Blaze's POV
Sophie catches my eye from across the room, reading the weight of Asher's words before I can fully process them myself. Without missing a beat, she rises from the couch, tugging Eric gently toward the door.
"We should get going," she says, her voice carefully light. "Let you two have a moment."
Eric looks confused but follows her lead, gathering their jackets while Sophie shoots me a meaningful look—equal parts encouragement and warning.
The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly the apartment feels enormous, the silence pressing in from all sides. Asher and I are alone.
He's still standing where Sophie left him, shoulders tense, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me. Whatever he's about to say, it's costing him something to get the words out.
"I'm taking a month off," he says finally. "Starting tomorrow. No games, no press obligations, no endorsement shoots—nothing."
I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"
"A month of nothing but us." He meets my gaze directly, and there's something different in his ice-blue eyes—a certainty I haven't seen in months. "I've already made the arrangements."
"A month," I repeat slowly, studying his face for signs of the usual caveats.
The emergency clauses that always seem to materialize when hockey calls. The "unless something comes up" that transforms promises into suggestions.
"What about the playoff preparations? The media tour you mentioned last week?"
"Handled. I've arranged everything with management and the coaching staff."
He pulls his phone from his pocket and sets it face-down on the coffee table—a gesture so uncharacteristic it makes me blink.
"They weren't thrilled, obviously. The team needs their captain, blah blah blah. But they understand this is non-negotiable."
"Non-negotiable." The word feels foreign in my mouth, applied to something other than hockey.
"Our marriage comes first this time, Blaze. Actually first, not just in theory."
Asher crosses the distance between us, his hand reaching for mine. "I know I've said that before. I know you have every reason not to believe me. But I'm asking you to give me a chance to prove it."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it aches. But months of broken promises and cancelled plans have trained me to expect disappointment.
"Okay," I say finally. "Let's see what happens."
***
For the first week, I wait for the inevitable interruption.
Every time Asher's phone rings, I tense—bracing for the apologetic expression, the explanation about some crisis that only their captain can resolve.
When he gets a text, I watch his face for the telltale shift from relaxation to obligation. I've become so conditioned to disappointment that I can't stop anticipating it, even when it doesn't come.
But it doesn't come. The calls get declined or go to voicemail. The texts receive brief responses that clearly communicate "handle it without me."
Asher's phone stays silent during dinners, gets left in other rooms during conversations, and never once becomes the third party in our bed that it used to be.
By the second week, something in my chest begins to loosen.
We cook elaborate meals together—actual cooking, not just reheating takeout or throwing together sandwiches between his obligations.
Asher turns out to be surprisingly good at pasta sauces, while I discover a talent for baking that I never had time to explore during my playing career.
Our kitchen becomes a mess of flour and tomato sauce and laughter, the kind of domestic chaos I'd forgotten could feel like joy.
We take long walks without destinations, wandering through neighborhoods we've never explored despite living in this city for years.
Asher holds my hand openly, publicly, without checking over his shoulder for cameras or fans. The freedom of it still catches me off guard sometimes—this ability to be ourselves without fear.
We spend entire afternoons in bed. Not always making love, though there's plenty of that too. Sometimes we just talk, sharing dreams and fears we'd forgotten how to voice.
Asher tells me about his anxieties regarding career longevity, his worries about what happens when hockey is no longer his identity.
I tell him about the emptiness that's been eating at me since retirement, the sense that I've become a supporting character in my own life.
"I didn't know you felt that way," he admits one afternoon, his fingers tracing patterns on my shoulder. "You always seemed so supportive of my career. I thought you were happy."
"I was trying to be supportive. But somewhere along the way, I forgot to build something of my own."
I curl closer against his chest, drawing comfort from his warmth.
"I've been sitting here feeling sorry for myself instead of creating my own purpose. Waiting for your career to slow down instead of figuring out who I am without hockey."
"You're still Blaze Wilson. That hasn't changed."
"But what does Blaze Wilson do? Besides wait for his husband to come home and plan dinner dates that get cancelled?"
The words carry less bitterness than they would have a month ago.
"I put all my identity into being a hockey player, and when that ended, I didn't know who I was anymore. I blamed you for not filling that void, but that was never your responsibility."
Asher is quiet for a long moment, processing. "So what do you want to do? If you could build anything, what would it look like?"
The answer comes more easily than I expected.
"Coaching. I've been thinking about it for a while, actually. Staying connected to the sport, sharing what I've learned, helping younger players develop. It would be my own thing—something I built myself instead of something I lost when my body gave out."
His enthusiasm is immediate and genuine, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes my heart clench. "Blaze, that's perfect. You'd be an incredible coach. Your understanding of the game, your ability to read players…"
"You really think so?"
"I know so. And I can help—I have connections with training programs, youth leagues, people who would jump at the chance to work with a three-time championship winner."
He sits up, suddenly energized. "We should research certification programs. See what's available locally, what the timeline looks like."
"We?"
"Of course we." He pulls me up to sit beside him, already reaching for his laptop. "This affects both of us, so we figure it out together. That's how this is supposed to work."
We spend the rest of the afternoon researching coaching certifications and opportunities, Asher's connections opening doors while my growing enthusiasm drives the direction.
For the first time in months, I feel like we're building something together instead of just trying to survive each other.
The month isn't about fixing what's broken, I realize. It's about building something stronger from honest foundations.
"Thank you," I tell him that night, wrapped in his arms in the darkness of our bedroom. "For actually doing this. For proving that I matter as much as you've always said I do."
"You matter more." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "I'm sorry it took me so long to show you."
"We both made mistakes. But maybe that's okay. Maybe the point isn't to be perfect—it's to keep choosing each other even when we're not."
Asher's arms tighten around me. "I'll always choose you, Blaze. From now on, I'll make sure you never have to doubt that."
And for the first time in months, I actually believe him.