Asher's POV
I've run out of apologies.
Every variation I can think of: “I'm sorry, I feel terrible, I'll make it up to you” has already been used in the past seventy-two hours. The words feel hollow now, worn thin from overuse, unable to carry the weight of what I'm actually trying to express.
So I fall back on the one truth that never wavers.
"I love you," I tell Blaze, cupping his face in my hands as I prepare to leave. "I love you more than anything in this world. You know that, right?"
"I know." His smile is warm, but I can see the disappointment flickering behind his eyes. The careful way he's masking his frustration at yet another instance of hockey taking precedence over our personal life. "Go. The team needs their captain."
The problem weighing on my chest is that our honeymoon ended three days early. We were supposed to have another week of lazy mornings and cobblestone streets and making love without schedules demanding our attention.
Instead, Coach called with urgent news—crucial games approaching, the team struggling in my absence, the franchise desperately needing their captain back on the ice immediately.
Blaze had insisted everything was fine when I broke the news. Had helped me pack with quiet efficiency, had held my hand on the flight home, had said all the right things about understanding professional obligations.
But I know him too well to be fooled by the performance.
"I'll arrange something special for tonight," I promise, already running late for practice. "A romantic dinner, just the two of us. We'll celebrate being home properly."
"Sounds perfect."
"I mean it, Blaze. Tonight is about us, no interruptions."
"I believe you." But his tone suggests he's heard this promise before—and been disappointed before.
I kiss him quickly, grabbing my gear bag and rushing toward the door. "I love you!" The words float over my shoulder as I leave, a consolation prize for the husband I keep failing to prioritize.
I hate leaving him with that forced smile. Hate knowing I'm the reason the light in his eyes has dimmed. But the team is counting on me, and I can't afford to disappoint my coach or teammates. Not when my captaincy depends on being reliable.
The rink feels like coming home after days away—the familiar cold bite of the air, the echo of skates on ice, the controlled chaos of a team preparing for battle.
My teammates greet me with backslaps and good-natured ribbing about my abbreviated honeymoon, and I slip into the rhythm of practice like pulling on a comfortable glove.
It's afterward, while I'm still catching my breath in the locker room, that I meet him.
"Asher Carpenter." The voice is confident, warm, carrying an undercurrent of something I can't quite identify. "I've been looking forward to meeting you. I'm Kieran—the team's new social media manager."
I look up to find a man about my age watching me with an easy smile.
He's attractive in an obvious way—sharp features, carefully styled dark hair, the kind of presence that suggests he knows exactly the effect he has on people. His handshake is firm, lingering perhaps a beat longer than necessary.
"Nice to meet you," I manage, suddenly aware that I'm sweaty and disheveled from practice. "Sorry, I'm kind of a mess right now."
"Trust me, the athletic look works for you." His smile sharpens into something more knowing. "I've seen your photos, but they really don't do justice to the real thing."
Heat creeps up my neck. I'm not accustomed to such direct attention from other men—years of hiding my sexuality didn't exactly prepare me for open flirtation. "I, uh... thanks? I guess?"
Kieran laughs, clearly amused by my awkwardness. "God, they weren't kidding about you. The famously grumpy captain who doesn't know how to take a compliment."
"I take compliments fine. I just wasn't expecting..." I trail off, uncertain how to finish the sentence without making things more uncomfortable.
"Wasn't expecting another gay man to notice you're attractive?" He tilts his head, studying me with undisguised interest. "You've been out for eight months, Asher. Surely you've adjusted to the attention by now."
"It's been a busy eight months."
The conversation gets interrupted by teammates calling for Kieran's attention, and I escape to the showers feeling oddly unsettled.
I'm married, I remind myself. Happily, completely married to the love of my life. Some random flirtation from the new social media guy shouldn't throw me off balance like this.
But after practice, Kieran finds me again.
"Can I ask you something?"
He leans against the wall beside my locker, casual and confident. "It's strange to me how uncomfortable you seem with compliments and attention. You're one of the most visible gay athletes in professional sports. Surely you're used to being noticed by now."
"You're exaggerating my appeal." I focus on packing my gear, avoiding his knowing gaze. "I'm just a hockey player who happens to be gay. That's not exactly revolutionary."
"Isn't it?" His eyebrows rise. "When's the last time you checked your private messages on social media?"
The question catches me off guard. "I don't know. Weeks ago, maybe? There's too many to keep up with."
"Too many." He says it like I've just proven his point. "Have you actually looked at what people are sending you?"
"Not really. Most of it's probably spam or hate mail."
"Oh, some of it definitely is." Kieran's smile turns conspiratorial. "But I think you'd be surprised by the rest. Pull up your Instagram. I'll show you what I mean."
Against my better judgment, I unlock my phone and open the app. The message request folder shows a number that makes my eyes widen—thousands of unread messages accumulated over months of intentional neglect.
"Start scrolling," Kieran encourages. "Read a few."
The first message is from a man named David, expressing how much my coming out meant to him and how attractive he finds me.
The second is similar—admiration mixed with obvious romantic interest. The third is from a woman, heartbroken and dramatic, lamenting that her celebrity crush is "definitely unavailable now."
I keep scrolling, increasingly stunned by the volume and intensity. Hundreds of messages from gay men expressing attraction, desire, fantasies I never asked to receive.
Heartbroken notes from female fans mourning their parasocial relationships. Coming-out stories from strangers who credit my visibility with giving them courage.
"I had no idea," I murmur, genuinely shocked. "I didn't realize anyone was paying this much attention."
"You're a symbol now," Kieran says, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "Whether you wanted to be or not—these people feel connected to you."
I lose track of time scrolling through the messages, reading story after story from people whose lives apparently intersected with mine through a television screen.
The attention feels surreal—all these strangers who think they know me, who project their hopes and desires onto my public image.
When I finally check my watch, ice floods my veins. Over an hour late. I'm over an hour late getting home.
The romantic dinner I promised Blaze. Our first evening back from our abbreviated honeymoon. The opportunity to prove that he still matters more than hockey, more than my career, more than anything.
And I'm sitting in a locker room, reading thirst messages from strangers while my husband waits alone.
"Shit." The word comes out panicked. "I have to go. I was supposed to be home an hour ago."
Kieran's eyebrows rise but he says nothing as I grab my bag and sprint for the exit, already composing apologies I know won't be enough.