dramatic—it's quiet, steady, the kind that matters most. Marcus pauses beside me, squeezing my shoulder once before skating out toward the ice with the others.
It steadies something in my chest I didn't realize was shaking.
The ice welcomes us like it always has. Cold air fills my lungs as I glide toward the center, the familiar scrape of blades grounding me in the present. Whatever happens in the stands, whatever hatred or support rains down from above—this is still hockey.
This is still home.
I take my position at center ice and watch Asher glide toward me from the opposite end. Two captains, two rivals, but only on ice from now on. And even this will be in the past soon—a past that wasn't easy, yet brought us together even more.
We crouch for the face-off, sticks lowering to frame the small black disc between us. The arena noise fades, the cheers, the boos, the chaos, until there's only us. Eyes locked, breath visible in the cold air, the world compressed to this single moment.
"Ready to get destroyed one last time, Carpenter?" I murmur, lips barely moving. Anyone watching would think we're exchanging pre-game trash talk. They'd be half right.
Something tightens in Asher's expression. "You sure about this? Retiring? You don't have to decide right now—your knee's been getting stronger, the doctors said..."
"I want to leave while I still love it." The certainty in my own voice surprises me. "The game gave me everything, Ash. But I've got something better waiting for me off the ice now. Something I'm not willing to sacrifice for a few more seasons."
"Blaze..."
I let my grin turn devastating—that cocky smile I know he can't resist. "But before that, I'm going to kick your ass."
The horn blares. The puck drops.
The game is brutal and beautiful. We play harder than ever—not despite the pressure, but fueled by it.
Every goal, every save, every collision against the boards proves we belong here. That our love doesn't diminish our skill. That we've earned our place on this ice through years of dedication, regardless of who we go home to at night.
The boos don't disappear, but neither do the cheers. Homophobia exists—I hear slurs from the stands, see cruel signs before security removes them.
But so does support. Rainbow flags wave in clusters. Fans wear pride jerseys with our numbers. The world isn't unanimous, and it never will be.
We can't control the world. Only how we move through it.
When the final buzzer sounds, the score barely matters. What matters is what comes next.
***
The private banquet hall glows with warm light, crystal chandeliers casting soft reflections across white tablecloths and champagne flutes. Players from both teams fill the space—Ottawa and Boston united for one evening.
No rivalries tonight, no competition—just respect for a man who gave everything to the sport.
My retirement ceremony.
Drinks flow freely, loosening tongues and lowering guards. Laughter echoes off the walls as teammates share stories—embarrassing locker room incidents, legendary plays, inside jokes that span years of shared history.
My mother sits at a front table, dabbing her eyes with a cloth napkin every few minutes. Even my father came—silent, still processing, but present. It's enough. More than I expected.
Asher stands by my side through all of it, arm draped openly around my waist. When someone raises a toast, his glass lifts highest. When I laugh at an old story about a prank gone wrong, he presses a kiss to my temple without thinking.
I rise to speak, and the room falls silent.
"Most of you know me as a hockey player," I begin, voice steady despite the emotion building behind my eyes. "Captain of the Ottawa Otters. Three-time championship winner. The guy who couldn't keep his temper on the ice."
Soft laughter ripples through the crowd.
"But what you don't know is why I started playing in the first place."
My gaze drifts to Asher, warmth flooding my chest.
"There was this grumpy kid at the rink when I was fifteen. Curly hair, permanent scowl, skated like he was born on the ice. He moved like gravity didn't apply to him, like the rest of us were just obstacles in his way."
My voice thickens. "I thought he was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen. So I picked up a stick and never put it down—just to have an excuse to be near him."
Asher's throat works visibly. The surprise in his eyes tells me he never knew.
"My entire career exists because of Asher Carpenter. Every goal, every game, every championship—it all started with wanting to impress some boy who barely knew I existed. I trained harder because he trained hard. I pushed myself because I wanted him to notice me."
I turn to face him fully, eyes glistening.
"Hockey was never just about hockey. It was about him. And now, all these years later, my career ends the same way it began—with him. Except this time, he's standing beside me instead of across the ice. This time, I don't have to pretend I don't love him."
I raise my glass. "To hockey, for giving me purpose. And to Asher, for being the reason behind all of it."
The applause is thunderous. Players from both teams rise—Chad clapping stoically, Ryan whistling from the back, coaches and staff joining the standing ovation. The sound washes over me, but all I can see is Asher.
Later, when the crowd thins and the champagne has made everyone warm and loose, I slip away to a quiet corner near the service entrance.
My fingers find the velvet box in my jacket pocket—the weight of it familiar now after weeks of carrying it everywhere. I pull it out, cracking it open just enough to catch the glint of platinum in the dim light.
The ring sits nestled against dark velvet—simple, elegant. Perfect for hands that were made to hold hockey sticks and cup my face when he kisses me.
When the time is right, I think, thumb tracing the edge of the box. I’ll do it.
I imagine his face when I ask. The way his eyes will widen, the breath he'll forget to take, the tremor in his voice when he answers. I imagine sliding this ring onto his finger and calling him my husband for the first time.
Soon. Not tonight—tonight belongs to hockey, to endings, to the career I'm laying to rest. But soon.
"There you are."
I snap the box shut and shove it back into my pocket in one fluid motion, heart lurching. Asher appears from between the service doors, champagne glass in hand, smile soft with curiosity.
"Hiding from your own party?" he teases.
"Just needed some air." I pull him closer by the waist, hoping he doesn't notice my racing pulse. "It's a lot, you know? Saying goodbye to all of it."
His expression softens. "No regrets? Walking away from all this—the fame, the competition, everything you built?"
"None." The word comes out steady, certain. I mean it more than I've ever meant anything. "I gave hockey everything I had. Now I get to give everything to us."
Asher kisses me—slow, unhurried, unhidden. His hands settle on my chest, and I pull him closer, the velvet box pressing against my hip like a promise waiting to be spoken.
Someone wolf-whistles from across the room. Neither of us cares.
We walk out together into the cool night air, fingers intertwined, the future stretching ahead like an open road. The ring burns in my pocket, patient and certain.
Soon, I'll ask him to be mine forever. But for now, this is enough.