Asher’s POV
Game two. The arena vibrates with bloodlust.
Word spread overnight about our corridor confrontation. Social media exploded with grainy phone footage. Two captains throwing punches. The league issued fines. The fans demanded more.
Now both teams are out for blood. The rivalry has escalated beyond Blaze and me. Every player on both rosters wants to prove something tonight.
The ice becomes a battlefield from the opening faceoff.
Hits land harder than necessary. Sticks slash with intent. Tempers flare at every whistle. The referees work overtime trying to maintain control of a game that threatens to spiral into chaos.
I play angry. Reckless. Channeling yesterday's humiliation into every stride, every check, every desperate shot on goal.
But Ottawa matches our intensity. Blaze is everywhere—stealing pucks, setting up plays, commanding his team like the captain he's become.
The captain I helped create. The thought tastes bitter.
Midway through the second period, everything explodes.
Davidson carries the puck along the boards. He's focused on the play, doesn't see the hit coming until it's too late.
Kowalski, one of Blaze's enforcers, launches himself shoulder-first into Davidson's back. Hard. Late. Dangerous as hell.
Davidson crumples against the glass and doesn't get up.
Whistles scream and the crowd roars. Players swarm from both benches like hornets from a disturbed nest.
I'm across the ice before I consciously decide to move. Davidson is my guy. My responsibility. And that hit was intentional—designed to injure, not to play hockey.
Blaze arrives at the same moment.
We collide in the center of the chaos. His gloved hands grip my jersey. Mine grip his. We're face-to-face, breathing hard, surrounded by teammates and referees trying desperately to separate us.
"Control your fucking goons!" I snarl.
"Control your fucking team!" he fires back.
The referees finally wedged between us. Penalties assessed. Players escorted to boxes. Davidson helped off the ice, arm draped over the trainer's shoulders.
The game continues. Ottawa scores twice more. We can't answer.
Final buzzer. 4-2 Ottawa.
Blaze catches my eye across the ice as his team celebrates. That smirk—the same one from the press conference, from the corridor, from every nightmare I've had this past year.
My vision blurs with rage.
I shower mechanically. Ignore my teammates' frustrated conversations. Ignore the coach's postgame speech about discipline and composure.
All I can see is that smirk. All I can feel is the humiliation burning through my veins like acid.
Davidson's injury. The loss. The way Blaze looked at me like I was beneath him.
I need to confront him. Need to make him understand that this isn't a game we're playing anymore.
The visiting team's locker room is down a separate corridor. I shouldn't be here. League rules about fraternizing with opponents. Cooling-off periods after contentious games.
I don't care. The door is unlocked and I push through without knocking.
Blaze is alone. Still in his gear, helmet discarded, hair sweat-dampened and disheveled. He looks up when I enter, unsurprised.
Like he was waiting for me.
I slam the door behind me. The sound echoes off the concrete walls.
"Your goon nearly ended Davidson's career out there." My voice shakes with barely contained fury. "That hit was intentional. You know it was."
Blaze shrugs. The casual dismissal makes me want to break something.
"Hockey's a contact sport." He starts unlacing his skates like I'm not even worth his full attention. "Maybe your boys should toughen up."
"Toughen up?" I step closer. "He might have a concussion. Might miss weeks. And you're telling me to toughen up?"
"I'm telling you that shit happens on the ice." He finally looks at me. Brown eyes cold. "You want to cry about it? Call the league office. File a complaint. Do whatever makes you feel better about losing."
"We didn't lose because of—"
"You lost because we're better." He stands, closing the distance between us. "Tonight. Yesterday. Every time it matters."
We're too close again. Breathing hard and only inches apart.
The proximity after so long pierces my armor. Even in full gear, even reeking of sweat and competition, he's devastating.
My gaze drifts to his lips. Parted slightly. Ready to spit another insult or—
Fuck.
The thought flashes through my mind before I can stop it. I mentally slap myself. Order my body to stand down.
I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing how his mere presence affects me.
My fist clenches. Ready to connect with his jaw. Ready to finish what we started yesterday in that corridor.
Instead, our mouths crash together. Furious. Brutal. Teeth clashing with more violence than kiss.
I shove him backward. His back slams against the wall. My hand finds his throat, squeezing just enough to feel his pulse hammer against my palm.
My other hand slides down. Over his chest protector. Past his waistband. Cupping him through his compression pants.
Blaze gasps sharply. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, pressing himself harder into my grip.
He's already half-hard. For me. Despite everything. Because of everything.
"I know how much you want this," I growl against his lips. The words taste like poison and honey combined. "Still so desperate for me after everything."
I stroke him through the fabric. Feel him thicken and strain against my palm. Watch his careful composure crumble piece by piece.
His head falls back against the wall. His eyes flutter closed. A sound escapes his throat—somewhere between a moan and a whimper.
The mighty captain of the Ottawa Otters. Reduced to this by one touch from a man he claims to be over.
I squeeze harder. His knees buckle slightly as he grabs my shoulders for balance, fingernails digging through my shirt.
"Ash…" My name breaks on his lips.
I could finish this. Could drop to my knees and take him apart completely. Could bend him over this bench and remind him exactly who he belongs to.
My body screams at me to do it. Every nerve ending on fire with want.
Instead, I stop. I step back, remove my hands and put distance between us.
Blaze sags against the wall, panting. Wrecked. Eyes glazed with arousal and confusion. The outline of his erection straining visibly against his pants.
I drink in the sight. Memorize it. File it away for later when I'm alone and desperate and hating myself.
"Pathetic," I say coldly.
The word lands like a slap. He flinches.
"The mighty captain, undone by one touch." I straighten my shirt. Compose my expression into something cruel and distant. "Keep your dogs on a leash next game, Wilson. Or we'll destroy you."
I turn and walk out without looking back.
The corridor stretches before me, empty and echoing. My footsteps sound too loud. My breathing sounds too ragged.
My hands won't stop shaking.
I shove them into my pockets and keep walking. Away from him. Away from the devastation I just caused. Away from the truth I can't admit even to myself.
I wanted to prove I had power over him. Instead, I proved he still has power over me.
One touch. One kiss. One moment of weakness, and I almost threw everything away.
The worst part? Given the chance, I'd do it again.