Blaze’s POV
Wellington's office feels smaller with both of us crammed inside.
I stand beside Asher, close enough that our shoulders brush. A united front. The coach sits behind his desk, expression unreadable as he reviews the printed email—the withdrawal that started this whole mess.
"Let me make sure I understand." Wellington sets down the paper, folding his hands. "You withdrew from the roster, Carpenter. Voluntarily. And now, three days before the championship, you want back in."
"Yes, sir." Asher's voice is steady, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. "I made a mistake. I let personal issues cloud my judgment, and I took the coward's way out instead of facing them."
"Personal issues." Wellington's gaze flicks between us, sharp and assessing. "Would these issues have anything to do with the tension I've been watching tear my team apart for the past two weeks?"
I step forward. "Coach, if I may—"
"You may not." Wellington holds up a hand. "I'm asking Carpenter."
Asher takes a breath. "Yes, sir. The issues were personal. But they're resolved now. I'm ready to play. I'm ready to prove I deserve to be on that ice."
"And if I say no?" Wellington leans back in his chair. "You put me in a difficult position. I've already adjusted the roster. Told the team you're out. Scouts are arriving tomorrow expecting a cohesive unit, not last-minute lineup changes."
"I understand that, sir. And I take full responsibility." Asher's hands clench at his sides. "But I'm asking for a chance. One practice. Let me show you I can be the player you need."
Silence stretches. Wellington studies him for a long moment, then shifts his attention to me.
"And you, Wilson? You're here because...?"
"Because Asher is the best partner I've ever had on the ice." I meet the coach's eyes directly. "Our chemistry when we're synced is unmatched. You've seen it yourself. Putting him back on the roster isn't just the right thing to do—it's the smart play. We're stronger together."
"Pretty words." Wellington's expression doesn't change. "But words don't win championships."
"Then let us perform." I gesture toward the door. "One practice. Today. If we don't deliver, you can bench us both tomorrow. I'll take that risk."
Wellington's eyebrows rise. "You'd risk your own spot? With scouts watching?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Because I know what Ash and I can do together. And I'm willing to bet my future on it."
Another long pause. Finally, Wellington sighs.
"One practice. Final session before the championship. You deliver, Carpenter's back on the roster. You don't..." He shrugs. "Then you both live with the consequences."
"Thank you, Coach." Asher's relief is palpable. "You won't regret this."
"We'll see. Practice starts in two hours. Don't be late."
We make it to the hallway before Asher exhales shakily, bracing a hand against the wall. "Holy shit."
"We did it." I grin, adrenaline singing through my veins. "One more hurdle."
"One very big hurdle." Asher meets my eyes, vulnerability flickering beneath the determination. "What if I choke? What if everything falls apart again?"
"You won't." I catch his hand, squeezing once before anyone can see. "We've got this, Ashy. Trust me."
"I trust you. I'm just still learning to trust myself."
"That's okay. We'll work on that together."
Two hours later, we're on the ice.
The team's reaction to Asher's return is mixed. Some guys look relieved—they've seen what happens when we sync up. Others seem skeptical, exchanging glances I pretend not to notice.
And then there's Jackson.
He stands near the far boards, arms crossed, watching Asher with undisguised contempt. When I skate past him during warmups, his voice cuts through the cold air.
"Heard you vouched for your boyfriend. Cute."
I don't stop. Don't acknowledge him. Just keep skating, jaw tight.
"Hope you know what you're doing," Jackson calls after me. "Because when this blows up in your face, I won't be there to pick up the pieces."
"Good." I finally turn, meeting his eyes. "I don't need you to."
Something ugly flashes across Jackson's face before he skates off. I can feel his glare burning into my back for the rest of warmups.
Coach Wellington blows his whistle. "Alright. Full scrimmage. First line versus second. Carpenter, Wilson—you're together. Show me something."
The scrimmage begins.
For the first few minutes, Asher is tense. I can see it—the slight hesitation before each pass, the way his eyes dart toward Wellington. He's in his head, and our timing is off because of it.
"Ash." I skate close during a brief stoppage. "Stop thinking. Just feel it."
"I'm trying—"
"Don't try. Just be." I hold his gaze. "Remember the pond? When we were kids? We didn't think about passes or positioning. We just played. It was the purest hockey of my life because I was doing it with you."
Something shifts in his expression. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He nods once.
The whistle blows. Play resumes.
And everything changes.
It's like a switch flips. Suddenly Asher is moving with purpose, anticipating my positioning before I even get there. Our passes connect seamlessly—crisp, accurate, instinctive. We weave through the second line's defense like we're reading each other's minds, and when I deke past the last defender, Asher is exactly where he needs to be for the cross-ice feed.
He buries the shot top corner. The goalie doesn't even move.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Wellington's voice booms across the rink. "Again!"
We run it again. And again. Each time, our chemistry sharpens into something almost telepathic. The skepticism fades from teammates' eyes. Even the second line can't seem to stop us.
Jackson watches from the bench during a line change, face carved from stone.
By the end of practice, there's no question. Wellington skates to center ice and surveys his team.
"Carpenter. You're back on the roster. First line with Wilson."
Relief crashes through me like a wave. I look at Asher, see the same overwhelming emotion mirrored in his eyes.
"Thank you, Coach," Asher manages.
"Don't thank me. Prove me right tomorrow." Wellington's expression softens slightly. "Whatever you two figured out, bottle it. That's what wins championships."
As the team files off the ice, I hang back. Wait until Asher reaches me.
"We did it." His voice is hushed, like speaking too loud might break the spell.
"We did it." I resist the urge to pull him into my arms right there. Later. "How do you feel?"
"Terrified." He glances at me, a small smile tugging at his lips. "But ready. For the first time in weeks, I actually feel ready."
The locker room empties around us as teammates head home. Eventually, it's just us and the hum of fluorescent lights.
"Hey." I catch his wrist before he can grab his bag. "Whatever happens tomorrow—win or lose—we face it together. Okay?"
He turns to face me fully. Exhausted but determined. Scared but hopeful.
"Together," he echoes. "I like the sound of that."
I pull him into a kiss—brief, fierce, full of promise. When we break apart, he's actually smiling. Without the shadows that have haunted his expression for weeks.
"Get some sleep tonight," I say. "Big day tomorrow."
"You too." He shoulders his bag. "And Blaze? Thank you. For everything. For not giving up on me."
"Never." I hold his gaze. "Not ever."
We walk out together, into the cold evening air, ready to face whatever comes next.