Blaze’s POV
I find out through a teammate.
I'm in the locker room after practice—a practice Asher didn't show up for—when Danny, one of the freshman defensemen, mentions it casually while unlacing his skates.
"Sucks about Carpenter, huh? Heard he pulled himself from the roster."
The words don't register at first. I blink, certain I misheard. "What?"
"The championship roster." Danny shrugs, oblivious to the bomb he just dropped. "Coach announced it at the staff meeting this morning. Carpenter withdrew. Emailed last night apparently."
The locker room tilts. I grab the edge of the bench to steady myself, blood roaring in my ears.
Withdrew. Asher withdrew.
After everything we talked about. After the promises and the confessions and the plan to face this together—he just gave up.
"You okay, man?" Danny's voice sounds far away. "You look kinda pale."
I don't answer. Grab my phone, checking for messages I might have missed. Nothing from Asher since yesterday morning. Every text I sent after that—"How did the meeting go?" "Ash?" "Call me when you can"—sits unanswered. Read but ignored.
My hands shake as I dial his number. Straight to voicemail. I try again. Same result. Again. Again. Nothing.
"Fuck." The word tears out of me, raw and desperate. Teammates glance over, curious, but I'm already moving—shoving my gear into my bag, not bothering to change out of my practice jersey, pushing through the locker room doors with single-minded focus.
The drive to Asher's apartment takes fifteen minutes. I make it in eight, running yellow lights and barely stopping at intersections. My mind races the entire way, cycling through anger and fear and something close to grief.
Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he call, or text, or give me the chance to talk him out of it? We were supposed to face this together. That's what we agreed. That's what I promised.
I park haphazardly, not caring if I'm in a proper spot, and take the stairs two at a time. His door looms at the end of the hallway. No light visible through the crack underneath.
I pound on the door. "Ash! Open up!"
Silence.
"I know you're in there. Your car's in the lot." I pound again, harder. "Asher, please. Just let me in."
Nothing. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. I press my forehead against the door, palm flat against the wood, trying to feel any sign of life on the other side.
"I'm not leaving." My voice cracks. "I'll stand here all night if I have to. I'll sleep in this hallway. I don't care." I take a shaky breath. "Please, Ash. Don't shut me out. Not now."
Seconds pass. Then minutes. My hope begins to waver.
Then—a soft click. The deadbolt turning.
The door opens a few inches, chain still attached. Through the gap, I see his face. Pale. Hollow. Eyes red-rimmed and empty, like someone carved out everything that made him alive.
My chest cracks open at the sight.
"Go away, Blaze."
"No." I wedge my foot in the gap before he can close it. "Not until you talk to me. Not until you explain why you threw away everything without even telling me."
"There's nothing to explain." His voice is flat. Dead. "I did what was best for the team."
"Bullshit. You did what Jackson wanted. You let him win."
Something flickers in his eyes—pain, maybe, or shame—before the emptiness swallows it again. "This isn't about Jackson."
"The hell it isn't." I push against the door, not enough to break the chain but enough to make my desperation clear. "He got in your head. Made you think you're worthless. And instead of coming to me, instead of letting me help, you just—gave up. On the team. On yourself." My voice breaks. "On us."
Asher flinches like the words physically struck him. "There is no us, Blaze. There can't be. I'm not—" He stops, jaw working. "I'm not good for you. Everyone can see it. Wellington, Jackson, the whole team. I'm dragging you down."
"You're not."
"I am." Tears well in his eyes, spilling over despite his obvious attempt to hold them back. "I watched you play before I fell apart. You were incredible. Focused. Unstoppable. And then I came along and ruined everything." His voice cracks. "Your workouts. Your focus. Your chemistry with the team. Your future."
"My future means nothing without you in it."
"Don't say that."
"It's the truth." My own eyes are burning now. "Ash, listen to me. Really listen. I didn't transfer here for hockey. My old program was ranked higher. Scouts were already circling. I had a clear path to everything I was supposed to want."
"Then why—"
"Because none of it meant anything without you." My voice cracks. "I've been following your career since the day I left. Every game, every stat, every roster update—I tracked all of it. When you got moved to first line sophomore year, I watched the footage twelve times. When you got injured junior year, I almost drove sixteen hours just to make sure you were okay."
Asher's breath catches.
"I had offers from six schools, Ash. Six. Two of them had direct NHL pipelines. And I turned them all down because this was where you were." I reach through the gap, fingers brushing his cheek. "You're not a distraction. You're the reason I'm here. The reason I play. Every trophy I won felt empty because you weren't there to see it. I'm done pretending hockey matters more than you—because it never has."
His composure shatters.
A sob tears from his throat, raw and broken, and suddenly the chain is sliding free and the door is opening and I'm pulling him into my arms.
We sink to the floor together, his face buried in my neck, body shaking with the force of everything he's been holding back. I hold him tight, one hand in his hair, the other pressed flat against his spine, anchoring him.
"I've got you," I murmur against his temple. "I've got you. I'm not letting go."
"I already sent the email." His voice is muffled, wrecked. "I withdrew. It's done."
"Then we'll undo it." I pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing our eyes to meet. "First thing tomorrow, we go to Wellington together. We explain. We fight for your spot."
"What if he says no?"
"Then we fight harder." I press my forehead to his. "I'm not playing that championship without you, Ash. I don't care if I have to beg, threaten, or burn down the athletic department. You belong on that ice. With me."
He searches my face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that I don't mean every word.
Whatever he finds must be enough, because something shifts in his expression. The emptiness recedes, replaced by something fragile and terrified but unmistakably alive.
"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."
I kiss him. Soft. Gentle. A promise sealed with lips and breath and the salt of shared tears.
Tomorrow, we'll fight for his place on the team. Tomorrow, we'll face Wellington and Jackson and whatever else stands in our way.
Tonight, we hold each other on the floor of his dark apartment, two broken pieces finally fitting together.
His fingers curl into my jersey—the practice jersey I never bothered to change out of—and he breathes my name against my mouth like a prayer.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. I thought—I thought I was protecting you. Protecting your future."
"My future is you." I pull him closer, wrapping around him like I can shield him from everything that's tried to tear us apart. "It's always been you."
We stay on the floor until my legs go numb and the cold seeps through my clothes. Then I pull him up, guide him to the couch, and we curl together under a blanket, foreheads touching.
"We're going to fix this," I tell him. "Together."