Asher’s POV
The league arranged a private plane for their "star captains."
Of course they did. Maximum publicity. Minimum escape. Two rival captains trapped together at thirty thousand feet while cameras document every forced interaction.
Marketing gold and personal hell.
I board first, hoping to establish territory. Claim a leather seat near the back. Settle in with my tablet, game footage queued up. Pray to every deity I don't believe in that Blaze will sit far away.
The universe laughs at my prayers.
Blaze drops into the seat directly across from me. Long legs stretched out into the aisle. Taking up space like he owns the entire aircraft.
His knee nearly brushes mine. I pull my legs back like I've been burned.
"Couldn't find another seat?" I mutter without looking up from my screen.
"Could." I hear the smirk in his voice. "Didn't want to."
I force myself not to react. Focus on the footage. Pretend he doesn't exist.
The plane takes off. Hours stretch ahead of us. Hours trapped in a flying tin can with the man I've spent a year trying to forget.
I try to concentrate on plays. Defensive formations. Opponent tendencies. Anything that isn't the person sitting three feet away.
My eyes betray me anyway.
They drift to his forearms, resting on the armrests. Veins prominent as he scrolls through his phone. I remember tracing those veins with my tongue. Remember how they'd pulse when I—
Stop. Focus.
His shirt stretches across his chest when he shifts position. Fabric pulling tight over muscles I've mapped with my hands, my mouth and my entire desperate body.
His jaw looks sharper now. Dusted with stubble that catches the overhead light. Stubble I remember scratching against my thighs. Against my neck. Against places I shouldn't be thinking about in public.
Blaze catches me looking. One eyebrow rises slowly. That infuriating smirk spreading across his face.
I look away instantly. Feeling the heat flooding my cheeks. Betrayed by my own goddamn face.
"See something you like, Captain?"
"In your dreams, Wilson."
"Often, actually."
My stomach flips and heart stutters. Something hot and unwanted coils low in my belly.
I shove in my earbuds. Turn up the volume until it hurts. Ignore his quiet laugh that I feel more than hear.
Three more hours. I can survive three more hours.
I don't look at him again. Don't let myself. Keep my eyes fixed on footage I'm not actually watching while my entire body stays hyperaware of his presence.
The plane lands. I'm first off. Practically run to baggage claim.
Hotel check-in brings fresh horror.
"Mr. Carpenter, you're in room 847. Mr. Wilson, you're in 849."
Adjacent rooms. Shared wall.
I stare at the desk clerk like she's announced my execution. She smiles back, oblivious to the torture she's just arranged.
My room is fine. Generic luxury. The kind of space that costs too much and feels like nowhere.
I drop my bags and lean against the wall trying to breathe. Then I hear it. Noises of water running through the wall. Blaze's shower.
I have to physically stop myself from imagining water sliding down that body. Streaming over shoulders I've gripped. Cascading down abs I've traced with my tongue. Pooling in places I've—
I turn on my own shower. The water is cold, freezing cold, and it still doesn't help.
***
Media day is torture.
Joint interviews with shoulders nearly touching. Shared press conferences where I feel his body heat through two layers of clothing.
Reporters eat up our "rivalry." Ask the same questions they always ask. How does it feel facing your former teammate? Any bad blood? What's the secret to your intense competition?
I deliver rehearsed answers on autopilot. Professional. Boring. Safe.
Meanwhile, Blaze's thigh presses against mine under the table. Warm and solid and definitely intentional.
I shift away. He shifts closer.
"You two seem very comfortable together," a reporter observes, smiling. "Almost like you can read each other's minds."
"Years of practice," Blaze says smoothly. His hand brushes my knee under the table. "We know each other very well."
I nearly choke on my water.
The skills competition arrives. Our event: tandem accuracy challenge. Two players working together, passing and shooting in synchronized patterns.
The moment we hit the ice together, everything clicks.
Years of muscle memory take over. My body remembers his rhythms. His body remembers mine. Passes connecting without conscious thought. Movements synchronized like we share one brain.
We've always been like this. On the ice and off. Learning each other so thoroughly that separation couldn't erase it.
Every pass is perfect. Every shot finds its target. We move around each other like dancers who've practiced this choreography a thousand times.
Because we have. Just not with hockey sticks.
We win. Obviously. The crowd roars its approval. Commentators marvel at our chemistry.
Blaze grins at me across the ice. Flushed from exertion. Gorgeous in his element. Eyes bright with the joy of competition and victory.
My chest aches with lust so intense it steals my breath. I want him. I still want him. Will probably always want him.
The realization isn't new. But it hits differently when he's standing there glowing, looking at me like we're the only two people in the arena.
Later, in the elevator, we hesitated, then stepped in together. We stood there like strangers, Blaze standing too close. His shoulder brushing mine. His cologne filling the small space—same scent, after all these years. Sandalwood and something citrus.
It smells like home. Like the cottage. Like four years of stolen happiness.
"Just like old times out there," he murmurs. Voice low. Intimate.
"Don't."
"Don't what?" He turns to face me. Steps closer.
My back hits the elevator wall. Nowhere to retreat. Trapped between cold metal and warm body.
"Don't remind you how good we are together?" His voice drops even lower. "Because we are, Ash. We always were."
My breath catches. Lungs forgetting how to function.
He's so close. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to taste if I just leaned forward an inch.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Linger there. Heat building in the shrinking space between us.
I want to close that gap. Want to grab his shirt and pull him in and forget why we ever stopped.
The elevator dings. Doors slide open.
A group of players floods in. Laughing. Shoving each other. Completely oblivious to what they just interrupted.
Blaze steps back instantly. The mask slides into place. Easy smile. Casual posture. Nothing to see here.
I slip out the moment there's room. Walk toward my room without looking back. Key card trembling in my fingers.
Once Inside, I close the door and press my back against wood that isn't thick enough to block out his presence next door.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Skin burning where his gaze touched me. Body aching with want I can't afford to feel.
Four days of this. Four days of proximity and pretending and almost-moments that destroy me piece by piece.
I slide down the door. Sit on the floor. Press my palms against my eyes.
I'm so fucked.