Blaze’s POV
Morning light streams through my apartment windows as I scroll through my phone over breakfast.
Coffee grows cold beside my untouched toast. I'm not hungry. Haven't been hungry for days. Not since that locker room.
Not since Asher's hands on my body and his cruel words ringing in my ears.
Pathetic.
The memory hits like a physical blow every time it surfaces. His palm against my throat. His fingers, squeezing me through my pants. My body responding instantly, desperately, like a year apart meant nothing.
And then that cold withdrawal. That smirk. That single word, designed to destroy.
I push the memory down and keep scrolling. Social media. News feeds. Anything to distract from the spiral consuming my thoughts.
Then I freeze.
Tabloid photos plastered across every entertainment account I follow. Asher walking beside a gorgeous blonde model. Both laughing. Bodies angled toward each other with practiced intimacy.
The photos look professional and staged. The kind of paparazzi shots that are actually arranged by publicists who want their clients seen.
Headlines scream in bold fonts designed to grab attention.
"Boston Captain's New Flame?"
"Hockey Heartthrob Off the Market?"
"Asher Carpenter Spotted with Victoria's Secret Angel—Romance Confirmed?"
Jealousy burns through me like acid. Hot. Irrational. Infuriating.
I have no right to feel this. We're over. Have been for a year. I ended it. I walked away. I don't get to be hurt that he's moved on.
But the feeling doesn't care about logic. Doesn't recognize the boundaries I've drawn around my own heart. It just burns and burns and burns.
Then the irony hits me.
Asher Carpenter is one hundred percent gay. The man who spent four years terrified of anyone discovering his sexuality. Being marketed as some model's boyfriend.
The closet is so deep it's become a comedy. A farce. A tragedy dressed up as a PR relationship for public consumption.
Does she know? Does this model understand she's a prop in his carefully constructed performance of heterosexuality?
I want to scream at the absurdity. Want to call every reporter and tell them the truth they'd never believe. Want to expose the lie he's living.
But that would destroy him. And despite everything, I can't do that.
So instead, I throw my phone across the couch with a frustrated grunt. It bounces off the cushions and clatters somewhere out of sight.
I abandon breakfast and head to the arena. Maybe practice will help. Maybe physical exhaustion will quiet the chaos in my head.
It doesn't.
Training for the last few days has been a disaster. Complete and utter catastrophe.
I've been unfocused since that locker room kiss. Asher's hands gripping my throat. His palm pressing against me through my pants. The way my body betrayed me instantly.
And then the cruelty. Stepping back. Leaving me wrecked against the wall. Calling me pathetic like the past four years meant nothing.
It's eating me alive.
Every drill feels wrong today. My passes are sloppy, missing targets by inches that might as well be miles. My timing is off—arriving late to plays, reading setups incorrectly.
The puck feels foreign on my stick. Like my body forgot how to do the one thing I've trained for my entire life.
Irritation builds with each mistake. Frustration compounding on frustration until my nerves are raw and my patience shredded to nothing.
"Wilson! Head in the game!" Coach's voice echoes across the ice.
I grit my teeth and try harder. It only makes things worse.
A rookie—Henderson, maybe nineteen, barely three months on the roster, fumbles a pass I should have received cleanly. My fault, not his. My positioning was wrong.
But the anger needs somewhere to go.
"What the hell was that?" I snap, skating toward him. "Are you blind? I was wide open!"
Henderson's face goes pale. His eyes widen with genuine fear. The kid shrinks back like I'm about to hit him.
I see myself through his eyes. The captain he admires. The player he looked up to. Transformed into something ugly and unrecognizable.
Shame floods through me instantly. This isn't who I am. This isn't the leader my team needs. This isn't the man I've worked so hard to become.
"I need five," I mutter to my assistant coach, already skating toward the tunnel. "Just five minutes."
I don't wait for permission. Can't stay on that ice another second without doing more damage to my team's morale.
The locker room is empty. I bypass it entirely, heading for the small restroom tucked around the corner. Private. Isolated. Safe from watching eyes.
I grip the sink with both hands and stare at my reflection.
Red-rimmed eyes stare back. Jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Shoulders hunched like I'm bracing for impact that never stops coming.
I look like shit and feel worse than I ever did.
My breathing comes in ragged gasps. Too fast. Too shallow. The beginning of something that might be a panic attack if I let it spiral further.
I force myself to slow down. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Count to four on each exhale.
Get it together, Wilson. You're a captain. Act like one.
But the face in the mirror doesn't look like a captain. Looks like a man falling apart at the seams. Unraveling thread by thread while the world watches.
All because of Asher fucking Carpenter.
One kiss. One cruel rejection. And I'm destroyed all over again like the past year of healing meant nothing.
A knock on the door shatters the silence.
"Now's not the best time, guys." My voice comes out strained. Barely controlled. "Give me a minute."
The door opens anyway. I spin around, ready to snap at whatever teammate ignored my request. Ready to unleash the frustration still boiling in my chest.
The words die in my throat.
A gorgeous woman stands in the doorway. Long dark hair cascading over her shoulders like silk. Warm smile, playing with full lips. Stylish clothes that probably weren't expensive, yet looked like they cost a fortune.
She always knew a thing or two about making cheap look designer.
She leans against the frame with a flirtatious smirk. Completely at ease. Like she belongs in the men's restroom of a professional hockey facility.
"Rough day, Captain?" Her voice is honey and smoke. Familiar in ways that make my chest ache. "You look like you need rescuing."
I stare at her. Disbelief washing over me in waves.
I know that face. Those dark eyes that always saw too much. That particular tilt of her head when she's being deliberately charming.
Years fall away in an instant. College parties where the music was too loud and the drinks were too cheap. Late nights studying that turned into something else entirely.
A semester of casual hookups before transferring, before Asher consumed my entire world and everyone else faded to background noise.
"Sophie?"
Her smile widens. Genuine delight sparkling in those dark eyes I used to know so well.
"Did you miss your favorite girl?"