Blaze’s POV
Something is wrong with Asher.
I notice it the moment I walk into our shared morning lecture. He's already there—early as usual—tucked into a seat near the back. The same seat we joked about claiming together just two days ago, when we walked to class side by side after our sleepover, shoulders bumping, stupid grins on our faces.
Today, he doesn't look up when I arrive. Doesn't smile. Doesn't acknowledge me at all. Just keeps his eyes fixed on his notebook like it holds the answers to the universe.
I slide into the seat next to him, stomach tight with unease. "Hey. You didn't answer my texts last night. Everything okay?"
"Fine." His voice is flat. Distant. He doesn't turn his head. "Just tired."
"Ash—"
"Professor's starting." He nods toward the front of the room, where Dr. Mitchell is setting up her presentation. "We should pay attention."
The dismissal stings more than it should. Two days ago, he was sprawled across my chest, tracing patterns on my shirt, asking what we were to each other. Now he won't even look at me.
The lecture drags on for an eternity. I don't absorb a single word. Every few minutes I glance sideways at Asher, searching for some crack in his armor, some sign of the boy who fell asleep on my shoulder watching horror movies. His profile is carved from stone. Jaw tight. Eyes forward. Walls firmly back in place.
When class ends, he's out of his seat before I can grab my bag.
"Asher, wait—"
But he's already gone, disappearing into the crowded hallway. I stare after him, confusion and hurt knotting in my chest.
What the hell happened?
Practice that afternoon is a disaster.
The chemistry we'd built evaporates like morning frost. Passes miss their marks. Plays fall apart. Every time I try to sync with Asher, it's like hitting a wall—cold, impenetrable, deliberately constructed.
"Carpenter! Wilson!" Coach Wellington's voice cuts across the ice, sharp with frustration. "What the hell happened to your coordination? You looked like strangers out there!"
"Sorry, Coach." Asher's jaw is tight. "Won't happen again."
"It better not. Championship's in twelve days. I need you two functioning, not whatever this is."
The rest of practice drags on. I try twice more to corner Asher—during water breaks, between drills—but he dodges every attempt. He's a ghost, present in body but absent in every way that matters.
When the final whistle blows, I'm determined to get answers. I start toward Asher, but a heavy arm drops across my shoulders.
"Rough practice, huh?" Jackson falls into step beside me, steering me toward the locker room. "Don't worry about it. Carpenter's always been inconsistent. That's why you have me."
I shrug off his arm. "He was fine two days ago."
"Was he?" Jackson's tone is casual, but something underneath sets me on edge. "Maybe you just saw what you wanted to see. Happens when you get too close to someone. Clouds your judgment."
We push through the locker room doors. Asher is already at his locker, changing with hurried efficiency, clearly planning to escape before I can reach him.
Jackson keeps talking, positioning himself between me and the rest of the room. "Remember our first championship? Junior year? We were unstoppable. You, me, perfect sync on the ice. No distractions, no drama—just two guys who knew exactly how to win."
"I remember." I try to step around him, but Jackson moves with me, blocking my path.
"That's what made us special." His voice drops, intimate. "We understand each other. Always have. We don't need words or explanations—we just know." He claps my shoulder. "That's rare, man. You don't throw that away for someone who runs hot and cold every other day."
I finally look at him—really look. Jackson's face is open, earnest, the picture of concerned friendship. But his eyes... there's something calculating in them. Something that makes my skin crawl.
"What did you do?" The question comes out sharper than intended.
Jackson blinks, innocent. "What do you mean?"
"Asher was fine before yesterday. Now he won't look at me. What did you say to him?"
"Nothing." He holds up his hands. "I haven't talked to Carpenter. Why would I?"
He's lying. I know it with sudden, absolute certainty. The way his gaze slides sideways. The slight tension in his shoulders. Three years of friendship, and I'm only now seeing the tells I should have noticed all along.
"If you did something—"
"Blaze." Jackson's expression shifts, wounded. "We've been brothers for three years. I've had your back through everything. And you're accusing me of sabotage because some guy you've known for a few weeks is having a mood swing?" He shakes his head slowly. "That's not the Blaze I know."
The words land exactly as intended—guilt, doubt, the creeping question of whether I'm being paranoid. Maybe Asher really is just stressed about the championship. Maybe it has nothing to do with Jackson.
But the uneasy feeling doesn't go away.
I glance toward Asher's locker. Empty. He's already gone.
"Look," Jackson says, voice softening. "I know you care about him. Whatever history you two have, it obviously means something to you. But the championship is in less than two weeks. Pro scouts are watching. Futures are on the line." He meets my eyes, steady and sincere. "Don't let emotions derail everything we've worked for. That's all I'm saying."
It sounds reasonable. Supportive, even. The kind of advice a best friend would give.
So why does it feel like a threat?
"I need to find Asher." I push past Jackson, grabbing my bag. "We'll talk later."
I don't wait for a response. Rush through the locker room, out the exit, into the parking lot.
Asher's car is already pulling out, taillights disappearing around the corner.
I stand there, chest heaving, watching him go. Something has shifted between us—something I don't understand. And Jackson is at the center of it somehow. I'm sure of that now.
The cold seeps through my jacket, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is the way Asher looked at me in class—or rather, the way he didn't look at me at all. Like I'd become invisible. Like everything we shared meant nothing.
"Blaze, hold up."
Jackson jogs to catch me in the hallway, that easy smile plastered across his face. Like nothing happened. Like he wasn't just running interference every time I tried to get near Asher.
"Team's doing beers tonight. You in?" He slings an arm around my shoulders. "We need our captain. Morale and all that."
I sidestep out of his grip. "I'll pass."
"You sure? You've been MIA lately. Guys are starting to talk."
I don't answer. Just keep walking toward the exit.
I need to talk to Asher. Need to find out what Jackson said to him, what poison he's been dripping in his ear. But Asher won't answer my calls, won't respond to texts, won't give me the chance to explain something I don't even fully understand yet.
The drive home is silent. I replay every interaction, every word, searching for the moment everything went wrong. Yesterday morning we were perfect—tangled together, talking about the future, making plans. By evening, Asher was distant. By today, he's a stranger.
What did Jackson say to him? What lies did he tell?
I think about the parking lot confrontation I'm now certain happened. Jackson cornering Asher when no one was around. Saying whatever he needed to say to drive a wedge between us. Using Asher's insecurities against him—his fear of being a distraction, of ruining Blaze's chances, of not being enough.
Jackson knows exactly which buttons to push. He's been watching, calculating, waiting for the right moment to strike.
And I was too blind to see it coming.
Jackson's voice echoes in my head: "Don't let emotions derail everything we've worked for."
But that's exactly the problem. Jackson doesn't see Asher as a person—he sees him as a threat. An obstacle to be removed. A distraction to be eliminated so things can go back to the way they were.
The way Jackson wants them to be.
And I'm terrified he's already succeeded.