Blaze’s POV
I stare at Sophie in disbelief.
Five years since I've seen her in person. Five years of occasional texts and social media likes and birthday messages that got shorter each year.
And now she's standing in my team's restroom like no time has passed at all. Like she belongs here. Like the universe decided to throw me a lifeline exactly when I needed one most.
Before I can think, I'm crossing the distance between us. Wrapping her in a tight hug. Lifting her off the ground and spinning her like we're in some cheesy romantic comedy neither of us would ever admit to watching.
Sophie bursts into laughter, arms circling my neck. "Okay, okay, you missed me!"
"What are you doing here?" I set her down but keep my hands on her shoulders. Can't stop grinning. "How did you even…"
"I'm in town for work." She smooths down her hair, still smiling. "Marketing conference. Boring corporate stuff, but the company's putting me up in a nice hotel for three months."
"And you just happened to find your way to my practice facility?"
"I may have done some research." She tilts her head, that familiar teasing glint in her dark eyes. "Thought I'd surprise my favorite hockey star."
Her expression softens as she studies my face. Really looks at me. Taking in whatever damage the past few weeks have carved into my features.
"And the expression on your face made it clear that my appearance was just in time," she adds quietly. "Rough day?"
The question brings reality crashing back. The locker room meltdown. Henderson's frightened face. The spiral I was drowning in before she appeared like some guardian angel in designer clothes.
"Something like that," I admit.
We chat briefly, catching up in fragments. Sophie's new job at some big marketing firm—senior position, finally getting the recognition she deserves.
Her recent move from California to the East Coast. The apartment she's renting that's too small but has a view of the harbor she's obsessed with photographing at sunset.
Normal conversation. Easy topics. Nothing heavy or complicated or designed to hurt.
It feels like oxygen after weeks of drowning.
"Listen," I say, glancing toward the door. "I need to finish practice. But wait for me, will you? There's a great restaurant nearby."
"Blaze Wilson asking me to dinner?" She presses a hand to her chest in mock surprise. "How could I possibly refuse such an honor?"
"Then I'm taking you out. We have a lot to catch up on."
"I'll be in the stands." She winks. "Try not to fall on your ass while I'm watching, superstar."
Back on the ice, something has shifted. The chaos in my head quiets to a manageable hum.
Sophie's presence acts like a reset button—a reminder that life exists outside of Asher and rivalry games and locker room confrontations that leave me wrecked for days.
I skate sharper. My passes connect cleanly. The puck feels familiar on my stick again instead of foreign and wrong.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Sophie in the stands.
She waves enthusiastically when she sees me looking. Cheers loudly when I nail a difficult play, drawing confused glances from staff members wondering who this random woman is.
The other guys notice. Of course they do. Nothing escapes a locker room full of gossip-hungry athletes.
"Damn, Cap," Martinez smirks during a water break, nodding toward the stands. "That beauty revived you. Is she your good luck charm or something?"
I shove his shoulder playfully. "Shut up and skate."
"Seriously though." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "She's hot. You hitting that?"
"She's an old friend. Mind your business."
His grin says he doesn't believe me for a second. I don't care enough to convince him otherwise. Let them think what they want.
Practice ends with Coach actually nodding in approval. First time in days he hasn't looked at me like a disappointment wearing a captain's jersey.
Small victories. I'll take them where I can get them.
The restaurant Sophie picks is upscale but not pretentious. Dim lighting with an excellent wine list. White tablecloths without the stuffiness. The kind of place where conversations feel intimate even when surrounding tables buzz with their own stories.
We settle into an easy rhythm over appetizers and a bottle of red.
"So," Sophie says, swirling her wine thoughtfully. "Tell me everything. How's life as a big NHL captain treating you?"
"Complicated," I admit. "Lots of pressure. Lots of expectations. Everyone wants a piece of you all the time."
"And lots of female fans, from what I've seen online." She grins wickedly. "Your thirst trap game is strong, Wilson. Those shirtless training photos? Criminal behavior."
I laugh—genuinely laugh, for the first time in what feels like forever. The sound surprises me.
The conversation flows naturally from there. We reminisce about college. The parties that got too wild. The terrible dining hall food we survived on. The all-nighters before finals fueled by energy drinks and desperation.
The memories surface easily. Freshman year. Running in the same circles of athletes and overachievers. Late nights studying that turned into early mornings tangled in each other's sheets.
We hooked up casually for a semester. Friends with benefits, no strings attached. It was simple. Uncomplicated. Exactly what we both needed at nineteen.
Then I transferred, met Asher, and everything changed. My whole world narrowed to one person.
Sophie and I drifted after that. Not dramatically—just the natural fade of people whose lives move in different directions.
Occasional texts that came further apart. Birthday messages. Liking each other's posts without really connecting anymore.
"I miss the old days," Sophie says, setting down her glass. Her eyes have gone soft with nostalgia. "When everything was simple. Before adulting ruined us completely."
"You're telling me."
She doesn't know half of it. Doesn't know about the four years of hiding and stolen moments. About the locker room and the cruelty and the anonymous texts haunting my phone.
She just sees a friend who looks tired. And maybe that's enough.
Sophie leans closer across the table. Her smile turns playful. Familiar. The same expression she used to wear before pulling me into empty classrooms between lectures.
"We should fix that," she says. "Catch up properly. I'm here for a few months—no reason we can't rebuild what we had."
There was a pause, deliberate, yet loaded with possibilities.
"The friendship, I mean."
The slight flirtation isn't lost on me. The way her fingers brush mine when she reaches for the bread basket. The lingering eye contact that holds a beat too long.
But it feels harmless. Familiar. Easy.
Nothing like the complicated mess that is Asher Carpenter. No hidden meanings. No power games. No threats disguised as jokes in front of cameras.
Just Sophie. An old friend offering simple companionship.
I could use easy right now. God, I could use easy.
"I'd like that," I say, and mean it. "I could use some light in my life."
Sophie's smile widens. Genuine warmth spreading across her features like sunrise.
"Then you've got me."