Asher’s POV
I show up to practice with a splitting headache and a stomach full of regret.
The fluorescent lights of the rink feel like ice picks stabbing through my skull. Every whistle pierces straight to my brain. Every shout from teammates echoes too loud.
My passes go wide. Again and again. Pucks sailing past intended targets like my hands forgot how to aim.
My skating is sluggish. Sloppy. Legs heavy with last night's whiskey and whatever the hell I was thinking when I dragged Jackson into that hallway.
The hangover is brutal. But the anxiety gnawing at my insides is worse.
What did I do? What did I let happen?
Blaze saw everything. Saw me grab Jackson's hand. Saw me pull him into the shadows. Saw me make a choice designed to hurt.
And then what? The rest of the night blurs together. Jackson's hands. Jackson's mouth. Jackson's voice saying things I can't quite remember.
Did we—?
I can't remember. That's the worst part. Can't piece together what happened after we left that hallway.
"Ash." Ryan appears beside me during a water break. Voice low. Concerned. "We need to talk."
I don't look at him. Can't. Not after what I did the other night.
"Nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit." He steps closer. Forces himself into my line of sight. "You're scaring me. The drinking. The distance. Whatever's going on with you—just talk to me. Please."
His eyes are soft. Worried. Caring in ways I don't deserve.
Something snaps inside me. The guilt. The shame. The weight of using him over and over while giving nothing back.
"Back off." The words come out sharp. Cruel. "We're not together. Never were."
Ryan's face crumples. Genuine hurt flashes across his features. Raw and undisguised. The kind of pain you can't fake.
My chest tightens with immediate regret. I open my mouth to apologize—
"Holy shit, Cap, have you seen this?"
Martinez rushes over, phone thrust toward my face. His expression is somewhere between excited and horrified.
"You're all over the blogs, man."
The headline screams in bold letters: "Boston Captain Asher Carpenter Spiraling? Photos Surface from Underground Club Scene."
My blood turns to ice.
I snatch my own phone from my bag. Scroll with trembling fingers. Dread pooling in my stomach like acid.
This is it. This is how it ends. Photographs of me pressed against strangers. Flirting with men. Kissing Jackson in that hallway where anyone could have been watching.
My career. My reputation. My entire carefully constructed life.
Gone.
The article loads and photos appear. Me at the bar. Drinking alone. Looking wrecked. Reckless. Me talking to some guy whose face is blurred. Nothing incriminating in the shot itself.
Me leaving through the back exit. Alone, according to the angle. Jackson must have been just out of frame.
But the compromising shots, the ones that would end everything, aren't there.
No photo of my hand on that stranger's chest. No shot of me pulling Jackson into the shadows. No evidence of the kiss.
Relief floods through me. Short-lived.
Because someone took those photos. Someone captured those moments. Someone is choosing not to release them.
Yet.
"Dude, the comments are brutal." Martinez keeps scrolling, oblivious to my spiraling. "People saying you've lost it. Comparing you to that basketball player who had that breakdown—"
I don't hear the rest. Can't hear anything over the roaring in my ears.
Someone has evidence that could destroy me. Someone is holding it back. For now.
But why? What do they want? What are they waiting for?
"Carpenter!"
The coach's voice cuts through the rink like a blade. Sharp. Furious.
"My office. Now."
The locker room falls silent. Every head turns. Every eye follows me as I skate toward the tunnel.
The walk to Coach's office feels like a death march. Players part around me. No one speaks.
Inside, the door closes with a sound like a cell door slamming. Coach doesn't offer me a seat. Doesn't soften the blow with small talk.
"What the hell is going on with you?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Have no answer worth giving.
"You've missed two practices this month. Your performance is slipping. You're showing up hungover, distracted, playing like you've forgotten everything that got you here."
Each word lands like a punch.
"I can explain."
"I don't want explanations." He cuts me off. "I want results. I want the captain I gave that C to, not whatever this is."
He gestures at me. The mess I've become.
"You're letting this team down, Carpenter. Every single player who looks up to you. Every kid who has your poster on their wall."
My throat tightens. Can't speak around the shame lodging there.
"Get your shit together." His voice drops. Cold. Final. "I don't care what's going on in your personal life. Leave it at the door or don't come back."
"Coach…"
"This is your warning. Your only warning." He leans forward. "Shape up, or you're done. Not just as captain. Off the roster entirely."
The words hit like a physical blow. Knock the air from my lungs.
Off the roster. Cut from the team I've dedicated my entire life to. Everything I've sacrificed, everything I've hidden to protect—meaningless.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He waves toward the door. "Think carefully about your next steps. Dismissed."
I walk out on numb legs. The locker room is empty now. Everyone out on the ice. Practicing without their captain.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Unknown number. I know before I look: Eyes everywhere, Carpenter. Ears too. You should be more careful about who you trust.
The message stares up at me. Mocking. Threatening.
They're watching. Still watching. Whoever sent the original texts, whoever has those photos—they saw me last night. Saw me with Jackson. Saw everything.
And they're letting me know.
My hands won't stop shaking. The phone nearly slips from my grip.
Someone is hunting me. Circling closer with every passing day. Collecting evidence like ammunition. And I have no idea who. No idea what they want. No idea when they'll finally pull the trigger and destroy everything.
Ryan's hurt face flashes through my mind. The coach's warning. The articles already circulating.
I'm losing control. Losing everything I've worked for. Drowning in a spiral of my own making.
And whoever is watching, waiting, holding those photos—they're enjoying every second of it.
I lean against the lockers. Press my palms against my eyes.
Think. I need to think. Need to figure out who's behind this. Need to protect myself before they finish what they've started.
But my brain won't cooperate. Too foggy. Too panicked. Too broken.
The phone buzzes again: Tick tock, Captain.
My legs give out. I slide down the lockers until I'm sitting on the cold floor. Alone. Trapped. Running out of time. And absolutely no idea how to save myself.