Blaze's POV
Eight months later
Eight months. Eight months of loving Asher Carpenter openly, publicly, without the suffocating weight of secrecy pressing down on my chest every time I wanted to reach for his hand.
Eight months since we stood before the world and declared ourselves, and I still haven't fully adjusted to the freedom of it all.
The arena pulses with energy around me as I settle into my seat among thousands of fans, the familiar scent of ice and popcorn and anticipation filling my lungs.
This used to be my world—the roar of the crowd, the cold bite of the rink, the adrenaline of competition. Now I experience it from the outside, a spectator in a life I once lived.
The transition hasn't been easy. Some days, watching from the stands feels like pressing my face against glass, observing a party I'm no longer invited to attend.
But then I see him.
Asher glides onto the ice during warmups, and everything else fades into background noise. His movements are precise, powerful, each stride carrying the confidence of a man who was born to command this frozen battlefield.
The Boston Blazers jersey stretches across his broad shoulders, the captain's C a testament to everything he's earned through years of dedication and sacrifice.
The giant screen above the rink suddenly fills with my face, and the commentator's voice booms through the speakers.
"Blaze Wilson is here with us tonight, just like he has been at every game before, supporting his man! The former Ottawa captain hasn't missed a single home game since his retirement."
Heat creeps up my neck as the camera lingers, but I force myself to smile and wave at the crowd. The response is overwhelming—applause and whistles erupting from fans who have embraced our relationship with a warmth I never dared to expect.
Signs wave in the stands, some bearing rainbow colors, others simply declaring support for their captain and his partner. The acceptance washes over me like a warm tide, filling cracks I didn't know still existed in my heart.
Asher looks up from the ice, finding me in the crowd with the unerring accuracy of a man who always knows exactly where I am.
His ice-blue eyes soften, and then, right there, in front of twenty thousand people and countless television viewers, he blows me a kiss. My chest constricts with emotion so intense it nearly steals my breath. A year ago, that gesture would have been impossible.
We would have passed each other with carefully neutral expressions, saving every touch and tender word for stolen moments behind closed doors. Now he loves me openly, fearlessly, and the beauty of it still catches me off guard.
Most of the crowd cheers enthusiastically, but I catch the disgusted looks from a cluster of spectators a few rows down.
Their whispered comments reach me in fragments—words I've heard before, words designed to wound and diminish. I watch them lean toward each other, faces twisted with contempt they don't bother to hide.
I choose to look away.
Their hatred cannot touch what Asher and I have built. I refuse to let small-minded prejudice overshadow the dream I'm finally living—loving him openly, receiving that love in return, no longer confined to shadows and secrets.
Every kiss we share in public is a victory, every hand held without fear is a revolution. Those people can whisper all they want; they cannot take this from us.
The game begins, and I lose myself in watching Asher work. There's something almost hypnotic about the way he commands the ice, his intensity radiating outward like heat from a flame.
He's everywhere at once—directing plays, positioning teammates, his body a coiled spring of controlled aggression. The fierce energy he exudes when fully committed to his craft never fails to captivate me, even after all these years.
This is why I fell for him. Not just the grumpy exterior or the rare smiles he saves for people he truly cares about, but this—the way he transforms into something elemental when he plays.
Pure focus, absolute dedication—a man who gives everything he has to whatever he loves. I know exactly how that dedication feels when it's directed at me.
The final buzzer sounds with Boston leading by two goals, and the arena explodes into triumphant celebration. Players swarm Asher, helmets knocked together in congratulation, gloves pounding against his shoulders.
I watch him accept the praise with his usual gruff humility, deflecting credit to his teammates even as they insist on celebrating their captain.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I rise from my seat. The velvet box in my pocket feels heavier than it should, weighted with every dream I've carried since I was fifteen years old and saw a grumpy boy with curly hair skating like gravity didn't apply to him.
I make my way down to the ice, security recognizing me and stepping aside. The cold hits my face as I step onto the rink, my shoes finding uncertain purchase on the slick surface.
Asher's back is turned, still surrounded by teammates, and he doesn't see me approach.
"Asher."
He spins around, and the surprise on his face when he sees me standing there, on the ice, in front of everyone, makes my throat tighten with emotion. His brow furrows with confusion, that familiar scowl already forming.
"Blaze? What are you—"
"Let me talk," I interrupt, my voice carrying across the suddenly quieting arena. The crowd seems to sense something significant happening, their cheers fading to expectant murmurs. "Please. I need to say this."
His teammates drift back, giving us space, their expressions ranging from curious to knowing. Someone must have suspected what I was planning—probably Chad, who helped me coordinate with arena security.
"I've dreamed about this moment since I was a teenager," I begin, my voice steadier than I expected. "Not just being with you, but loving you like this—openly, publicly, without fear."
I step closer, watching his ice-blue eyes widen as understanding begins to dawn. "You deserve the whole world to know how deeply you are loved and cherished, Asher. You deserve someone who will shout it from every rooftop, who will never again ask you to hide."
The arena has gone completely silent. Twenty thousand people holding their breath.
I drop to one knee.
Asher's hand flies to his mouth, his eyes glistening with tears he's too proud to shed in public. His whole body trembles as I pull out the velvet box, revealing the platinum band I spent weeks choosing.
"Will you marry me?"
The words are barely audible over the deafening roar that erupts from the crowd, but Asher doesn't need to hear them. He reads my lips perfectly, the same way he's always been able to read me—understanding what I mean even when words fail.
"Yes." His voice cracks, barely a whisper. "Yes, yes, yes."
My hands shake as I slide the ring onto his finger, the metal catching the arena lights like a promise made visible.
Then I'm on my feet and his arms are around me and I'm kissing him, kissing my fiancé, while twenty thousand people rise to their feet in thunderous ovation.
This is everything I ever wanted, everything I was afraid to hope for. And it's only the beginning.