We barely make it through the locker room door.
The moment we're inside, Blaze crowds me against the nearest wall, mouth hungry and demanding. I kiss back with equal intensity—weeks of denial and wanting pouring out of me in a rush. My hands yank at his jersey, desperate to feel skin. Blaze obliges, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head before diving back in.
This is different from my apartment. Different from the shower, when I fell apart in his hands before I even understood what was happening. That night, I was overwhelmed, confused, drowning in sensations I couldn't process. Tonight, I'm choosing this. Every touch, every kiss, every inch of skin pressed against skin—I'm choosing all of it.
And God, it's better than I imagined. Worse. Overwhelming in ways I wasn't prepared for.
Blaze's hands are everywhere—sliding under my jersey, gripping my hips, pressing into the small of my back. Every touch ignites nerve endings that are already raw from weeks of wanting him.
"Fuck, Ash." His voice is wrecked, muffled against my throat. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this?"
I can't form words. I respond by dragging him closer, eliminating every inch of space between us. Our hips align, and we both groan at the friction. My head falls back against the locker, cold metal a sharp contrast to the heat consuming me from the inside out.
"That night in your shower," he breathes against my skin, "I had to hold back. Didn't want to push you too far." His teeth graze my collarbone. "But now—"
"Don't hold back." The words come out raw, desperate. "I don't want you to hold back."
Something shifts in his expression. The careful restraint I've seen him maintain for weeks dissolves, replaced by hunger that makes my knees weak.
We shed clothes between kisses—jerseys, pads, everything discarded in a messy trail across the locker room floor. When Blaze presses me back against the lockers again, skin to skin, I nearly lose my mind.
The shower was just his hand. Just that one point of contact, devastating as it was. This is everything. His chest against mine. His thigh between my legs. His hands mapping territory that's never belonged to anyone else—not like this, not with this kind of desperate reverence.
"Tell me what you want." His lips brush my ear, voice dropping low. "Tell me and I'll give it to you."
"Everything." The word tears out of me, raw and honest. "I want everything."
Blaze groans, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss. We stumble toward the showers—different showers, different place, but the steam rising around us feels like a callback to where this started. The water turns on, hot spray cascading over tangled bodies.
What follows is nothing like the frantic encounter in my apartment. That was Blaze taking me apart while I struggled to stay standing. This is both of us, together, learning each other in ways that go beyond what his hand did to me that night.
He's patient even in his desperation—checking in with every new touch, watching my face for hesitation that never comes. I'm not experienced with this. Not with another man. But Blaze guides me through it, shows me what he likes, gasps when I figure things out on my own.
"You're shaking," he murmurs against my shoulder.
"Good shaking." I pull him closer. "Don't stop."
He doesn't stop.
I learn that dragging my teeth across his hip bone makes him curse in a way that shoots straight to my core. Learn that his self-control shatters when I wrap my hand around him and stroke the way he taught me without words in my shower.
Learn that the confident captain who commands respect from everyone around him becomes something else entirely when it's just us—vulnerable, desperate, saying my name like it's the only word he knows.
When we finally come together—really together, in ways I never let myself imagine before—it's almost too intense. Blaze pressing me against the shower wall, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air.
The pressure builds until I can't tell where I end and he begins.
My vision whites out. I hear myself make sounds I've never made before—with Amelia, sex was quiet, controlled, going through motions.
This is the opposite of that.
This is losing control completely and trusting someone else to catch me.
Blaze shudders against me, my name torn from his throat, and for one perfect moment nothing else exists. Not the championship. Not Jackson. Not the fear and confusion that's plagued me for weeks.
Just this. Just us. Just the overwhelming rightness of finally, finally letting myself have what I've wanted.
Afterward, we sit on the bench in the locker room, towels wrapped around our waists, steam still curling in the air around us.
My mind races. Part of me wants to panic—spiral into doubt and regret and what the hell did I just do. The old Asher would be halfway to a breakdown by now, already constructing walls, already planning his escape.
But the bigger part feels something unexpected: peace.
Blaze reaches over and takes my hand. Simple. Unhesitating. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I look down at our intertwined fingers, then up at his face. He's watching me with something soft in his expression—vulnerable in a way I rarely see from him. The confident mask is gone. This is just Blaze. The boy who waited for me. Who was patient when I couldn't be patient with myself.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
I consider the question. Really consider it.
My body aches in ways I've never experienced. My mind is a mess of sensation and emotion. Everything I thought I knew about myself has been rewritten—not just tonight, but over the past weeks. Since he walked back into my life. Since he refused to let me push him away.
But his hand is warm in mine. Steady. Present.
"Yeah," I say, and mean it. "I'm okay."
I don't pull away. Don't run. Don't start building walls or making excuses or pretending this was a mistake.
For the first time in my life, I let myself stay.
Blaze's thumb traces circles on my palm. "So," he says, a hint of his usual teasing returning to his voice. "Still think you're straight?"
I snort, the unexpected laugh breaking through the heavy emotion. "Fuck off."
"That's not a no."
"That's a 'you literally just had your hands all over me, what do you think.'"
His grin is blinding. "I think I need to hear you say it, Ashy."
I roll my eyes, but there's no heat behind it. No panic. Just warmth spreading through my chest as I look at this impossible boy who somehow saw through every wall I built.
"I'm not straight," I say quietly. "I'm definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not straight."
"Was that so hard?"
"Yes." I squeeze his hand. "But you made it easier."
He leans over, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. Nothing heated this time—just gentle. Tender. The kind of affection I never let myself imagine receiving from another man.
"Come home with me," he murmurs. "We don't have to do anything else. I just... don't want this night to end yet."
I should say no. Should go back to my apartment, process everything, figure out what this means for us, for the team, for the championship that's rapidly approaching.
Instead, I hear myself say: "Yeah. Okay."
Because I'm done running. Done hiding. Done pretending I don't want exactly this—exactly him.
Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.