Blaze’s POV
Present
Captain of the Ottawa Otters.
The title still sounds surreal sometimes, even after they stitched the C onto my jersey. Everything I worked for since I first laced up skates, finally realized.
The fans adore me. Especially the female fanbase, who find my openness about bisexuality intriguing rather than scandalous.
Progressive and refreshing. Hot, according to thirst tweets I pretend not to read but definitely screenshot for lonely nights.
Social media overflows with edits of my smile, my assists, my postgame interviews. Fan accounts dedicated to analyzing my veiny forearms frame by frame.
Compilation videos of every goal set to trending audio. Comments filled with heart eyes and marriage proposals from strangers who think they know me.
I have everything I wanted professionally.
Personally, I'm hollow as a broken drum.
The Boston hotel room feels smaller than it should. Generic art on walls from some warehouse catalog. Crisp white sheets I'll barely sleep under.
A view of the city where Asher built his kingdom without me.
I stand at the window, watching lights flicker across the skyline. Somewhere out there, he's preparing for tomorrow too.
Maybe in his apartment. Maybe at the arena. Maybe thinking about me the way I can't stop thinking about him.
Doubtful.
Tomorrow's game loops in my head. First matchup against Boston this season. First time sharing ice with him since last year's brutal playoff series.
My stomach churns with anticipation I refuse to name.
Nerves. That's all. High-stakes hockey against a rival team. Nothing personal about the way my pulse races thinking about him.
Liar, whispers a voice I've spent twelve months trying to silence.
I can't sit still. Can't focus on the TV droning in the background. Can't scroll my phone without his face appearing on every sports account.
Asher Carpenter highlights. Asher Carpenter interviews. Asher Carpenter spotted with mystery blonde at charity gala.
That last one made me throw my phone across the room three weeks ago.
The hotel gym. That's what I need. Burn off this energy before it consumes me completely.
I change into shorts and a tank top, grab my earbuds, and head for the elevator. The hallway stretches empty and quiet.
Most teammates are exploring the city. Others resting like sensible professionals without ex-lovers haunting their thoughts.
I've never been sensible when it comes to him.
The gym occupies a corner of the third floor. Small but equipped. Mirrors along one wall, free weights along another, cardio machines facing windows.
And Asher.
Standing at the dumbbell rack, mid-curl, sweat darkening the collar of his gray tank top. Muscles bunching with each controlled movement.
We both freeze.
Time stretches thick and slow. My heart slams against my ribs hard enough to bruise. Every cell screams his name while my mouth forgets words.
First time face-to-face since the playoffs. Since that series where we barely acknowledged each other except across the faceoff circle.
Eight months of careful avoidance, shattered by a gym neither of us thought to scout first.
Stupid. Careless. Inevitable.
I recover before he does. Force my expression neutral. Professional mask sliding into place like armor.
"Carpenter."
His jaw tightens. Ice-blue eyes shuttering closed. "Wilson."
Short. Polite. Professional.
The words hang between us like a door neither will open. Like a wound neither acknowledges still bleeds.
He turns back to his weights. I claim a treadmill on the opposite side. Maximum distance in minimum space.
I plug in earbuds and start running. Music pounds through my skull, but I can't process lyrics over the roaring in my ears.
All I hear is his breathing.
I try focusing on my pace. The burn in my calves. The rhythm of feet striking the belt.
On anything except the man fifteen feet away whose body I know better than my own reflection.
My eyes betray me anyway. They drift to Asher like magnets finding north. Helpless. Hungry. Pathetic.
The flex of his biceps during curls draws my attention first. Muscles bunching and releasing in hypnotic rhythm. Each rep controlled and precise.
His tank top clings to sweat-slicked skin, outlining the planes of his back. He's broader than last year. More defined.
Whatever he's been doing in that Boston gym shows in every carved line of muscle. Whatever, or whoever, motivates him now.
My gaze traces down his neck to his collarbone. That spot below his ear where I used to leave marks nobody could see.
Hickeys blooming crimson against pale skin like flowers only I planted. Evidence hidden beneath jersey collars and careful lies.
Someone else might be leaving those marks now.
The thought makes my grip tighten until my knuckles ache.
Asher increases his weight. His breathing grows heavier. Ragged exhales filling the space like smoke.
My traitorous mind supplies memories of that sound in very different contexts.
His breath is hot against my ear while I moved inside him. Those gasps when I found the angle that made him fall apart.
The broken moan of my name when he came undone beneath me, around me, because of me.
I'm getting hard. In a public gym. Because of breathing.
Damn it.
A whole year hasn't changed anything. I thought I'd moved on. Functionally, at least.
I dated casually. Hooked up when loneliness grew heavy. Built walls I convinced myself were impenetrable.
Seeing him destroys every one like they were paper.
I want him. The wanting burns like wildfire, impossible to ignore or extinguish.
I imagine crossing the room. Spinning him around. Pressing him against the mirror and claiming his mouth like I still have the right.
Bending him over that weight bench. Making him forget whatever hookups kept him warm while I was gone.
My pace falters. I nearly trip like a rookie.
Get it together, Wilson. You ended this.
I finish my run and move to the mat for stretches. Asher migrates to the same area.
We end up on the floor, five feet apart, catching breath. The silence suffocates. Thick with everything unsaid.
I reach for my water bottle. Take a long drink while studying him through peripheral vision.
He looks tired. Not physically—his body is a machine. But something in his eyes seems dimmer than I remember.
Before I can overthink it, I extend the bottle toward him. "Thirsty?"
His eyes flick to the bottle and then to my face. Back again. "I'm fine."
"You've been lifting an hour without a break. Take the water, Carpenter."
His jaw works. Pride warring with practicality. Practicality wins. He reaches out.
I ensure our fingers brush when he takes it. Deliberate, Obvious and unmistakable.
Like a test and a challenge. A question neither will voice: Do you still feel this?
His breath catches as he pulls the bottle away quickly, but not before I feel the tremor in his hand.
He drinks while I stand there mesmerising him like a fool.
The bob of his Adam's apple. The way his throat works while a drop escape down his chin.
I want to lick it off. Trace that path with my tongue until he's gasping my name again.
He extends the bottle back.
I take it slowly and let my fingers overlap his. Let the contact linger three heartbeats longer than necessary.
His skin is warm, perfectly familiar and electric. Asher's eyes meet mine. Blue ice blazing with something he's trying desperately to hide.
He doesn't pull away. Doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
The moment stretches between us, fragile as spun glass. One word could shatter it.
Then he's on his feet, grabbing his towel, heading for the door. Walls slamming back into place.
"See you on the ice, Wilson." The door swings shut.
I sit alone, his warmth ghosting across my fingertips like a promise or a curse.
Small victory. But I'll take what I can get.