Asher’s POV
Championship day dawns cold and bright.
I wake before my alarm, heart already pounding with a cocktail of nerves and anticipation. Lie in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, cataloging the sensations. The flutter in my stomach. The tightness in my chest. The electricity humming beneath my skin.
This is it. Everything we've worked for—every practice, every argument, every moment of doubt and despair—comes down to today.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Blaze: "You awake?"
"Yeah. Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither. Pick you up in an hour?"
"I'll be ready."
I shower, dress, force myself to eat breakfast even though food tastes like cardboard. Go through my pre-game rituals mechanically—stretching, visualization, the playlist I've listened to before every important game since high school. The familiar routine steadies me, grounds me in something tangible.
Blaze's car pulls up exactly on time. I climb in, and for a moment we just look at each other.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No." I manage a small smile. "But let's do it anyway."
The drive to the arena passes in comfortable silence. Blaze's hand finds mine across the center console, fingers intertwining. Neither of us speaks. There's nothing to say that hasn't already been said. We've made our promises, faced our demons, fought our way back to each other.
Now all that's left is to prove it on the ice.
The arena parking lot is already filling—cars streaming in, fans in team colors, the buzz of excitement thick in the air. My stomach clenches. Somewhere in that building, scouts are setting up, notebooks ready. Futures will be made or broken in the next few hours.
We enter through the players' entrance. The locker room is half-full, teammates in various stages of preparation. The energy is electric—nerves and excitement swirling together into something almost tangible.
I find my stall, start unpacking my gear. My hands are steady, which surprises me. After everything—the withdrawal, the spiral, the near-destruction of everything I cared about—I expected to be a mess. Instead, there's a strange calm settling over me. Like the storm has finally passed.
I glance across the room and find Blaze already watching me. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a small nod. A silent message: I'm here. We've got this.
I nod back.
"Well, well. Look who decided to show up."
The voice cuts through the ambient noise like a blade. I turn to find Jackson leaning against the lockers a few feet away, that familiar sneer twisting his features.
"Jackson." I keep my voice neutral. "Shouldn't you be warming up?"
"Shouldn't you be withdrawing from another roster?" He pushes off the lockers, sauntering closer. "Oh wait, you already tried that. Didn't stick, did it?"
I don't rise to the bait. Just continue unpacking my gear, methodical and calm.
"You know, I almost felt sorry for you." Jackson's voice drops, pitched low enough that only I can hear. "Pathetic little Asher Carpenter, so desperate to matter that he'd throw himself at someone who was always going to be better than him." He leans in close. "You don't belong here. Everyone knows it. The only reason you're playing today is because Blaze begged Wellington to give you another chance."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Jackson's smile is cruel. "You think one good practice erases weeks of you falling apart? The scouts are going to see right through you. They're going to watch you choke under pressure, and they're going to wonder why Blaze ever wasted his time on someone so obviously beneath him."
The words land like punches, each one calculated to find the soft spots in my armor.
A week ago—hell, two days ago—they might have worked. Might have sent me spiraling back into the darkness that almost consumed me.
But not today.
"You done?" I ask calmly.
Jackson blinks. "What?"
"I asked if you're done." I turn to face him fully, squaring my shoulders. "Because if you are, I'd like to finish getting ready. We have a championship to win."
"You think you're something special now? Just because Blaze chose you?" Jackson's mask slips, revealing the ugliness underneath. "He's making a mistake. He's throwing away everything we built—"
"He's not throwing away anything." I meet his eyes without flinching. "He's building something new. Something better. And you can't stand that, can you? Can't stand that he doesn't need you the way you need him."
Jackson's face twists. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about." I step closer, voice dropping. "I know you're scared. Scared that without Blaze, you're nothing. Scared that all those championships—they were never about you. They were about him."
I pause, letting the words sink in.
"But here's the thing, Jackson. Your fear? That's not my problem. Your insecurity? Not my problem. The only thing I care about right now is playing the best hockey of my life alongside the person I love. And nothing you say is going to change that."
Jackson stares at me, speechless. Something shifts behind his eyes—fury, yes, but underneath it, something that looks almost like defeat.
"You'll regret this," he finally manages.
"Maybe." I shrug. "But at least I'll have earned whatever comes next. Can you say the same?"
I turn back to my gear, dismissing him entirely. For a long moment, Jackson stands there, fists clenched. Then he stalks away, slamming his locker hard enough to make several teammates jump.
I don't watch him go. My heart is racing, adrenaline surging, but underneath it all is something solid. Something unshakeable.
I know exactly where I belong.
"You okay?" Blaze appears at my elbow, voice low with concern. "I saw Jackson talking to you."
"I'm fine." I look at him—at the worry in those brown eyes, the way his whole body angles toward me like a shield. "Better than fine, actually. I think I finally understand."
"Understand what?"
I smile—small but real. "That I don't have to prove anything to anyone except myself. Jackson can say whatever he wants. Wellington can doubt me. The scouts can write me off. None of it matters if I know—really know—that I deserve to be here."
Blaze's expression softens. "And do you? Know that?"
A month ago, the answer would have been automatic—no, of course not, never been good enough. But now...
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I think I do."
His smile is like sunrise. "Good. Because you do, Ashy. You always have."
Coach Wellington's voice cuts through the locker room. "Alright, listen up! Fifteen minutes to warm-ups. I want everyone on the ice, focused and ready. This is what we've been building toward. Leave everything out there. No regrets."
The team responds with a chorus of agreement. I finish strapping on my pads, lace my skates with practiced efficiency. Around me, teammates are doing the same—the familiar pre-game ritual that's become second nature over years of hockey.
I stand, roll my shoulders, grab my stick. Blaze falls into step beside me as we head toward the tunnel.
"Whatever happens out there," he says, "we face it together."
I nod. "Together."
The tunnel stretches before us, concrete and fluorescent lights leading to the roar of the crowd beyond. I can hear them already—thousands of voices blending into a wall of sound.
I take a deep breath. Steady myself.
Then I step onto the ice, ready to fight for everything I've ever wanted.