Blaze’s POV
Asher said yes.
He actually said yes.
The drive to my apartment is surreal. Asher sits in the passenger seat, hair still damp from the shower, wearing my borrowed sweats because his clothes are scattered somewhere on the locker room floor. Neither of us speaks. The radio plays softly, filling the silence without demanding anything.
I keep stealing glances, half-convinced I'm dreaming. An hour ago, I had him pressed against the shower wall, both of us gasping, his voice breaking on my name. Now he's here. In my car. Coming home with me.
"Eyes on the road," Asher murmurs, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.
"Can't help it. You're distracting."
"That's becoming a theme."
When we get inside, I expect awkwardness. Tension. The weight of what just happened pressing down on us, making everything strange and fragile.
Instead, Asher spots the Nintendo Switch on my coffee table and raises an eyebrow.
"You still play?"
"Every night practically." I grab two controllers, tossing one to him. "You remember how badly I used to destroy you at Mario Kart?"
"Excuse me?" He catches the controller, something sparking in his eyes—competitive, familiar. The Asher I grew up with, surfacing through all those years of distance. "I let you win. Didn't want to hurt your fragile ego."
"Bullshit. Prove it."
We settle on the couch, shoulders brushing, and for the next two hours, we're ten years old again. Screaming at the screen. Shoving each other during crucial moments. Trash-talking with the easy rhythm of boys who grew up together, who know exactly which buttons to push.
I order pizza. Asher raids my kitchen for snacks, returning with an armful of chips and candy that we spread across the coffee table like a feast. We switch to a horror movie—something stupid and gory that has us both laughing more than flinching.
"Remember when we snuck into that R-rated movie?" Asher asks, mouth full of popcorn. "Your mom found out and grounded you for a month."
"Worth it." I grin at him. "Your face during that jump scare was priceless. Thought you were going to cry."
"I did not almost cry."
"You absolutely did. Your lip was wobbling, Ashy."
He throws a pillow at my head. I catch it, laughing, and for a moment we're just kids again. No championship pressure. No complicated feelings. No years of distance and rivalry between us. Just two boys who loved hockey and each other, even if we didn't have words for it back then.
We watch another movie. Then another. The hours blur together, comfortable and easy in a way I haven't felt in years. At some point, Asher's head drops onto my shoulder. I go still, barely breathing, until I realize he's fallen asleep.
I don't move. Don't want to disturb this fragile peace. Instead, I turn off the TV, pull a blanket over us both, and let myself drift off with Asher warm against my side.
This. This is what I came back for. What I transferred across the country for. Not championships or glory or NHL scouts—just this boy, finally letting me close enough to hold.
When I wake, morning light streams through the curtains.
We've shifted in the night. Asher is sprawled across my chest now, face pressed into my collarbone, arm slung over my waist. His breath comes slow and even, warm through the fabric of my shirt.
It's domestic in a way that makes my heart stutter.
I've been in love with Asher Carpenter since I was fifteen years old. Before I understood what it meant, before I had words for the way my chest ached whenever he smiled. Years of distance and denial and pretending it didn't matter—and now here we are. Tangled together on my couch like no time has passed at all.
Asher stirs, mumbling something incoherent. His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as he registers where he is. Who he's lying on.
For a heartbeat, I brace for panic. For him to bolt upright, walls slamming back into place, running like he always used to.
Instead, he just blinks at me sleepily. "Morning."
"Morning." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
He doesn't pull away. Just shifts slightly, settling more comfortably against my chest like he belongs there. Like this is normal. Like we do this all the time.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"Early. No practice today, remember?"
"Right." He's quiet for a moment, fingers tracing absent patterns on my shirt. The touch is idle, almost unconscious, but it sends sparks down my spine. "Last night was nice. The games, the movies. Felt like old times."
"Yeah." My hand finds his hair, threading through the curls gently. "I missed this. Missed you."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. Asher tilts his head up, blue eyes searching my face.
"What are we now?" he asks quietly. "What does this mean? All of it—the locker room, staying over, this?"
My heart pounds. I want to say everything. Want to confess years of longing, want to call him mine, want to shout from rooftops that Asher Carpenter finally let me in.
But I know him. Know that pushing too hard will send him running.
"What do you want it to mean?"
He considers the question, fingers still tracing shapes on my chest. "I don't know," he admits. "This is all new to me. Wanting someone like this. Letting myself have it." He pauses. "Letting myself have you."
Something cracks open in my chest. "You can have me, Ash. You've always had me."
His breath catches. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
"We don't have to define it right now," I say softly. "We can figure it out as we go. Keep it between us until after the championship. No pressure, no expectations. Just... us."
Relief flickers in his eyes. "Yeah. Okay. That works."
We stay like that, tangled together in morning light, neither willing to move. I want to freeze this moment forever. Commit every detail to memory—the weight of him against me, the soft morning light, the way his fingers have stilled over my heart like he's counting the beats.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again. And again. And again.
"Popular this morning," Asher murmurs.
I reach over reluctantly, keeping one arm wrapped around him. Four messages from Jackson.
"Where were you last night?" "Missed morning workout." "You never miss workouts." "Call me."
Something uncomfortable twists in my gut. The possessiveness in those messages, the demand for an explanation I don't owe him. I think about the team dinner—the way he inserted himself between me and Asher, the cold calculation in his eyes.
I set the phone face-down.
"Everything okay?" Asher asks.
"Yeah. Just Jackson." I force a smile. "Being Jackson."
Asher's expression shifts—something guarded flickering behind his eyes. "He really doesn't like me."
"He doesn't know you."
"He doesn't want to know me." Asher sits up slightly, though he doesn't pull away entirely. "He sees me as a threat. To your friendship, your partnership, whatever you two have."
"We're teammates. That's all." I cup his face, making him meet my eyes. "Whatever Jackson thinks he has claim on—he's wrong. I'm not his."
The words settle between us. Asher searches my face, looking for doubt, for hesitation.
He won't find any.
"Okay," he says finally. "I believe you."
I pull him back down, tucking him against my chest. His arm wraps around my waist, holding on like he's afraid I'll disappear.
My phone buzzes again. I don't look at it.
Whatever Jackson wants can wait. Right now, I have everything I need.
But the phone keeps buzzing. And the uneasy feeling in my gut doesn't go away.