Blaze’s POV
One week until the championship, and I'm losing my mind.
Practice has become torture. Every drill, every formation, every moment on the ice is a reminder of what I've lost. Asher moves like a stranger—technically competent but emotionally absent, a shell where a person used to be.
We haven't spoken in five days. Haven't connected on a single play. Haven't exchanged anything beyond the bare minimum required to function as teammates.
I watch him across the rink during water breaks, searching for any crack in his armor. There's none. He's built his walls higher than ever, and I don't know how to tear them down.
Coach Wellington pulls me aside after another disastrous scrimmage. His expression is grim, frustrated in a way I've never seen directed at me.
"Whatever's happening between you and Carpenter, fix it." His voice is low, urgent. "I don't care if you have to lock yourselves in a room until you sort it out. We don't have time for this bullshit."
"I'm trying, Coach."
"Try harder." Wellington's eyes are sharp, worried. "You two were electric a week ago. Now you're playing like you've never met. Your future is on the line. Don't let personal drama tank everything you've built."
The words echo Jackson's so closely that my stomach turns. But Wellington isn't wrong. Something has to change.
After practice, I wait.
Watch Asher go through his routine—shower, change, pack up, escape. The same pattern every day, timed perfectly to avoid me. He thinks he's being subtle. He's not.
But today, I'm faster.
I intercept him in the hallway before he can reach the exit, planting myself directly in his path. His footsteps falter when he sees me.
"We need to talk."
Asher's jaw tightens. "Move, Blaze."
"No." I cross my arms. "You've been dodging me for almost a week. Ignoring my texts. Acting like I don't exist. I deserve an explanation."
"I told you. I'm focusing on the game."
"Bullshit." The word comes out harder than intended, echoing off the concrete walls. "You're not focusing on anything. You're shutting down. Shutting me out. And it's destroying our chemistry on the ice."
Asher's eyes flash with something—guilt, maybe, or pain—before the walls slam back up. "Then maybe we didn't have chemistry to begin with. Maybe it was just—"
"Don't." I step closer, voice dropping to something dangerous. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend what happened between us meant nothing. I was there, Ashy. I felt it. You can lie to the team, lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me."
The nickname lands like a blow. His composure cracks—just for a second, a tremor in his jaw, a flicker of desperation in those blue eyes—before he forces it down.
"It doesn't matter what it meant. This is bigger than us."
"What is? What's bigger than us?"
"Everything!" The word explodes out of him, raw and jagged, bouncing off the empty hallway. "The championship. Your career. Everything you've worked for your entire life." He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "I've seen your stats, Blaze. Read the articles. You're supposed to be in the NHL someday. Scouts are watching. This game could determine your entire future."
I stare at him. "And?"
"And I'm in the way." His voice breaks on the words. "I'm a distraction. Everyone can see it. I'm dragging you down, messing with your focus, ruining everything—"
"Who told you that?" My blood runs cold. "Who said you're a distraction?"
Asher goes silent. His eyes dart away.
"Ash." I grab his arm, forcing him to look at me. "Who said that to you?"
The silence stretches. His throat works, like he's fighting to keep the words inside. Finally, barely above a whisper: "Does it matter? It's true."
"It's not true. It's complete bullshit, and whoever said it—" I stop. The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. The parking lot. Jackson's calculating looks. The timing of Asher's withdrawal. "Jackson. Jackson talked to you."
Asher doesn't deny it. His silence is confirmation enough.
Fury erupts in my chest, hot and violent. "What did he say? Tell me exactly what he said."
"Blaze—"
"Tell me."
Asher exhales shakily, his whole body trembling. "He said you transferred here for me. Gave up a better program, a guaranteed spot, everything—because of some childhood crush you couldn't let go." His voice drops to a whisper. "He said I'm ruining your focus. That if you lose this championship because of me, it's my fault. He said to stay away from you."
The words land like physical blows. Each one a knife twisting in my gut.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Every instinct screams at me to find Jackson right now, to confront him, to make him pay for the poison he poured into Asher's ear.
But Asher is standing in front of me, broken and hurting, and that matters more.
"He's lying." My voice comes out fierce, shaking with the effort of holding back my rage. "Not about transferring—I did transfer for you. But that wasn't a sacrifice, Ash. It was a choice. My choice. Because I've wanted to be on the same ice as you since we were kids making promises on a frozen pond, and nothing—not scouts, not championships, not a goddamn NHL contract—matters more than that."
Asher shakes his head, tears gathering in his eyes. "You can't mean that."
"I do mean it." I step closer, closing the distance between us until we're inches apart. "Ash, I've been in love with you since I was fifteen years old. I spent years watching you from across opposing teams, counting down the days until I could find a way back to you. And when I finally got here, when I finally had you—" My voice cracks. "I'm not letting Jackson take that away. I'm not letting you push me away because he manipulated you into thinking you're not worth fighting for."
Tears spill down Asher's cheeks. He blinks them back furiously, like he's angry at himself for breaking.
"I'm not good for you," he whispers.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Your career—"
"Means nothing if I lose you." I reach out, cupping his face in my hands, thumbs brushing away the tears. "I don't want a future that doesn't have you in it. I don't care about scouts or contracts or championships if winning them means losing you. Don't you get it? You're not a distraction from my dreams, Ashy. You are my dream. You always have been."
He's trembling under my hands. His walls are crumbling, piece by piece, and I can see the boy underneath—scared, desperate, wanting so badly to believe but terrified of being hurt.
"Jackson was wrong," I say softly. "You're not ruining anything. You're the reason I play. The reason any of this matters." I press my forehead to his. "Please, Ash. Stop running. Stop hiding. Let me in."
The hallway is silent except for our breathing. Asher's hands come up slowly, fisting in my jersey like he's afraid to let go.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispers against my mouth. "I don't know how to believe I'm not ruining everything."
"Then let me show you." I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "Trust me. Just for the next week. Let's win this championship together, and I'll prove to you that having you in my life makes me better, not worse."
He searches my face for a long moment. Whatever he finds there must be enough, because something shifts in his expression. The walls don't disappear, but they lower. Just a crack. Just enough.
"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."
I pull him into a fierce hug, burying my face in his neck, breathing him in. Relief crashes through me, so intense it makes my knees weak. We stand there in the empty hallway, holding onto each other like lifelines, like the past week of distance was a nightmare we're finally waking from.
It's not fixed. Not completely. The damage Jackson caused won't heal overnight.
But it's a start.
And I have every intention of finishing what Jackson started—with a long-overdue conversation with my so-called best friend.