Asher’s POV
Practice ends and I'm heading for the locker room when a hand closes around my arm and yanks me sideways.
"What the—"
Blaze crowds me against the wall near the back entrance, blocking my escape. His body is too close, radiating heat that cuts through the chill clinging to my skin. Those brown eyes pin me in place with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
"We need to talk."
"No, we don't." I try to push past him, but he doesn't budge. "Move."
"Not until you hear me out." His voice is low, urgent. "Look, we have a big game coming up. Regionals. Scouts everywhere. This could make or break the season for a lot of guys on this team."
"I'm aware."
"Then you know we need to be focused. All of us." He leans closer, and I flatten myself against the wall to maintain distance. "But that's not going to happen if you keep treating me like the enemy. We're supposed to be on the same side, Ashy."
"Hard to remember that when you're wearing my captain badge."
Something flickers across his face. He's quiet for a moment, jaw working like he's chewing on words he's not sure he should say.
"What if I wasn't?"
I blink. "What?"
"The captain thing." He runs a hand through his hair, uncharacteristically hesitant. "What if I stepped back? Gave it to you instead?"
The words don't compute at first. I stare at him, searching for the catch, the joke, the manipulation hiding beneath the offer. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." His eyes hold mine, steady and sincere. "I didn't come here for a title, Ash. I came here for—" He stops, swallows. "I came here to play hockey. With you. The captaincy doesn't matter to me. Not if it's going to keep this wall between us."
My chest tightens. I don't know what to do with this. With him. With the way he's looking at me like I'm something worth sacrificing for.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just..." He shifts closer, close enough that I can smell his soap, his sweat, something underneath that's purely him. "Work with me. Stop fighting me at every turn. Let us be a team again—on the ice, at least. That's all I'm asking."
"And you'll give up the captaincy."
"If that's what it takes to get you to trust me again? Yeah." No hesitation. No wavering. Just quiet certainty that makes something crack in my chest.
I open my mouth to respond—though I have no idea what I'm going to say—when a sound stops me cold.
A moan. Soft, feminine, coming from the locker room around the corner.
We both freeze.
"Did you hear—" Blaze starts.
Another moan, louder this time. Followed by a giggle I recognize instantly.
My blood turns to ice.
"Ash, wait—"
But I'm already moving, pushing past Blaze, rounding the corner with my heart slamming against my ribs. Some part of me knows what I'm going to find. Knows and doesn't want to see it. But my feet keep moving, carrying me toward a truth I'm not ready to face.
I push open the locker room door.
Amelia is straddling someone on the bench, her shirt half-undone, hands tangled in hair that doesn't belong to me. Her head is thrown back, lips parted, making sounds I've never heard from her. Sounds she's never made with me.
The guy beneath her looks up.
Marcus. One of the transfers who came with Blaze. One of his closest friends on the team.
For a moment, nobody moves. The scene freezes—a grotesque tableau I can't unsee no matter how hard I try.
Then Amelia's eyes find mine. She scrambles off Marcus so fast she nearly falls, hands flying to her shirt. "Asher, wait—"
Blaze appears beside me. I feel him take in the scene, feel his body go rigid with shock and then something hotter. Anger. On my behalf.
"What the fuck, Marcus?" Blaze's voice is low, dangerous.
Marcus is scrambling for his shirt, face pale. "Blaze, man, it's not—"
"Don't." The single word cuts like a blade. "Don't even try."
Amelia is buttoning her shirt with shaking hands, tears already streaming down her face. "Asher, please, let me explain. It didn't mean anything, I swear—"
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stand there while my entire world collapses.
One year. We've been together for over a year. Every time I held her hand, every time I told her about my fears and insecurities, every time I trusted her with pieces of myself I didn't show anyone else.
All of it. A lie.
"Ash." Blaze's hand closes around my arm. "Come on. You don't need to be here."
I let him pull me backward, too numb to resist. Amelia's voice follows us into the hallway, pleading, desperate, but the words don't register. Nothing registers except the ringing in my ears and the feeling of everything I thought I knew shattering into a million pieces.
"Asher, please!" Footsteps behind us. Amelia, chasing. "Just let me explain! It was a mistake, it only happened once—"
Blaze's grip tightens on my arm. He steers me sharply to the left, through a door I barely register, into darkness that swallows us whole.
A supply closet. Cramped and cluttered, smelling of cleaning supplies and dust. Blaze pulls the door shut behind us, and suddenly we're alone. Hidden. The sounds from outside muffle into nothing.
"Ash." His voice is soft in the darkness. "Breathe."
I can't. My chest is caving in, lungs refusing to cooperate, everything inside me crumbling into dust. I stumble backward until my shoulders hit shelves, bottles rattling with the impact.
"I can't—" The words come out strangled. "I can't breathe, I can't—"
"Hey, hey." Hands find my shoulders, steadying me. Blaze's face is a blur in the dim light filtering under the door. "Look at me. Focus on my voice. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
"She was—" I choke on the words. "With him. The whole time, she was—"
"I know." His thumbs rub circles against my shoulders, grounding. "I know. And it's fucked up. What she did is fucked up, and you didn't deserve it."
"Everyone I trust—" My voice cracks, breaks. "Everyone I let in just—"
"Not everyone." His hands slide up to cup my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. Even in the darkness, I can see them. Soft. Steady. Certain. "I'm here, Ash. I'm not going anywhere."
Something inside me splinters.
The tears come without warning, hot and humiliating, spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them. I haven't cried in years. Haven't let myself be this weak, this exposed, this broken in front of anyone.
But Blaze doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just holds my face in his hands and lets me fall apart.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "Let it out. I've got you."
I don't know how long we stand there. Minutes. Hours. Time loses meaning in the darkness, in the small space between our bodies, in the warmth of his hands against my skin.
Eventually, the tears slow. The gasping breaths even out. I'm left hollow and raw, like someone scraped out my insides and left nothing but the shell.
Blaze's thumbs brush the wetness from my cheeks. Gentle. Reverent. Like I'm something precious instead of pathetic.
"There you are," he whispers.
Our faces are inches apart. I can feel his breath on my lips, warm in the cold closet air. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—a flicker I almost miss—before returning to meet mine.
My heart stutters. Something shifts in my chest, rearranging into a shape I don't recognize.
And then I realize: I don't want him to let go. The thought terrifies me.
I shove him. Hard. He stumbles backward into a shelf, and I press myself against the opposite wall, chest heaving.
"Don't." My voice comes out ragged, wrecked. "Don't touch me. Don't—don't be nice to me. I can't—"
"Ash—"
"This is your fault." The words spill out, ugly and desperate. "All of it. Everything was fine before you came here. My team, my position, my girlfriend—"
"That's not fair and you know it."
"I don't care about fair!" I'm shaking now, from cold or shock or something else entirely. "I need someone to blame and you're—you're always there. Always pushing. Always looking at me like—"
I stop. Can't finish that sentence. Can't acknowledge what I almost said.
Blaze is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is impossibly gentle.
"Like what, Ash?"
"Nothing." I fumble for the door handle. "Forget it. I have to go."
"Ash, wait—"
But I'm already out, already running, already putting as much distance as possible between myself and the boy in the closet who just saw me break.