Asher’s POV
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and failure.
White walls with beeping monitors. Scratchy sheets that do nothing to comfort. I've been staring at the same ceiling tiles for hours, counting the tiny holes in each one.
The injury wasn't serious. Bruised ribs. Mild concussion. Nothing that won't heal in a few weeks.
But the doctors insisted on rest. No games for two weeks minimum. No practice. No skating. No, anything that might rattle my already rattled brain.
I should feel relieved. It’s a good time to recover and time to get my head straight.
Instead, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like the walls I've spent years building have crumbled and left me naked for the world to see.
The hit replays in my mind constantly. The impact I didn't see coming. The boards rushing toward my face. The darkness that swallowed everything.
I was distracted. Unfocused. Too busy drowning in paranoia about anonymous messages to watch my own back.
This is what happens when I let my guard down. When I let anything matter more than the game.
My parents arrived this morning.
My mother hasn't stopped fussing since she walked through the door. Adjusting my pillows. Smoothing my blankets. Touching my forehead like I'm five years old with a fever.
"Are you comfortable, sweetheart? Do you need more water? Should I call the nurse?"
"I'm fine, Mom."
My father stands by the window, arms crossed, grumbling about reckless players and dirty hits that should result in suspensions. Protective in his gruff, understated way.
Loving. Warm. Everything parents should be.
And yet I lie through my teeth every time I open my mouth.
"Any special girl looking after you?" my mother asks, settling into the chair beside my bed. Her eyes sparkle with hope. "Maybe that pretty lady from the ad? The model?"
The magazine photoshoot. Of course she saw it. Of course she's already planning our wedding in her head.
"Too busy for that, Mom."
"Oh, Asher." She sighs, reaching for my hand. "You work too hard, sweetheart. You need someone. A nice girl to come home to. Someone who'll take care of you."
I smile. Change the subject. Die a little inside.
This is my life. Half-truths and careful omissions. Performing heterosexuality for an audience that loves me too much to know the real me.
No matter how warm they are, they won't accept a gay son. I'm certain of it. The comments they make. The assumptions they hold. The world they grew up in.
So I hide. Always hide.
The door opens.
Blaze walks in like he owns the place. All charm and easy smiles. A bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand—lilies and something purple I can't identify.
I nearly jump out of bed.
"Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter!" Blaze's voice is warm, familiar. "It's been years!"
My mother practically melts into a puddle. She's on her feet instantly, pulling him into a hug he accepts with practiced grace.
"Blaze Wilson! Oh my goodness, look at you!" She pulls back, holding his arms. "Look how handsome you've become! Gosh, and those veins..."
She traces a finger along his forearm like she's admiring artwork. Blaze laughs, charming as ever.
My father shakes his hand firmly. "Good to see you, son. Hell of a season you're having."
"Thank you, sir. Trying to keep up with your boy here."
They remember him. The childhood friend who used to sleep over on weekends. The respected rival who made hockey interesting. The golden boy everyone loves.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach. Traitorous. Pathetic. Completely unwelcome.
Then a brunette steps out from behind him. Gorgeous. Polished. Dark hair cascading perfectly over her shoulders. Her hand rests on Blaze's arm like she belongs there. Like she has every right to touch him.
The butterflies die instantly. Replaced by something cold and sharp.
"This is Sophie," Blaze says smoothly. "An old friend."
Old friend. Right.
My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache.
My mother adores her immediately. Of course she does. Sophie is everything a mother wants for her son—beautiful, charming, feminine.
Within minutes, she complimented my mother's earrings, asked about family recipes, and expressed fascination with the hospital's architectural history.
"You simply must try the cafeteria coffee," my mother insists. "It's surprisingly good. Better than some shops I've been to!"
"I'd love that." Sophie's smile is radiant. "Mr. Carpenter, would you join us? I'd love to hear more about the childhood hockey days of these two."
My father grumbles about needing caffeine anyway. The three of them head for the door, Sophie casting one last glance at Blaze that I can't quite read.
Then they're gone. Leaving us with nothing but silence, heavy yet charged. Blaze sets the flowers on the bedside table. Doesn't look at me.
I count to ten before I speak. Manage to get to three.
"The nerve of you." My voice drips with sarcasm I can't contain. "Dragging yourself here. And bringing your new girlfriend—what, is she going to visit my grave too someday?"
Blaze's eyes flash. That easy charm vanishing like smoke.
"She's not my girlfriend." His voice is tight. Controlled. "As I said—we're old friends. From college."
"An old friend you've never mentioned." I laugh bitterly. "Could've fooled me. The way she's draped over you."
"That's rich coming from you." He steps closer to the bed, voice dropping dangerously. "Ryan looked pretty comfortable with his hands all over you at the gym."
The name lands like a slap. He saw that. Remembered it. Drew conclusions.
"That's none of your business."
"And Sophie's none of yours."
We glare at each other across the sterile hospital room. The air crackles with everything unsaid. Accusations. Jealousy. Wounds that never healed properly and keep tearing open.
"We're not together anymore," I say finally. The words taste like ash. "You made sure of that."
Something flickers across his face. Pain. Anger. Disbelief.
"I made sure?" Blaze laughs, but there's no humor in it. Hollow. Broken. "You were never really with me, Ash. Not fully. Not where it counted."
The words hit like a physical blow. Because they're true. Every syllable. Every accusation.
I was never fully his. Never let myself be. Held back pieces of myself that he deserved to have. Loved him in shadows while refusing to step into the light.
I open my mouth to respond. To defend myself. To say something that might bridge the canyon between us.
The door swings open again.
Sophie and my parents return in a wave of laughter and coffee cups. Snacks piled in my mother's arms. My father’s actually smiling at something Sophie said.
"—and then he fell face-first into the cake!" Sophie finishes, and my mother nearly drops the pastries from laughing.
Blaze's smile snaps back into place—perfect, practiced. Not a trace of the raw emotion that twisted his features seconds ago.
"Sounds like I missed a good story," he says smoothly, accepting the coffee Sophie hands him.
I watch him perform for my parents. Watch him charm and deflect and pretend everything is fine.
Watch him be the person I could never let myself be—comfortable in his own skin, even when that skin is a mask.
And I hate how much it still hurts. Hate how much I still want him. Hate myself most of all.