Blaze’s POV
The bar Sophie chose is perfect. Trendy without being pretentious with low lighting that flatters everyone.
Cocktails that taste like they cost twice what the menu claims. The kind of place where conversations flow easy and the world outside stops mattering.
We're tucked into a corner booth, drinks sweating on the table between us. Sophie's halfway through a story about her disastrous first week at the new job.
"So there I am," she says, gesturing wildly with her martini glass. "Presentation pulled up on the big screen. Entire executive team watching. And I realize the slides are from my draft folder."
"No."
"Yes. Complete with notes like 'insert impressive statistic here' and 'make this sound less boring.'" She covers her face with one hand. "I wanted to die. Actually die."
I laugh. Genuinely laugh. The sound surprises me with how natural it feels.
"What did you do?"
"Improvised. Badly. Spent the next thirty minutes tap-dancing through a presentation I'd barely finished writing." She drains the rest of her drink. "My boss pulled me aside afterward. I thought I was fired for sure."
"Were you?"
"She said it was the most entertaining pitch she'd seen in years." Sophie grins. "Got promoted last month."
I shake my head, still smiling. "Only you could fail upward that spectacularly."
"It's a gift."
For the first time in weeks, I feel genuinely relaxed. The tension in my shoulders loosens. The constant noise in my head quiets to a manageable hum.
Sophie is warm. Uncomplicated. She doesn't carry the weight of everything I've lost. Doesn't look at me with pity or confusion or barely concealed desire.
She just sees Blaze. The guy she knew before hockey became my whole identity. Before Asher consumed every corner of my existence.
It's refreshing. Like breathing clean air after months in a smoke-filled room.
Then the TV above the bar switches channels. Hockey. Boston versus New York.
My attention snaps to the screen involuntarily. Like a reflex I can't control no matter how hard I try.
Sophie notices. Of course she does. She's always been observant.
"Go ahead, watch." She waves her hand dismissively. "I don't mind. You're literally a hockey player—it'd be weird if you weren't interested."
"I'm here with you," I say, forcing my eyes back to her face. "The game doesn't matter."
"Blaze." She raises an eyebrow. "I've known you for almost a decade. You can't not watch hockey when it's on. Just glance at it between conversations. I'll survive."
I try to focus on her. On the story she starts about her nightmare apartment and the neighbor who plays drums at midnight. But my eyes keep drifting. Pulled to the screen like magnets finding north.
Number 87. Boston's captain. Asher.
The camera follows him across the ice. Close-up of his face during a timeout. The jaw I've traced with my fingers. The eyes I've watched flutter closed in pleasure.
Something's wrong. I know Asher's game like I know my own heartbeat.
The way he moves—fluid, predatory, always two steps ahead. The way he anticipates plays before they develop. The way he strikes with precision that borders on the supernatural.
Tonight, none of that is there.
He's sluggish. Half a second behind every play. Missing passes he'd normally nail in his sleep. Hesitating on shots that should be automatic muscle memory.
He leaves openings that any decent opponent would exploit. Skates like he's carrying weights no one else can see.
I remember the gym. The way he flinched when I touched his shoulder—violent, terrified, like I'd stabbed him. The haunted look in his eyes before he forced composure back into place.
Ryan guided him away with a hand on his back. Touched him like handling something fragile and precious.
Something is very wrong with Asher. Something beyond our history. Beyond the locker room. Beyond whatever game we've been playing with each other.
The realization settles into my chest like a stone.
"Blaze?" Sophie's voice pulls me back. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Fine," I lie. "Just analyzing plays. Professional habit."
She doesn't believe me. I can tell by the way her eyes narrow slightly. But she lets it go, launching into another story about office politics.
I nod in the right places. Laugh when I'm supposed to. Keep one eye on the screen.
Asher fumbles another pass. The commentators note his unusual performance. Speculate about injury or illness. Wonder if the captain is having an off night.
It's more than an off night. I know him too well to believe that.
Then it happens. Third period. Asher has the puck along the boards. He's focused on the play developing in front of him. Doesn't see the defender coming from behind.
The check is brutal. Blindside hit that catches him completely unprepared. His body slams into the boards at a terrible angle—shoulder first, then head snapping back against the glass.
He crumples and slides down the boards like a puppet with cut strings. Doesn't get up.
The bar erupts in gasps and murmurs. Patrons point at the screen. Someone swears loudly. I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved.
Heart hammering against my ribs. Hands gripping the edge of the table. Eyes locked on the screen where Asher lies motionless on the ice.
Trainers rush out. Teammates gather in a worried cluster. The referee waves frantically for medical staff.
The camera zooms in. Asher's face is pale, eyes closed. Not moving.
My chest constricts. Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at the man I spent four years loving, lying broken on the ice three hundred miles away.
A soft hand slips into mine. Sophie. Standing beside me now. Her voice is gentle, concerned.
"Blaze? What's going on?"
I can't answer. Can't form words around the terror closing my throat.
On screen, Asher finally stirs. Opens his eyes. The trainers help him sit up slowly. He looks dazed. Confused. But alive.
The crowd in the arena applauds. The bar patrons lose interest, returning to their drinks and conversations.
I stay frozen. Watching them help Asher off the ice. Watching him disappear down the tunnel. Watching the replays that show just how bad that hit really was.
"Isn't that your rival?" Sophie asks quietly. Her hand squeezes mine. "Or... are you friends off-camera?"
The question cuts through the panic. Forces me to find words. To acknowledge what I'm feeling in front of someone who doesn't know the full story.
Friends. Such a small word for what we were. What we are. What we might never be again.
I swallow hard. My throat feels like sandpaper. Every word scrapes on the way out.
"Yeah," I manage. Voice rough. Barely recognizable as my own. "We were."