Asher’s POV
I can't sleep.
I've been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, Jackson's words playing on an endless loop in my head. Distraction. Benchwarmer. Childhood crush. Pathetic.
The accusations burrow under my skin like splinters I can't dig out.
Around midnight, I give up on rest. Throw off the covers and grab my laptop from the desk, settling back against my pillows. The screen glows in the darkness as I type "Blaze Wilson hockey" into the search bar.
I shouldn't do this. I know I shouldn't. But my fingers hit enter before I can stop myself.
The results flood my screen.
Articles. Stats. Videos. Awards. Page after page of evidence that Blaze Wilson is everything Jackson said he was—and more.
I click through them one by one, stomach sinking with every page.
Blaze's record at his previous college is immaculate. Top scorer two years running. MVP of back-to-back championships. Captain who led his team to national rankings when they'd never broken top twenty before. Sports blogs call him "a future NHL prospect" and "one of the most promising college players in the country."
There are quotes from coaches praising his leadership, his instincts, his ability to elevate everyone around him. Articles analyzing his play style, his decision-making, his professional potential.
And in almost every photo, every interview, every championship celebration—Jackson is right beside him. Their names linked together like a package deal. Wilson and Blake. The unstoppable duo.
I scroll through highlight reels. Watch Blaze execute plays I've never seen in person—crisp, precise, devastating. Read analyses breaking down his technical skills, his hockey IQ, his ceiling at the professional level. The comments are full of predictions: NHL draft, pro contracts, a future beyond college that most players only dream about.
This is what Blaze is building. This is what's at stake.
And then there's me.
I pull up my own stats. Three years on a team that's never made it past regionals. Solid numbers, sure, but nothing remarkable. No scouts watching my games. No articles written about my potential. Just a guy who works hard and hopes it's enough.
I think about the past few weeks. The extra practices where we found our rhythm. The late nights on the ice, moving together like two parts of one machine. The way Blaze looks at me like I'm something special, something worth sacrificing for.
Transferred across the country for you. Jackson's voice sneers in my memory. Gave up a guaranteed starting spot because he couldn't let go of some pathetic childhood crush.
I didn't want to believe it. Told myself Jackson was exaggerating, manipulating, trying to drive us apart.
But the evidence is right here on my screen.
Blaze left a ranked program. Left a clear path to the pros. Left everything he'd built with Jackson—the championships, the reputation, the future that was practically guaranteed—to come here. To chase a promise we made when we were ten years old on a frozen pond.
For me.
And what have I given him in return? Confusion. Denial. Weeks of pushing him away before finally letting him in. A few nights of happiness before Jackson's words sent me spiraling right back into my own head.
I close my eyes, but I still see the highlight reels. Still see Blaze executing perfect plays, accepting championship trophies, standing on the edge of everything he's ever worked for.
The championship is in twelve days. Pro scouts will be watching. This could be the game that determines his entire future—whether he gets drafted, gets signed, gets the life he deserves.
And me? I'm the variable that doesn't fit. The distraction that showed up and threw everything off balance. The reason his focus is slipping, his chemistry with Jackson is fracturing, his shot at the dream is slipping away.
I close the laptop, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.
My chest aches with a pain that has nothing to do with hockey.
For the first time, I think about Blaze's dream instead of my own. Really think about it. The years of work. The natural talent honed through endless discipline. The future waiting just within reach—if he doesn't let anything derail him.
If he doesn't let me derail him.
What right do I have to jeopardize that? Just because I finally figured out what I want, finally stopped running from the truth about myself—that doesn't give me the right to drag him down with me.
I love him.
The realization crashes over me, sudden and devastating. Not like a question—like an answer I've known my whole life and was too afraid to speak out loud.
I love Blaze Wilson. Have probably loved him since we were kids on that frozen pond, making promises neither of us understood. Loved him through the years of silence, loved him through the anger when he came back, loved him through every moment of denial and every night of tangled sheets and every stupid smile he's pulled out of me against my will.
I love him.
And because I love him, I have to do the one thing that feels impossible.
I have to let him go.
Not forever. Just until the championship is over. Until he has the chance to prove himself without me clouding his focus. Until Jackson has no ammunition left to use, no wedge left to drive between us.
It's the right thing to do. The selfless thing. The thing that proves I'm more than a distraction, more than a childhood crush clinging to something that was never meant to last.
So why does it feel like cutting out my own heart?
I pick up my phone. Scroll to Blaze's name with numb fingers.
His message thread fills the screen—dozens of unanswered texts, each one more concerned than the last.
"Talk to me." "What's going on?" "Did I do something wrong?" "Ash, please." "I'm worried about you." "Whatever it is, we can figure it out together."
Together. The word blurs through the tears I refuse to let fall.
I type a response. Delete it. Type again. Delete again. My hands are shaking, making it hard to hit the right keys.
Finally, I settle on something simple. Something that won't invite questions I can't answer.
"Need some space. Focus on the championship. I'm fine."
I hit send before I can change my mind.
Then I turn off my phone and shove it in a drawer, out of sight, where I won't be tempted to take it back.
The apartment has never felt so empty.
I pull my knees to my chest, back against the headboard, and let myself feel it. The loss of something I barely got to have. The ache of walking away from the only person who's ever seen through my walls and wanted to stay anyway.
I think about his hands in my hair. His voice calling me Ashy like it was something precious. His eyes, warm and patient, always giving me room to figure myself out.
I think about the shower, the locker room, the couch where we fell asleep tangled together like nothing in the world could touch us.
I think about the boy who came back for me after ten years, and I wonder if I'm strong enough to let him go.
The tears come eventually. I don't fight them.
By morning, I'll have to put the walls back up. Pretend I'm fine, pretend I don't feel like I'm dying every time he looks at me. Get through the next twelve days without breaking.
But tonight, in the dark, I let myself grieve.
For what we had. For what we could have been. For the future I'm too afraid to reach for.
I love him.
That has to be enough.