Asher’s POV
Boston feels like a prison. Every street corner holds memories I can't escape.
The café where Blaze and I grabbed coffee once, hoods up, pretending to be strangers. The hotel where we spent a desperate night after a game. The park bench where he told me he loved me for the first time.
The city I built my career in has become a minefield of ghosts.
I sit through practice on autopilot. My body moves through drills with muscle memory alone. Skating patterns. Passing sequences. Defensive formations.
But my mind is three hundred miles away.
Stuck in a dim service corridor. Blaze's hands cupping my face. The steady warmth of his chest against mine.
We'll figure it out. Together.
Empty promises. We both know I won't let him help. Can't let him get dragged into this disaster. Can't watch his career implode alongside mine.
But God, I want to.
I want to call him. Tell him everything. Let someone else carry this weight for once.
Instead, I skate harder. Push until my lungs burn and my legs shake. Try to outrun the anxiety that's wrapped around my chest like a vice.
It doesn't work. If anything, it's worse now.
Before, I only had the anonymous threats to worry about. Now I'm paranoid about those AND about someone overhearing us at the hotel. That Chicago defenseman's wink. His knowing laugh.
Your secret's safe.
Every sideways glance from a teammate feels loaded. Every whispered conversation stops when I walk past. Are they talking about me? Do they know? The paranoia is eating me alive.
"You look like shit, Cap."
Jackson appears beside me in the locker room. Easy smile. Concerned eyes. The perfect image of a supportive teammate.
"Thanks," I mutter, shoving gear into my bag.
"Seriously." He leans against the lockers, arms crossed. "You've been off for weeks. Whatever's going on, it's affecting your game."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." He drops his voice. "And that's okay. We all have rough patches."
I don't respond. Keep packing. Hope he'll take the hint and leave. He doesn't.
"Listen." Jackson glances around, makes sure we're alone. "There's this new underground club downtown. Exclusive. Discreet. No phones allowed inside—they collect them at the door."
I look up despite myself. "No phones?"
"Part of their whole privacy thing." He shrugs casually. "No press. No cameras. No social media disasters. Just good music and better drinks."
No phones. No anonymous texts burning holes in my pocket. No threats I can't escape. The idea is dangerously appealing.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you look like you need to unwind." Another shrug. "Blow off some steam. Forget about whatever's eating at you for a few hours."
I should say no. Should go home, sleep, get my head straight. Should absolutely not follow Jackson Blake to some underground club where anything could happen.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "Why not."
Jackson's smile widens. "That's my captain."
***
The club is exactly what Jackson promised. Dark. Loud. Anonymous.
Hidden down an alley I'd never notice without guidance. No sign. No indication anything exists behind the unmarked door.
Just a bouncer who nods at Jackson like they're old friends.
Inside, bass pulses through the floor. Bodies move in shadowed corners. The only lights are neon strips that reveal nothing and hide everything.
They take my phone at the door. Part of the privacy policy, the bouncer explains. Everyone's secrets stay secret here.
I should be concerned. Should recognize the vulnerability of being phoneless in a strange place with Jackson Blake. Instead, I feel relief. Sweet, dangerous relief.
Just darkness and music and the promise of oblivion.
I drink. Then drink more.
The whiskey works fast. Anxiety dulls to a manageable hum. Edges soften. The world gets pleasantly blurry around the corners.
Jackson introduces me to people. Faces I won't remember tomorrow. Names that blur together like watercolors in rain.
Everyone seems to know him. Everyone seems a little too eager to meet the Boston captain.
I don't care. The alcohol is doing its job. Hours pass, or maybe minutes. Time loses meaning in the darkness.
The music shifts, slower now and more intimate. Bodies press closer on the dance floor. Couples disappear into darker corners.
Jackson keeps the drinks coming. Keeps watching me with those concerned eyes that feel less genuine with each passing hour.
I ignore the warning bells. They're too quiet to hear over the bass anyway.
Eventually, I end up slumped in a corner booth. Got my phone back at some point—can't remember when. The screen glows in my hands, too bright for my fuzzy eyes.
I scroll through contacts with clumsy fingers. Names swim past. Teammates. My agent. My mother. I stop on one.
Blaze.
My thumb hovers over his name. Heart pounding despite the alcohol trying to slow everything down.
I shouldn't call. We agreed, or didn't agree, just understood, that distance was necessary. That whatever happened at All-Star Weekend was a mistake we couldn't repeat.
But I'm drunk and lonely. And so fucking tired of fighting this. I press a few buttons. The phone rings. Someone answers.
"Hey." My voice comes out low. Rough. Uninhibited in ways sober me would never allow. "I'm horny as fuck."
Silence on the other end. But they don't hang up.
"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession spills out, alcohol stripping away every filter. "About what we did. How good it felt. How much I want it again."
Still listening. Still there.
"Come pick me up." I give the club's address, words slurring slightly. "Right now. I need you."
Then came a pause, heavy with eagerness, followed by a response–I’m coming. I smile. Slow. Reckless. Dangerous.
"Hurry."
I hang up. The screen fades to black.
I know what I've just set in motion. Know who's driving across the city right now because I asked them to. Know tomorrow will bring consequences I'll have to face.
Don't care.
I slump deeper into the booth. Let the music wash over me. Let the darkness hide whatever expression is on my face. Jackson appears with fresh drinks. Sets one in front of me.
"Making friends?" He nods toward my phone.
"Something like that."
"Good." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You deserve to have some fun, Cap. Let loose for once."
I down half the drink in one go. The burn barely registers anymore.
Fun. Is that what this is? Drunk dialing for hookups while anonymous threats hang over my head?
This is self-destruction. I know that. Can see the cliff I'm racing toward with my eyes wide open.
But I'm so tired of being careful. So exhausted from carrying secrets that get heavier every day.
Just one night. One night of not thinking. Not worrying. Not being terrified of every shadow.
Tomorrow I'll rebuild the walls. Tomorrow I'll be Captain Carpenter again—responsible, composed, straight as an arrow.
Tonight, I just want to feel something other than fear. My phone stays dark on the table.
Someone is on their way. Someone who'll make me forget, at least for a few hours, that my entire life is falling apart.