Asher’s POV
Practice the next day feels different.
I arrive early, stretching near the boards while teammates filter in, and I can't stop the smile tugging at my lips when Blaze walks through the doors. Our eyes meet across the rink—brief, loaded with everything we can't say out loud—and my chest floods with warmth.
I look away before anyone notices. But the feeling lingers. The memory of waking up tangled together on his couch, his heartbeat steady under my cheek, his fingers threading through my hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For the first time in weeks, I'm not dreading being here.
We run drills, and our chemistry is undeniable. Every pass connects. Every play flows seamlessly like we're sharing the same brain. Coach Wellington watches with approval, nodding along as we execute formations that fell apart just days ago.
"Whatever you two figured out, keep doing it," he calls from the sidelines.
I duck my head to hide my smile. Blaze catches my eye and winks—subtle, private. My stomach flips.
But someone else is watching too.
Jackson hovers at the edges of every drill, positioning himself between me and Blaze whenever possible. During water breaks, he pulls Blaze aside for whispered conversations that end the moment I approach. His eyes track me constantly—cold, calculating, that scar near his eye making his expression look almost predatory.
I try to shake off the unease. Focus on the game. On the championship that's now less than two weeks away.
During a scrimmage, Jackson checks me into the boards.
Not a clean hockey hit—harder than necessary, angled wrong, designed to hurt. The impact rattles my teeth, sends pain shooting through my shoulder. I slam into the glass and crumple, gasping.
"My bad." Jackson's voice is flat, completely insincere. "Didn't see you there."
Blaze skates over immediately, concern flickering in his eyes. "You good, Ashy?"
"Fine." I push off the boards, shaking out my arm. The nickname sends warmth through me even as my shoulder throbs. "Just a love tap."
Jackson's smile is thin, humorless. "Gotta stay sharp, Carpenter. Championship's coming. No room for passengers."
The implication lands exactly as intended. I'm not part of the team. I'm dead weight. A distraction dragging everyone else down.
My jaw tightens, but I swallow the retort. Starting something in front of the team won't help anyone.
Practice ends without further incident. The tension follows me into the locker room like a shadow. I take my time changing, waiting for the crowd to thin, hoping for a moment alone with Blaze. But Jackson sticks to him like a second skin, steering him toward the exit with a hand on his shoulder—proprietary, possessive.
Blaze glances back at me, mouthing "later" before disappearing through the door.
I finish changing and head for the parking lot, mind churning. The late afternoon sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the pavement. My car sits at the far end, isolated. I'm almost there when footsteps crunch behind me.
"Carpenter."
I turn.
Jackson leans against a pickup truck, arms crossed, blocking the path between me and my car. Alone. Waiting. Like he planned this.
"Jackson." I keep my voice neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in my head. "Something you need?"
"Just a conversation." He pushes off the truck, strolling closer with deliberate ease. "Man to man. About Blaze."
My stomach tightens. "What about him?"
"You've been spending a lot of time together lately." Jackson stops a few feet away, close enough to feel intimidating. "Extra practices. Late nights. Cozy little sleepovers."
How does he know about—
"We're working on our game," I manage. "Championship's in two weeks."
"Right. The championship." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You know what's waiting for Blaze after this season? Pro contracts. Seven figures. His face on jerseys, his name chanted in arenas across the country. Legacy shit." He steps closer, voice dropping. "Scouts are already talking—five, six year deals. Endorsements. A career most players would kill for. And you think I'm going to stand by while some lovesick nobody tanks all of that?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
"I'm not a benchwarmer."
"You're a distraction." Jackson's expression hardens into something ugly. "I've watched Blaze for three years. I know him better than anyone. And I've never seen him lose focus like this. Missing workouts. Skipping team hangouts. Walking around with that stupid smile on his face like a lovesick teenager." He jabs a finger at my chest. "That's because of you. And it needs to stop."
"Blaze can make his own decisions."
"Can he?" Jackson laughs, cold and humorless. "He transferred across the country for you, Carpenter. Did he tell you that? Gave up a guaranteed starting spot at a better program because he couldn't let go of some pathetic childhood crush." His eyes bore into mine. "He's not thinking clearly. Never has been when it comes to you."
My heart stutters.
Transferred for me. Blaze gave up a better program, a clearer path to the NHL, all because of—
"Stay away from him." Jackson's voice turns deadly quiet. "Focus on the game, do your job, and stop playing house with my best friend. Because if we lose this championship because you couldn't keep your hands to yourself, I will make your life a living hell." He steps back, expression smoothing into something almost pleasant. "Understand?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. Just turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone in the empty parking lot with my chest cracked open.
The drive home passes in a blur.
Jackson's words echo on a loop, burrowing under my skin like poison.
Distraction. Confused. Benchwarmer with a crush. Pathetic childhood crush.
Is that what I am? Is that what everyone sees when they look at me and Blaze together?
I think about him—his smile, his laugh, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious. The way he whispered "you've always had me" against my hair yesterday morning.
Then I think about the championship. The scouts. The future Blaze has been building his entire life.
He transferred for me. Gave up a guaranteed path to the pros because of some promise we made when we were ten years old. Because he couldn't let go.
What if Jackson is right?
What if I'm the thing standing between Blaze and everything he's worked for? What if my confusion, my denial, my inability to figure out who I am—what if all of that is dragging him down?
I pull into my apartment complex and sit in the car for a long time, staring at nothing. The sun sets. The parking lot empties. I don't move.
My phone buzzes. A text from Blaze: "Missed you after practice. Dinner later?"
I stare at the message. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
I think about frozen ponds and childhood promises. About the shower in my apartment, his hands taking me apart, his voice in my ear saying "I've got you." About the locker room, choosing him, choosing myself. About waking up on his couch feeling more at home than I've ever felt anywhere.
Then I think about Jackson's face. The certainty in his voice. The threat underneath.
I type back: "Can't tonight. Tired. Rain check?"
The response comes immediately: "Everything okay?"
No. Nothing is okay. Jackson's words are eating me alive, and I don't know how to tell Blaze without making everything worse. Without admitting that part of me believes them.
"Yeah. Just need sleep. See you at practice."
I turn off my phone and head inside.
The apartment is dark and empty. I don't bother turning on the lights. Just collapse on the couch—the same couch where Blaze held me two nights ago—and stare at the ceiling.
Stay away from him.
Maybe that's exactly what I need to do. For his sake, if not for mine.
Maybe Jackson is right. Maybe I've always been the problem.
The thought follows me into a restless sleep, where I dream of frozen ponds and promises I was never good enough to keep.