Asher’s POV
Summer, 4 years ago
The cottage found us before we found it.
Blaze discovered the listing online—a secluded property three hours from anywhere that mattered. No neighbors for miles. No cell service worth a damn. No reason for anyone to look for us there.
"It's perfect," he said, showing me the photos. "Our place. Just ours."
Our first summer as NHL players. Rookies with fat contracts and empty apartments and a relationship we had to hide from everyone who mattered.
I said yes before he finished the sentence.
That summer remains the happiest I've ever been.
We arrived at dusk, gravel crunching under the tires of Blaze's truck. The cottage sat at the edge of a private lake, surrounded by pine trees so thick they swallowed sound.
No cameras. No teammates. No pretending.
Just us.
The first night, we swam naked at midnight. The water was cold enough to steal breath, but Blaze's laughter echoed across the surface like music.
He splashed me as I tackled him under. We came up gasping, tangled together, his wet skin sliding against mine in the moonlight.
"Race you to the dock," he challenged.
I let him win. Watched him pull himself onto the weathered wood, water streaming down his body, every muscle defined in silver light.
God, he was beautiful.
I joined him on the dock, and we lay there staring at stars neither of us could name. His hand found mine in the darkness. I didn't pull away.
Out here, I didn't have to.
The days blurred together in the best possible way.
We cooked breakfast together every morning, bodies still warm from whatever we'd done in the sheets. Blaze always tried to steal bacon off my plate. I always pretended to be annoyed.
"Get your own," I'd grumble.
"Yours tastes better." That shameless grin. Those warm brown eyes sparkling with mischief.
I'd shove more bacon onto his plate just to see him smile.
We made love on every surface that cottage had to offer. The dock at sunset, splinters be damned. The kitchen counter after a failed attempt at dinner. The worn couch by the fireplace when the nights turned cool.
No fear. No walls. No carefully constructed distance.
Just his hands on my skin and my name on his lips and the absolute certainty that this was exactly where I belonged.
For six weeks, I let myself imagine this could be our life.
Waking up to Blaze's warmth every morning. Falling asleep tangled together every night. Existing openly, freely, without the crushing weight of secrecy.
Maybe we could buy this place someday. Make it permanent. Build a life where the only thing that mattered was us.
The fantasy felt so real I could taste it.
Then came the trip into town.
We needed groceries. Milk, eggs, the basics we'd burned through faster than expected. The nearest store was forty minutes away, a small town with one traffic light and a café that served decent coffee.
Blaze wanted to browse the bookstore next door. "Meet you in twenty," he said, already heading toward the door with the faded OPEN sign.
I ordered our coffees and waited at the counter.
Two men sat nearby. Local types—flannel shirts, work boots, voices loud enough to carry without effort. They weren't talking to me, but I heard every word.
"You see that figure skater came out last week?" The first one shook his head in disgust. "Disgusting. Keep that shit out of sports, I say."
His companion snorted. "NHL would never tolerate it. You'd get run out of the league before the press conference ended."
"Career suicide." The first man laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Any man stupid enough to admit that deserves what's coming to him."
The coffee cup burned my hand.
I didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just stood there, frozen, while the fantasy I'd been building crumbled to dust around me.
Career suicide.
Run out of the league.
Deserves what's coming.
The words burrowed into my skull and made themselves at home.
I thought about my contract. My teammates. My parents watching every game from their living room in Minnesota. The scouts who'd believed in me. The coaches who'd invested years developing my talent.
Everything I'd sacrificed. Everything I'd earned. Gone in an instant if anyone found out what I really was.
What Blaze and I really were.
"Sir? Your order's ready."
I took the cups with numb fingers. Walked out without looking at the men still laughing at their table.
Blaze was waiting by the truck, a paperback tucked under his arm, smile bright as summer sun. "Got you that mystery series you wanted. The clerk said it's…" He stopped. Studied my face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The lie slid out smooth as silk. "Just thinking about the season. Training camp's coming up fast."
He didn't believe me. I could see it in his eyes, the way his smile dimmed at the edges. But he didn't push.
He never pushed. That was the problem.
We drove back to the cottage in relative silence. I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road and my walls firmly in place.
The barrier rebuilt itself brick by brick with every passing mile.
That night, Blaze reached for me in bed. His touch was gentle, questioning. "Talk to me, Ash. Please."
"I'm fine." I kissed his forehead to soften the dismissal. "Just tired. Long day."
Another lie. Another brick.
He let it go because he loved me. Because he always hoped I'd come around eventually. Because he didn't know those strangers' words had lodged in my chest like shrapnel.
The remaining weeks passed too quickly. We still swam and cooked and made love, but something had shifted between us. A distance that hadn't existed before.
I couldn't stop thinking about what we risked every time we touched. Every time we existed together in ways the world would never accept.
Summer ended like all summers do. September crept closer with its demands and obligations and carefully maintained lies.
The morning we left, Blaze stood by his truck with his bag already loaded. The cottage waited behind us, holding all our secrets in its weathered walls.
He kissed me goodbye, soft and lingering.
When he pulled back, something sad lived in those brown eyes. Something that looked too much like knowing.
Like he'd already figured out what I couldn't admit even to myself.
I wasn't brave enough for this. For him. For the life he deserved.
"See you soon," I said, because that was easier than the truth.
"Yeah." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Soon."
I drove back to Boston. Back to the closet. Back to the careful performance of being someone I wasn't.
The cottage remained our sanctuary for three more summers. We returned every year like pilgrims to a shrine, desperate to recapture what we'd had in those first perfect weeks.
But I never stopped hearing those men's voices.
Career suicide.
Deserves what's coming.
The walls I rebuilt that summer never came down again. Not fully. Not even for him.
I couldn't come out. Not in this world. Not with everything at stake.
And eventually, that cost me the only person who'd ever made me feel like being myself was enough.