Asher’s POV
The bar is dim and anonymous and exactly what I need.
I nurse my third whiskey, letting the burn distract me from the replay loop consuming my brain. That locker room. Blaze against the wall. His throat under my palm.
The fury. The heat. The way he melted under my hands like the past year never happened.
I'd meant to humiliate him. Prove I had power. Show him that whatever hold he thought he had over me was nothing compared to what I could do to him.
Instead, I can't stop thinking about it.
His gasp when I touched him. The way his eyes fluttered closed. My name breaking on his lips like a prayer he didn't mean to speak.
Ash.
I drain my glass and signal for another.
The truth sits heavy in my chest, impossible to ignore no matter how much whiskey I pour on top of it. I'm not over him. Might never be over him.
A year of distance hasn't dulled the wanting. If anything, tonight proved it's sharper than ever. One kiss and I almost forgot why we ended.
But there are too many complications. His career. My career. The closet I've built around myself is like a fortress with no doors.
Hockey is all that should matter. The only thing I can control.
I think about my journey with my sexuality. The years of denial. The slow, painful acceptance that came only after Blaze showed me what honesty could feel like.
I'm more honest with myself now. Privately, at least.
I visit gay clubs occasionally. Always undercover—hat low, hood up, cash only. Anonymous encounters with men whose names I never learn and faces I immediately forget.
It should feel like freedom. Instead, it feels like visiting a country where I don't have citizenship. A tourist in my own identity.
I'm still trapped in a box too small to breathe in. And I've convinced myself I can't change that. The cost is too high and the risk is too great.
So I stay hidden. Stay safe. Stay suffocating.
"Hell of a game today."
Jackson slides onto the adjacent barstool, signaling the bartender with practiced ease. His presence doesn't surprise me—we drink at the same spots.
"Those sparks between you and Wilson." He grins, accepting his beer. "Crowd ate it up. Social media's going crazy."
I grimace into my glass. "Just hockey."
"Sure it is." His tone suggests he knows better but won't push.
I study him in the dim light. Jackson Blake. My assistant captain. A man with history I haven't forgotten.
His obsession with Blaze in college. The manipulation. The threats he made before everything fell apart. I remember it all. But years have passed and people change. Don't they?
Jackson reads my expression like a book. "That's in the past, Ash. I'm over it."
"Are you?"
"Blaze didn't choose me." He shrugs, something almost genuine in his eyes. "Why waste time grieving over someone who isn't worth it?"
I consider our relationship over the years. When Jackson joined the Blazers, I'd been skeptical. Kept him at arm's length. Watched for signs of the manipulative bastard I remembered.
But he proved himself. Solid plays. Team-first attitude. Genuine investment in our success. He worked his way to assistant captain on merit.
Maybe people actually change. Maybe I've been holding onto old grudges while he moved on.
"Another round?" Jackson asks.
I shouldn't. Early practice tomorrow. But the alternative is going home alone with nothing but memories of Blaze's mouth and the ghost of his body under my hands.
"Sure."
Two drinks become four. The bar grows louder around us. Jackson tells stories about rookie hazing and bad hotel rooms. I almost laugh a few times.
It feels normal. Easy. Uncomplicated.
"We should get out of here," Jackson says eventually, leaning closer. "My place is nearby. Less eyes. More honesty. Better for friendship."
I should say no. Should go home and sleep off the whiskey and forget this night ever happened.
Instead, I follow him out.
Jackson's apartment is sleek. Modern and expensive in ways that speak to endorsement deals and smart investments. He pours us both bourbon and settles onto the leather couch.
I sit beside him, a little bit too close. The whiskey has softened my edges, blurred my judgment.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice drops lower.
"Depends."
"I've always wondered what Blaze saw in you." He shifts closer, eyes dark with intent. “What made him want you so bad.”
The words should send me running. Warning bells should be screaming.
Instead, I feel nothing but exhaustion and want and the desperate need to feel something other than empty.
"Jackson…"
"I'm not asking for forever." His hand lands on my thigh. "Just tonight. Two guys blowing off steam. No strings."
I should leave. This is a terrible idea for a hundred reasons.
But Blaze's face keeps flashing through my mind. His smirk. His cruelty. The way he dangled our secrets in front of cameras like a threat.
And Jackson is here. Willing and uncomplicated. I let his mouth find mine.
The kiss is aggressive. Demanding. Nothing like Blaze's desperate heat—this is calculated, performative. But it's also real. Another body against mine–proof that I exist outside of memories.
Jackson pushes me back against the couch, straddling my hips. His hands work my belt with practiced efficiency while his tongue claims my mouth.
"I’ve wondered what you taste like," he murmurs against my jaw.
I lift my hips to help, surrendering to the momentum of bad decisions and too much whiskey.
He wraps his fingers around me, stroking slowly. Deliberately. Watching my face for reactions like he's cataloging them.
"That's it," he breathes. "Let go, Captain."
I close my eyes. Easier that way. Easier to pretend the hand on me belongs to someone else. Someone with brown eyes and a smile that used to make me feel whole.
Jackson's mouth replaces his hand. Wet heat engulfing me. His tongue working the underside while his fingers dig into my thighs.
He's skilled. Enthusiastic and knows exactly what he's doing. But it's not enough. It’s never enough when it's not him.
And I chase it anyway. Hips rolling into the sensation and fingers gripping leather cushions until my knuckles ache.
He pulls off with a slick sound. "Let’s go to the bedroom. There’s more room there."
His bedroom is as sleek as the rest of the apartment. King-sized bed with dark sheets. He pushes me onto the mattress and climbs over me.
More kissing. More hands. Clothes disappearing piece by piece until we're skin against skin.
"Your turn," he says, guiding my head downward.
I take him into my mouth. He groans, fingers threading through my hair, hips thrusting shallowly.
"Fuck, Ash. Just like that."
I work him mechanically. Tongue and pressure and rhythm. His sounds grow louder, more desperate, but they feel performative. Staged.
He tugs me back up. Rolls me onto my back. His hand finds me again, stroking in tandem with his own movements.
We rut against each other like teenagers. Desperate. Graceless. Chasing release that means nothing.
"Close," he pants against my neck.
I am too. The pressure building despite the emptiness beneath it. Physical mechanics divorced from anything real.
His hand speeds up. Mine mirrors the motion on him. We're racing toward the same finish line, using each other as means to an end.
The bourbon swims through my veins. The ceiling blurs above me. Jackson's breath was hot against my throat.
Blaze's face flashes behind my closed eyelids. His gasp in that locker room. His body melting under my hands.
I chase the memory instead of the man above me.