Blaze's POV
The wedding binder sits open on the kitchen table, mocking me with its carefully organized tabs and color-coded sections. Three weeks of planning, and the most crucial page remains devastatingly blank: the date.
I stare at the calendar spread before me, covered in crossed-out possibilities and scribbled notes.
June 15th—scratched out because of playoff preparations. July 8th—eliminated due to a commercial shoot Asher forgot he'd committed to months ago. August 22nd—cancelled when media interviews got scheduled for that entire week.
Every time we settle on a date, something interferes. Some professional obligation that takes precedence over our personal plans, pushing our wedding further into an undefined future.
My phone buzzes with a text from the venue coordinator, the third message today: "Hi Blaze, just following up on those dates we discussed. We're holding the spaces as long as possible, but other couples are inquiring. Please confirm soon!"
I type back a response I've sent variations of a dozen times now: "Still working on finalizing with my fiancé's schedule, will confirm as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience."
Patience. Everyone wants patience.
The caterers want patience while they hold our tentative booking, the florist wants patience while she reserves our preferred arrangements, the photographer wants patience while other clients circle the same weekends we keep almost-choosing.
I'm running out of patience to give.
The front door opens and Asher breezes in, still in his practice gear, hair damp with sweat. He drops his bag by the entrance and crosses to kiss my cheek, barely glancing at the chaos of wedding materials spread across every surface.
"Hey, babe. Good day?"
"I've been trying to finalize the invitation list," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "We're supposed to send them out soon, but I still don't know what date to put on them."
Asher winces, guilt flickering across his features. "I know, I know. I've been meaning to sit down with my schedule and figure it out. Things have just been crazy with the team lately."
"They've been crazy for three weeks."
"The season's heating up. You remember how it gets."
The words land like a slap, though he doesn't mean them to. You remember how it gets. As if I could forget. As if the life I built for over a decade could simply fade from memory because I'm no longer living it.
"I remember," I say quietly. "But remembering doesn't help me book a venue."
Asher sighs, running a hand through his damp curls. "What about October? Things usually calm down a bit in early October."
I flip to that month in the calendar, hope flickering despite my frustration. "October could work. The 12th is a Saturday. No games scheduled that weekend, according to the preliminary league calendar."
"Let me check." He pulls out his phone, scrolling through what I assume is his packed schedule. His frown deepens with each swipe. "Shit. There's a charity gala on the 11th that I promised to attend. And the 13th has a team promotional event."
"So we'd have one day. Our wedding day, sandwiched between professional obligations."
"It's not ideal, but…"
"It's not acceptable, Asher." The words come out sharper than I intended, weeks of suppressed frustration bleeding through. "I can't plan a wedding around maybes and tentatives. I need an actual commitment."
He sets down his phone, finally giving me his full attention. "You're right. I'm sorry. I know I've been difficult about this."
"It's not about being difficult. It's about priorities."
I close the binder, unable to look at all those blank spaces anymore.
"I've been making decisions alone for weeks now. Flowers, catering options, seating arrangements—all stuff we were supposed to decide together. But you're never here, and when you are, you're exhausted or distracted or already thinking about the next practice."
"That's not fair. I'm trying to balance."
"I know you're trying. But I'm the one sitting in this apartment day after day, planning our wedding like it's a solo project."
The admission burns coming out, exposing a vulnerability I've tried to hide. "I feel like a housewife, Asher. Like my only purpose is to wait for you to come home and handle the domestic details while you live your actual life."
Asher's expression shifts from defensive to concerned. He moves closer, reaching for my hands. "Blaze, that's not… You're not just a housewife. You're my partner, my fiancé."
"Then be here. Be present for this. I can't keep doing it alone."
The weight of what I'm not saying hangs between us. That I no longer belong in his world. That every schedule conflict is a reminder of the life I left behind, the identity I'm still struggling to rebuild.
That watching him race between practices and interviews and sponsorship events makes me feel like an outsider looking through glass at a party I'm no longer invited to attend.
Before Asher can respond, his phone rings. He glances at the screen, and I watch his jaw tighten.
"It's Coach. I should probably…"
"Answer it."
He hesitates, clearly torn, then accepts the call. "Hey, Coach. What's up?"
I can hear the muffled voice on the other end, urgent and demanding. Asher's shoulders tense as he listens.
"Tonight? But I had plans with…" A pause. "No, I understand. The Titans are a tough matchup. If you think we need the extra prep time..." Another pause. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He ends the call and turns to me with an expression I've seen too many times lately: apologetic, guilty, already halfway out the door.
"Babe, I'm so sorry. Coach called an emergency practice for tonight. The game against the Titans is crucial, and he wants to run through some new defensive strategies."
"We were supposed to finalize the invitations tonight."
"I know. And I feel terrible about it, but this is important. The team needs me." He cups my face in his hands, pressing a sweet kiss to my lips. "You know how it is."
No. I don't know anymore. I've started to forget what that demanding professional life feels like.
But I don't say that. Instead, I nod, swallowing the hurt that rises in my throat.
"I'll make it up to you," Asher promises, kissing me again. "Tomorrow night, I'm all yours. We'll finalize everything—invitations, date, all of it. I promise."
"Okay."
He notices my flat tone, concern flickering across his features. "Hey." His thumb traces my cheekbone gently. "I love you. You know that, right? This wedding is important to me. You're important to me."
"I know."
"I'll text you when practice ends. Maybe we can at least have a late dinner together?"
"Sure. That sounds nice."
He kisses me one more time—tender, apologetic—before grabbing his bag and heading for the door. "I love you, Blaze Wilson."
"Love you too."
The door closes behind him, and silence floods the apartment like water filling a sinking ship.
I sit alone at the kitchen table, surrounded by wedding magazines and fabric swatches and a calendar full of crossed-out dates. The binder lies closed in front of me, all its careful organization meaningless without the one decision that matters most.
My heart feels wounded and scratched, abraded by the growing distance between our two very different worlds. Asher is living the life we used to share, while I'm stuck here, waiting, planning, slowly disappearing into a role I never wanted.
The engagement ring catches the fading afternoon light, beautiful and heavy on my finger.
I wonder if this is what our marriage will feel like too.