Asher’s POV
Being home has become unbearable.
Every interaction with Blaze seems to ignite another argument—over dinner plans, over laundry, over who forgot to buy milk. We circle each other like wounded animals, hissing and scratching over the smallest provocations.
The apartment that once felt like our sanctuary has transformed into a battlefield, every room contaminated with the memory of harsh words and slammed doors.
I've started staying at the rink longer. Accepting more media obligations. Finding reasons to be anywhere but the toxic atmosphere that's taken over our once-happy home.
I can't help wondering if this is what marriage is supposed to feel like, or if something fundamental has broken between us that can't be repaired.
The online magazine interview should be routine—basic questions about the upcoming season, my goals, my training regimen. The kind of promotional work I could normally do in my sleep.
But today my concentration keeps fracturing, my answers rambling and unfocused, forcing multiple retakes that leave everyone in the room visibly frustrated.
"Let's try that again," the interviewer says, her patience wearing thin. "What are you most looking forward to this season?"
I open my mouth to respond, but my mind goes blank.
All I can think about is the fight Blaze and I had this morning—over dishes, of all things. Dishes that escalated into accusations about priorities and commitment and whether I even wanted to be married anymore.
"Asher? The question?"
"Right. Sorry. I'm looking forward to..." The words won't come. The camera crew exchanges glances. Someone sighs heavily.
"Let's take an extended break," the director finally calls. "Reset in twenty minutes."
Kieran appears at my side before I've even fully processed the humiliation of derailing a simple interview. His hand touches my arm, concern written across his attractive features.
"Hey, you okay? You seem really off your game today."
I force a smile, trying to summon my professional mask. "Just tired. Long week, you know how it is."
"Want to talk about it?" His voice is gentle, inviting.
I shake my head. My problems with Blaze feel too personal, too raw to share with someone who's still essentially a colleague.
Even if Kieran has been nothing but supportive since we started working together, even if he's one of the few people who doesn't expect me to be perfect all the time.
"Actually, there's this after-party tonight for the network executives."
Kieran continues after a moment of comfortable silence.
"Nothing fancy, just drinks and networking. You should come—might be good to blow off some steam, get your mind off whatever's bothering you."
The prospect of going home to another night of tense silence or explosive arguments makes my stomach clench.
I can already picture it—Blaze on the couch, pretending to read while radiating disapproval. The careful dance around each other in the kitchen, the cold bed where we lie on opposite edges, a Grand Canyon of resentment between us.
"You know what?" I hear myself say. "That sounds perfect. I could definitely use a night out."
***
The party is exactly what Kieran promised—low-key, intimate, filled with industry people who treat me like a friend rather than a celebrity. No one asks intrusive questions about my marriage or my coming-out story or what it's like being gay in professional sports.
They just talk to me like a normal person, and the relief of that anonymity is almost overwhelming.
The alcohol flows freely, and I find myself drinking more than usual. Wine loosens the tight knots of stress in my shoulders, softens the sharp edges of my thoughts.
By my third glass, the constant anxiety that's been living in my chest for weeks has finally, blessedly quieted.
"There's a spot over there that's a bit quieter," Kieran suggests, nodding toward a corner of the room. "We could actually hear each other talk."
I follow willingly, settling onto a plush couch that swallows me in comfortable cushions. Kieran sits close, closer than strictly necessary, and refills my glass with expensive wine.
"So," he says, his eyes warm in the dim lighting, "want to tell me what's really going on?"
The combination of alcohol and his genuine concern finally breaks through my defenses. The words spill out before I can stop them—everything I've been holding back, everything I haven't been able to say to anyone.
"My marriage isn't turning out the way I'd imagined."
The confession feels like releasing a breath I've been holding for months.
"Blaze and I... we seem to want different things. Every conversation becomes a fight. Every time I come home, it's like walking into a minefield."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Months. Since the honeymoon, actually, maybe even before that." I take another long sip of wine. "We got married thinking everything would fall into place, but instead it's just... falling apart."
Kieran shifts closer, his knee pressing against mine. "What do you fight about?"
"Everything, nothing. My schedule, mostly. He thinks I prioritize work over him. That I'm never home, never present even when I am home."
I laugh bitterly. "He was a professional athlete too—he should understand the demands of my career. But instead, every time work calls, every time I have to travel or stay late, it's like I'm betraying him somehow."
"That sounds incredibly frustrating." Kieran's voice is soft, sympathetic. "You're trying to build something important, and he's making you feel guilty for it."
"Exactly." The relief of being understood washes over me. "I'm not choosing work over him. I'm choosing our future—financial security, opportunities, all the things that come from having a successful career. Why can't he see that?"
"Some people can't see past their own needs," Kieran observes. "They want you to shrink yourself to fit their comfort zone instead of growing together."
"Every time I try to talk about how I feel, it turns into another argument about how he feels—his loneliness, his frustration, his needs." I drain my glass, and Kieran immediately refills it. "I don't know when I became the villain in my own marriage."
"You're not a villain, Asher." His hand finds my knee, warm and grounding. "You're a man trying to balance an incredibly demanding career with a relationship. It sounds like you're giving everything to make this work, and he's not meeting you halfway."
"Maybe it's just the adjustment period," I say, though my voice lacks conviction. "We've only been married a few months. Maybe all marriages go through this."
"Do they, though?" Kieran tilts his head, studying me. "I've seen plenty of couples navigate career pressures without tearing each other apart. The ones that work are the ones where both partners actually want the same things."
"We want the same things. At least, I thought we did."
"From what you're describing, it sounds like he wants you home, available, focused entirely on him. And you want to build a career, make the most of your opportunities while you have them."
Kieran's thumb traces a small circle on my knee. "Those aren't the same things, Asher. Those are fundamentally different visions of what your life should look like."
The observation lands like a punch to the chest. I want to argue, to defend Blaze, to insist that we can find a middle ground. But the wine has stripped away my usual defenses, and the truth feels too heavy to deny.
"I don't know what to do anymore," I admit quietly.
Kieran’s moving closer on the couch until his thigh presses fully against mine. "You deserve someone who makes your life easier, not harder. Someone who celebrates your success instead of resenting it."
"He doesn't resent—"
"Doesn't he?" Kieran's eyes hold mine, dark and intense. "Every cancelled dinner, every late night, every work trip—he holds it against you. Makes you feel guilty for being good at your job. That's not support, Asher—that's control disguised as need."
I want to defend Blaze again, but the words won't come. Because part of me, the exhausted, frustrated, lonely part, wonders if Kieran might be right.
"Maybe, just maybe…" Kieran says, his breath warm against my lips, "you're just with the wrong person."
Before I can respond or even wrap my head around what’s going on, his mouth is already on mine.