Blaze’s POV
The campus dining hall is packed with students, but Jackson and I have claimed our usual corner table.
Jackson's been my closest friend since freshman year at my old college. We met during tryouts, bonded over late-night practices and shared ambition, won two championships side by side. When I decided to transfer here—to chase a promise I made when I was ten years old—he transferred with me. No questions asked. That's the kind of loyalty he's always shown.
So why does his concern feel different lately?
He's picking at his food, watching me with that calculating look I've learned to recognize over three years of friendship.
"You've been different since we got here," he says finally. "Distracted. Off your game."
I shrug, stabbing at my pasta. "New team, new dynamics. Takes time to adjust."
"Bullshit." He leans forward, voice dropping. "It's Carpenter. Ever since you saw him again, you've been... I don't know. Not yourself."
"We have history. I told you that before we transferred."
"History." Jackson rolls the word around like he's tasting it. "Except you don't look at him like a childhood friend, Blaze. You look at him like..."
He trails off, but the implication hangs heavy between us.
"Like what?" I keep my voice neutral.
Jackson studies me. "Just be careful. We've been winning together for two years. Don't let old attachments mess that up."
Old attachments. Like Asher is just some relic from my past instead of the reason I transferred across the country.
"I know what I'm doing," I say.
"Do you?" Jackson's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're losing your head over some guy who can't decide if he wants to punch you or—" He stops, shrugs. "Whatever. Just don't forget what we came here for."
The conversation loops in my head long after lunch ends. Jackson's words. That strange edge underneath the concern.
Since when does Jackson care about my attachments? Since when does he look at me like I'm a problem to be managed?
I need to clear my head. The rink is the only place that ever quiets my thoughts.
It's our day off—no practice scheduled—so the arena should be empty. Perfect. Just me and the ice and the silence.
Except when I push through the doors, the arena isn't empty.
A single figure moves across the ice, stick connecting with pucks in a rhythm I'd recognize anywhere. Asher. Of course it's Asher. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I consider leaving. Turning around before he notices me.
Instead, I lace up my skates.
He doesn't acknowledge me when I step onto the ice. Just keeps running drills, jaw tight, movements sharp with barely contained energy. But I see the tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes track me in his peripheral vision.
"Didn't expect company," I say, skating closer.
"Neither did I."
"Want me to leave?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "No."
The word settles between us, unexpected. A crack in the wall he's been building since I arrived.
We fall into an unspoken rhythm. Passing drills first, the puck sliding between us with increasing precision. Then skating formations, our bodies moving in sync like we're reading each other's minds.
This. This is what I came for.
We push harder. Racing each other down the ice, competing for the puck, bodies checking into boards with increasing intensity. It's aggressive, almost violent—and underneath it all, something electric that crackles between us every time we get too close.
I'm chasing him into the corner when it happens.
My skate catches on a rough patch of ice. I stumble forward, crashing into Asher's back. He loses his balance, and suddenly we're both going down—a tangle of limbs and equipment and surprised grunts.
We hit the ice hard. I end up on top of him, my hands braced on either side of his head, our bodies pressed together from chest to thigh. His eyes are wide, startled, that ice-blue gaze inches from mine.
Neither of us moves.
I should get up. Should laugh it off, make a joke, put distance between us. That's what a sane person would do.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
"Ash." His name comes out rougher than intended.
His breath catches. I watch his throat work as he swallows, watch his eyes flicker down to my mouth before snapping back up. His chest rises and falls against mine, rapid and uneven.
"We should—" he starts.
"Yeah." I don't move.
The air between us feels charged, heavy with something I've been fighting for years. His lips are right there. Parted. Close enough to taste if I just leaned in—
His hand comes up. I think he's going to push me away. Instead, his fingers curl into my jersey, holding on. Pulling me closer instead of pushing me back.
My heart stops.
"Blaze." My name sounds different in his voice. Desperate. Scared. Wanting.
I lower my head, slowly, giving him every chance to stop this. Our noses brush. I feel his shaky exhale against my lips—
The arena doors bang open.
We spring apart so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. I push myself to my feet, heart hammering, blood roaring in my ears.
Footsteps echo through the empty arena. A janitor rounds the corner, pushing a cart of cleaning supplies. He barely glances at us.
"Arena's closing early today," he calls out. "Gotta clear out in ten."
"Yeah." My voice comes out strangled. "Thanks."
He disappears into the back rooms. The silence is deafening.
I turn to Asher.
He hasn't moved. He's still sitting on the ice where he landed, knees bent, hands braced behind him. Staring at nothing. His chest rises and falls too fast, and even from here I can see the slight tremor in his fingers.
He's in shock. We both are.
"Ash?" I crouch down slowly. "You okay?"
He doesn't answer. Just keeps staring at the spot where my face was seconds ago. Where our lips almost touched.
"Ash." I reach out, let my fingers brush his arm. He flinches but doesn't pull away.
"What was that?" His voice comes out hoarse. Barely above a whisper. "What the hell was that?"
I don't have an answer. Or rather, I have too many—years of them, desperate to break free.
"I don't know," I lie.
His eyes finally meet mine. Blue and terrified and searching for something I'm not sure I can give him. "I almost—we almost—"
"Yeah."
"I don't—" He swallows hard. "I don't know what that means."
"It doesn't have to mean anything right now." I keep my voice gentle. "We don't have to figure it out tonight."
He's quiet for a long moment. The janitor's footsteps echo somewhere in the distance, a reminder that our time here is running out.
Finally, Asher takes a shaky breath. "We should go."
"Yeah." I stand, offer him my hand.
He stares at it. At my fingers, still bruised from beating Marcus.
Then he takes it.
I pull him to his feet, and we stand there for a beat too long, hands still clasped. Neither of us lets go.
"Come on," I say quietly. "I'll walk you out."
We skate to the exit in silence. Change out of our gear side by side, movements slow, careful not to touch again. The air between us feels different now—charged with something neither of us is ready to name.
When we finally push through the arena doors into the cold night, Asher stops.
"Blaze."
"Yeah?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Whatever he was going to say, he swallows it back down.
"Nothing," he murmurs. "Just... thanks. For not making it weird."
I almost laugh. Nothing about this isn't weird.