Blaze’s POV
One year ago
The apartment smells like the pasta I've been preparing for an hour. Garlic and tomatoes and fresh basil from the market down the street.
Our apartment. The secret one.
We rented it together in a city where neither team plays. Neutral ground. A place that exists outside the hockey world, where two rival captains can just be two men in love.
Our sanctuary. The only place we're real.
I'd been planning a quiet evening. Dinner by candlelight. Maybe a movie afterward. The kind of domestic normalcy most couples take for granted.
Instead, I'm standing in the kitchen shaking while Asher makes excuses for the hundredth time.
"The charity gala wants couples, Blaze." He paces by the window, not meeting my eyes. "High-profile event. Lots of cameras. I can't just show up alone."
"So take me."
The words land between us like a grenade.
Silence. Asher's face shutters closed. That familiar wall slamming into place.
"You know I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
He finally looks at me. Something desperate swimming in those ice-blue eyes. "It's complicated."
"It's really not." My voice shakes with four years of swallowed frustration. "You either take your partner to a couples' event, or you admit you're ashamed of him."
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" The dam breaks. Years of pain erupting like a volcano I can't control anymore. "Four years, Ash. Four years of hiding. Of flinching every time someone looks at us. Of being your dirty little secret."
"You're not—"
"I am!" I'm screaming now. Don't care. Can't stop. "Every time you pull away in public. Every time you book separate hotel rooms. Every time you introduce me as your 'rival' instead of…"
"What do you want me to say?" He's yelling too. Face flushed. Hands clenched at his sides. "That I should throw away my entire career? Everything I've worked for?"
"I want you to want me more than you want your closet!"
The words echo off the walls. Brutal. Honest. Devastating.
Asher's jaw tightens. "You don't understand the pressure I'm under. The media. My parents. The league…"
"I don't understand?" I laugh, but it sounds like breaking glass. "I gave up my family for this, Ash. They disowned me. Haven't spoken to me in years. And you can't even hold my hand in public?"
Something flickers across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
Then he says the words that shatter everything.
"That was your choice."
The kitchen goes silent. The pasta bubbles are forgotten on the stove. The candles I'd lit flicker in a draft from somewhere.
‘That was your choice.’
Like I chose to lose my family. Like I asked for my father to point at the door. Like I wanted my mother's silence and my childhood bedroom stripped of my existence.
Something breaks in my chest. Irreparably. Permanently.
I feel it happen. Feel the last thread of hope snap like a guitar string pulled too tight.
"I'm done." The words come out hollow. Empty. "I can't keep loving someone who's ashamed of me."
Asher's face crumbles. "Blaze…"
"No." I hold up my hand. Can't let him touch me. Can't let him talk me out of this. "I've begged. I've waited. I've made myself small enough to fit in your closet for four years. And I'm done."
I walk to the bedroom and pull out a bag. Start throwing clothes inside without looking at what I'm grabbing. Asher follows. Stands in the doorway. Watches me, but says nothing.
That silence hurts worst of all. No "please stay." No "I'll change." No "I love you more than my fear." Just silence. And the sound of my heart finishing its long, slow break.
I zip the bag. Walk past him without meeting his eyes. Pause at the front door.
"Goodbye, Ash."
He doesn't answer. I leave. And again—he doesn't follow.
Present
The All-Star Weekend announcement glows on my phone screen. Both captains were selected. Four days of media circus and forced proximity.
Of course we're both going. The league loves their rivalry narrative. Carpenter versus Wilson sells tickets and drives ratings.
They have no idea what they're really selling.
I pack mechanically. Suits for press events. Casual clothes for downtime. Skates and gear for the actual games.
Each item goes into the suitcase without thought. My body is moving on autopilot while my mind dreads every moment ahead.
Four days. Sharing hotels. Attending events. Answering questions about our "famous rivalry" while pretending we never shared a bed.
My phone buzzes. Sophie's name lights up the screen: "Coffee when you're back? I found this amazing new place with the best lattes. My treat!"
Something loosens in my chest. Just slightly.
Blaze: "Sounds perfect. I'll text you when I land."
Life's easier to bear when she's around. No history. No baggage. No wounds that reopen every time we make eye contact. Just friendship. Simple and uncomplicated.
I finish packing and call for a car. The airport is chaos.
Travelers rushing everywhere. Announcements echoing overhead. The particular madness of holiday weekend travel compounded by sports fans recognizing faces.
I navigate toward my gate, signing a few autographs, posing for selfies with kids in hockey jerseys. The public persona slides into place like armor.
Then I spotted him—Asher. Same gate. Same flight.
Of course. The league probably arranged this deliberately. Maximum exposure. Maximum drama. Maximum content for their social media accounts.
He's standing near the windows, phone in hand, shoulders tense beneath his expensive coat.
Paparazzi hover nearby. Cameras ready. Capturing every moment for tomorrow's headlines.
I notice how uncomfortable Asher gets near them. The way his eyes dart toward every flash. How he keeps looking over his shoulder like he's waiting for a serial killer to appear.
Something's wrong. More wrong than usual.
The Asher I knew was paranoid about exposure, yes. But this is different. This is fear bordering on terror. The kind that makes you flinch at shadows.
What happened to him?
The question surfaces before I can stop it. Followed by the familiar ache of caring about someone I shouldn't care about anymore.
His eyes find mine across the terminal. Blue meeting brown. Ice meeting earth.
The distance between us feels infinite and microscopic all at once. Twelve months of silence. Four years of love. A lifetime of complications.
Neither of us looks away.
The moment stretches. Passengers flow around us like water around stones. Announcements blur into white noise. Just us. Staring. Remembering. Hurting.
A camera flash breaks the spell. Someone shouting about getting them both in frame. Asher flinches. Actually flinches. Like the light physically hurt him.
I look away first. Not because I want to. Because watching him suffer, even after everything, still feels like swallowing broken glass.
Days of proximity and pretending and press conferences where we'll smile and joke about rivalry while bleeding internally.
I find a seat far from his gate section. Pull out my phone. Pretend to scroll through emails I've already read.
But I feel his gaze on my back. Feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on both of us.
Four days. God, help us both.