Asher’s POV
The press room is blinding.
Lights everywhere. Camera flashes popping like gunfire. Microphones pointed at the long table like weapons ready to fire.
Banners hang from every wall. "CARPENTER VS WILSON: RIVALRY OF THE DECADE." The NHL marketing team outdid themselves. Turned two broken men into a spectacle.
I take my seat at the table. Adjust the microphone. Try to ignore the sweat already forming on my palms.
Then Blaze drops into the chair beside me.
Too close. The table is too small. The chairs positioned too near. Some PR person's idea of creating "dynamic tension" for the cameras.
They have no idea what kind of tension they've created.
I can smell his cologne. The same one he's worn for years. Sandalwood and something citrus. The scent that used to cling to my pillows. That still haunts me in weak moments.
He doesn't look at me. Adjusts his own microphone. Settles into his chair like this is just another obligation.
Maybe for him it is. Maybe goodbye actually meant goodbye.
"Gentlemen, thank you for being here." The moderator beams at us both. Perfectly coiffed hair. Practiced smile. "Let's talk about this legendary rivalry."
Legendary. That's what they call it. What we've become in the public eye.
Two captains. Two teams. One story that sells tickets and drives ratings and makes the league very, very happy.
Questions fly from every direction. Reporters hungry for sound bites.
"How does it feel facing your former teammate?"
"What's your strategy against each other?"
"Any bad blood between you two?"
I deliver rehearsed answers. Professional. Empty. The same responses I've given a hundred times before.
"Blaze is a talented player. We push each other to be better."
"Our strategy is the same as always. Play our game. Execute the plan."
"No bad blood. Just healthy competition."
Lies wrapped in media-friendly packaging. Everyone in this room believes them.
Under the table, Blaze's knee shifts as he presses against mine. Warm through two layers of fabric. The contact sends electricity up my spine.
My breath catches. Barely perceptible. I don't move away. Neither does he.
"Some say your rivalry goes beyond hockey." A reporter in the front row leans forward. Hungry for something juicier than rehearsed platitudes. "Care to comment on that intensity?"
Blaze leans into the microphone. All charm on full display. That smile that makes fans swoon and sponsors write checks.
"Asher just brings out the best in me." He shrugs casually. "What can I say? Some people inspire you to work harder."
Laughter ripples through the room. The reporters eat it up. Classic Wilson deflection.
I force a smirk. Play my part in the performance.
"Wilson talks a lot. Always has. I prefer letting my game speak for itself."
More laughter. More scribbling in notebooks. The rivalry narrative writing itself.
Under the table, Blaze's knee presses harder. Intentional now. No way to mistake it for an accident.
A question. A challenge. A reminder that whatever we say up here, our bodies remember the truth.
I should pull away. Should break the contact. Should protect myself from this particular form of torture. Instead, I press back. Just slightly. Just enough to answer.
I feel it too. I hate that I feel it too.
My throat is dry. I reach for the water bottle positioned between our microphones.
Blaze reaches at the same moment. Our fingers brush against the plastic. Linger there longer than necessary. His skin is warm against mine.
The touch is brief. Maybe two seconds. But it detonates something in my chest.
I jerk my hand back like I've been burned. Grab a different bottle. Pretend nothing happened. Blaze's jaw tightens. Almost imperceptibly. A micro-expression only I would notice.
He felt it too. The electricity. The impossibility of being this close and pretending we're strangers.
The reporters notice something. I see it in their faces. The way pens move faster across notebooks. The way eyes narrow with curiosity.
They smell blood in the water. Can sense that something just happened even if they don't know what.
"You two have incredible chemistry on the ice." Another journalist speaks slowly. Choosing words carefully. "Even as rivals. The way you anticipate each other's moves. Where does that come from?"
Silence. A beat too long. The kind of pause that makes people lean forward.
I scramble for an answer that doesn't reveal everything. That doesn't expose years of learning each other's bodies in ways that have nothing to do with hockey.
"Years of practice," I manage finally. Voice steady despite the chaos inside. "When you face someone enough times, you learn their patterns. Their tendencies."
"Knowing your enemy," I add. The word tastes wrong on my tongue. Bitter and false.
"Is that what you are?" The reporter tilts her head. Studies us both with sharp eyes. "Enemies?"
The question hangs in the air. Heavy with implication. The whole room waits for an answer.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Blaze leans toward his microphone. His voice is quiet. Different from the charm he's been projecting all afternoon.
"That's one word for it."
Something in his tone makes my chest ache. The exhaustion underneath. The weight of everything we can't say in a room full of cameras.
The moderator clears his throat. Senses that the energy has shifted into dangerous territory.
"Well, I think that's all the time we have today, folks!" His cheerfulness sounds forced now. "Thank you both for joining us. We're all looking forward to the game!"
Chairs scrape. Reporters start packing equipment. The controlled chaos of a press event ending.
Blaze stands first. Doesn't look at me. Walks toward the exit with that easy stride that always made him look like he owned every room.
I stay seated for an extra moment. Need the time to compose myself. To rebuild the walls that crumbled the instant his knee touched mine.
When I finally stand, he's already gone. Disappeared through the door like he couldn't wait to escape.
Like sitting next to me was its own form of torture.
I gather my things. Nod at the few reporters who try to catch my attention for follow-up questions. Make my excuses. Head for the exit.
The hallway outside is quiet. Blaze is nowhere in sight. Probably already in his team's designated area. Surrounded by handlers who keep us separated.
I lean against the wall. Press my palm against my thigh where his knee was. The fabric is cool now. No trace of the warmth that burned through it minutes ago.
But I still feel it. Ghost sensation that won't fade. Phantom touch from a man who said goodbye and meant it.
That's one word for it.
His voice echoes in my head. The sadness underneath the deflection. The exhaustion I recognized because I feel it too.
We're not enemies. Not really. Enemies don't make your chest ache with want. Don't haunt your dreams. Don't turn press conferences into minefields.
We're something worse. Something that doesn't have a name.
Two people who loved each other and couldn't make it work. Who keep circling back no matter how many times they try to walk away.
The game is tomorrow. Hours away. I'll face him across enemy ice. Look into those brown eyes and pretend he's just another opponent.
I've been pretending my whole life. What's one more performance?
My knee still burns where he touched me. I'm starting to think it always will.