Asher’s POV
The arena thrums with electric energy.
Twenty thousand fans pack the stands. Their voices merge into a single roar that vibrates through the ice beneath my skates. Cameras line every angle. Flashbulbs pop like distant lightning.
Rivalry night. Boston versus Ottawa. The matchup everyone's been waiting for.
I go through warm-up drills on autopilot. Stretches. Passes. Shots on goal. My body knows the routine. My mind is elsewhere entirely.
Scanning the crowd. It doesn't take long to find her. Sophie was there in the front row, center ice. She waves at Blaze with that wide smile of hers. Blaze waves back. Grins like she hung the moon just for him.
My stomach turns violently.
She's not as innocent as she pretends. I know it in my bones. And Blaze is too blindfolded by his family's sudden acceptance to see the truth.
"Carpenter! Stop daydreaming and focus on the game!" Coach's voice cuts through my distraction.
"Yes, sir."
The buzzer sounds. Warm-ups end. Both teams retreat to their benches for final instructions.
"Listen up," Coach barks. "They're going to come out physical. Match their intensity. Take the body every chance you get."
My focus keeps drifting to the front row. To dark hair and darker intentions hiding behind stylish clothes.
Martinez leans over to me. "You good, Cap? You look somewhere else tonight."
"I'm fine. Focus on your assignments."
The puck drops. The game begins.
I play hard. Throw myself into every shift with desperate intensity. Channel all the chaos churning inside me into something productive.
But my eyes keep betraying me. Drifting to Sophie between plays. Watching. Waiting for her to slip up.
She doesn't.
Just watches the game like everyone else. Cheering when Ottawa scores. Groaning when they miss. Her eyes track Blaze's every movement across the ice.
Never once does she glance at me. Not even when I'm directly in front of her section. Not even when our eyes should naturally meet.
"Wilson's girlfriend seems nervous," Davidson mutters during a stoppage. "Keeps checking her phone."
My blood runs cold. "What?"
"Probably texting friends about the game."
First period ends. Tied at one. The locker room buzzes with adrenaline. Coach adjusts strategy. Emphasizes physicality.
"They're getting too comfortable out there. Make them uncomfortable. Make them earn every inch of ice."
I barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears. Second period begins. Physical from the first whistle. Brutal in ways that border on dangerous.
Bodies crash into boards. Sticks clash. Elbows fly in corners. The ice becomes a war zone.
"Nice hit, Cap!" someone shouts after I send an Ottawa winger into the glass.
I don't respond. Can't. My focus keeps fracturing. Splitting between the game and that front-row seat.
The score stays knotted. Every goal answered. Neither team giving ground. Jackson skates past during a line change. His voice is casual. Almost bored.
"That girl with Wilson—she even watching the game? Or too busy on her phone ruining someone's career?"
The words land like a grenade detonating in my skull. I stumble. Nearly miss my step onto the bench.
"What did you say?" I turn to stare at Jackson but he's already gone. Disappeared into the chaos of shifting lines.
My mind races. Spirals. Connects dots that may or may not exist.
Sophie. The anonymous texts. The threats that started appearing out of nowhere. "Hope nothing unfortunate happens."
She appeared right when the messages began. Inserted herself into Blaze's life with suspicious timing. Got close to his family. Close to his secrets.
Close to mine.
It's her. It has to be her.
Rage floods my system. Hot and blinding. Mixing with fear until I can't tell them apart.
"Carpenter, you're up! Move!" Coach's voice barely registers. The whistle blows. My line jumps over the boards.
"Stay tight on their center," Davidson says beside me. "He's been killing us on faceoffs."
I nod. Say nothing. My vision keeps blurring at the edges.
Play resumes. The puck moves fast. The bodies collide, and I’m skating as I’m hunting, and taunting.
Someone has the puck along the boards. Ottawa jersey. That's all I register. Orange and black. The enemy.
I see a jersey. Not a number. Not a face. I charge.
Build momentum. Lower my shoulder. Commit to the hit with everything I have.
The angle is wrong. I know it even as I launch. Too low. Too vicious. Coming from the blind side. But I can't stop. Can't pull back. The impact is devastating.
My shoulder connects with brutal force. The body crumples instantly. Folds in ways that look fundamentally wrong. Slides across the ice in a tangle of limbs.
Doesn't get up.
Whistles scream from every direction. The crowd gasps as one.
"Oh shit," someone breathes nearby. "Oh shit, that's bad."
I stumble backward. Disoriented. The rage clears like fog burning off. As soon as my vision sharpens, it becomes clear to my eye what happened.
Number 78.
The C stitched above the number catches the arena lights. Ottawa's captain.
Blaze. Writhing on the ice. Both hands clutching his leg. Face twisted in agony.
"Get medical out here! Now!" A referee's voice cracks with urgency.
The arena falls deathly silent. That particular quiet that only comes when something terrible has happened. When entertainment becomes tragedy.
"Blaze! Oh my God, Blaze!" Sophie's scream cuts through everything from the stands. "Someone help him!"
Medical staff rush onto the ice. Orange jerseys surround their fallen captain. Voices shout instructions I can't process.
"Don't move him! Stabilize the leg first!"
"Get the stretcher ready!"
Blood roars in my ears. Deafening. Drowning out everything else. My legs won't move. Frozen to the ice like I've grown roots. Like my skates have fused with the frozen surface beneath them.
"Carpenter." Davidson's hand grips my shoulder. "Ash, what happened? Why did you do that?"
I didn't see. I didn't know. I didn't—
"That was a bad hit, man." His voice sounds distant. Horrified. "That was really bad."
The thoughts fragment and hatter before they can form completely. I hit Blaze. Full speed. Blind side. The kind of check that ends seasons. Ends careers.
Because I was looking at the crowd instead of the ice. Because paranoia about Sophie consumed me completely.
Because I forgot who was wearing that jersey.
"Is he okay?" My voice doesn't sound like mine. "Is he—"
"Does he look okay to you?"
Blaze's head turns. His eyes find mine across the ice. Pain. Blinding, overwhelming pain beyond physical injury.
Confusion. Why? How could you?
Betrayal. The deepest cut. The one that will scar long after bones heal. The man I love is lying broken on the ice. And I'm the one who put him there.
Not Sophie. Not Jackson. Not anonymous threats.
Me.
I did this.
"Carpenter!" The referee skates toward me. "You're done. Game misconduct. Get off the ice."
I don't move. Can't move. Everything narrows to those brown eyes filled with agony.
My chest caves in. The weight of this moment crushes me where I stand.
What have I done?