Asher’s POV
Practice should have my full attention.
We're running defensive formations. Complex plays that require focus. The kind of drills where one wrong step throws off the entire line.
Instead, I keep glancing at my phone between shifts.
Asher: Hey, want to grab food later?
Sent to Ryan two hours ago. The message sits there with a single checkmark. Delivered but not read.
I sent a follow-up thirty minutes later: You good?
Nothing. No response. No typing bubbles. Just silence stretching across the digital void.
"Carpenter! Head in the game!"
Coach's voice snaps me back. I shove my phone into my bag and hit the ice. Force my legs to move through the formations on autopilot.
But my mind won't cooperate. Keeps drifting back to the unanswered texts.
Yesterday we were fine. Better than fine. We had dinner at his place. Watched some documentary he's been wanting to show me. Fell asleep on his couch with his shoulder warm against mine.
We had a deal. Take it slow. Figure things out together. No pressure from either side.
So why the sudden cold shoulder? Did I do something wrong? Say something that pushed him away?
The irony hits me mid-stride. Sharp and unexpected. Nearly makes me stumble.
This is exactly what I did to Blaze.
For years. Hot one moment, distant the next. Responding to texts instantly sometimes. Ignoring them for days when fear got the better of me.
Leaving him wondering. Waiting. Never knowing where he stood with me.
Is this what it felt like?
The thought stings more than I expected. Burns somewhere deep in my chest where I keep all the things I refuse to examine.
Blaze must have checked his phone a thousand times. Must have typed messages he deleted. Must have stared at my silence and wondered what he did wrong.
When really, he did nothing. The problem was always me. Always my fear. My walls. My inability to let anyone close enough to matter.
And now Ryan is doing the same thing. Or maybe he's not. Maybe he's just busy. Maybe his phone died. Maybe I'm projecting my own guilt onto innocent silence.
But the uncertainty gnaws at me. Not knowing. The waiting.
Karma's a bitch. That's what this is. The universe serving up exactly what I dished out for years.
"Looking good out there, Cap!"
Jackson glides over during a water break. All easy charm and effortless confidence. His smile is wide. Friendly. The perfect teammate.
"You seem tense though." He tilts his head. Studies me with those sharp eyes. "A big game is coming up. You need to loosen up."
"I'm fine."
The lie comes automatically. Smooth and practiced. I've been saying it so long I almost believe it.
"Sure you are." Jackson's grin widens. He clearly doesn't buy it. "Listen, the boys are hitting a bar tonight. Team bonding before we destroy Ottawa next week."
Ottawa.
The word lands like a punch to the solar plexus.
Blaze.
His name echoes through my mind. Uninvited. Unwelcome. Bringing memories I've been trying to bury.
The rain. His hands cupping my face. That kiss in the alley that tasted like desperation and finality.
That was goodbye, Ash.
His voice haunts me still. Plays on repeat during quiet moments when I can't distract myself fast enough.
I'm done chasing the past.
He walked away. Disappeared into the rain. Left me standing there with nothing but regret and the ghost of his lips on mine.
I shove the memory down. Force it into the box where I keep everything that hurts too much to examine.
"So?" Jackson nudges my shoulder. "You in? Could be good for morale. Show the guys their captain's still human."
I should say no. Should go home and stare at my phone. Wait for Ryan to respond. Spiral into anxiety about silence that probably means nothing.
"Yeah." The word escapes before I can stop it. "I'm in."
Jackson claps my shoulder. The gesture is warm. Encouraging.
"That's my captain." His smile reaches his eyes. "We'll show those Ottawa bastards what Boston's made of."
He skates off to spread the word. Leaves me standing at the boards with my thoughts circling like vultures.
Ottawa. Blaze. The man I loved for four, probably even more years. The man who finally gave up on waiting for me to be brave.
Can I face him on the ice? Look into those brown eyes and pretend he's just another opponent?
I have to. There's no other choice.
The whistle blows. Practice resumes. I force my body through the remaining drills with mechanical precision.
Blaze still haunts me. Probably always will. His ghost lives in my chest now. Permanent resident in the wreckage he left behind.
But I can't let it consume me anymore. Can't keep spiraling every time his name surfaces. Can't keep destroying myself over someone who chose to walk away.
Hockey. That's what matters. That's what's always mattered.
The one constant in my disaster of a life. The ice doesn't judge. Doesn't demand emotional availability. Doesn't walk away when I fail to be brave enough.
My personal life is a catastrophe. Fine. I'll accept that. I'll accept that I might never figure out how to love someone without destroying them in the process.
But on the ice? On the ice, I'm untouchable.
Every broken piece of myself becomes fuel. Every wound becomes a weapon. Every failure transforms into determination that borders on obsession.
I'll channel all of it. The guilt over Ryan. The grief over Blaze. The fear that's been choking me for months.
I'll pour it into destroying every team that stands in my way.
Starting with Ottawa. Starting with Blaze.
If I can't have him, I'll beat him. Prove that walking away was his loss. Show him exactly what he gave up when he left me in that rain.
Petty? Maybe. Unhealthy? Definitely. But that's all I have left.
Hockey gave me everything. Identity. Purpose. A reason to exist when nothing else made sense.
It can carry me through this too. Has to. Because the alternative is drowning. And I'm so tired of drowning.
Practice ends. I shower on autopilot. Check my phone one more time.
Still nothing from Ryan.
The sting is familiar now. Almost comfortable in its predictability. People leave. People go silent. People give up.
That's just how it works when you're someone like me. Someone who takes and takes without knowing how to give.
I pocket my phone. Head for the parking lot. Let the cold air bite my cheeks.
Tonight I'll drink with my teammates. Pretend to be normal. Laugh at jokes I don't find funny.
Tomorrow I'll train harder. Skate faster. Hit meaner.
And next week, I'll face Blaze across enemy ice. Look into those brown eyes and feel nothing.
That's the plan, anyway.
I just have to survive long enough to execute it.