Blaze’s POV
The arena hums with electric anticipation, twenty thousand voices creating a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest.
I stand in the tunnel leading to the ice, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the persistent stiffness that's become my constant companion since the injury.
My first real game back. Not a practice scrimmage or a charity exhibition—a real game, with real stakes, against a team that matters.
Against Boston. Against Asher.
"You ready for this?" Coach Martinez appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand, his weathered face creased with concern. "You sure you want to start? We could ease you back in, have you play limited minutes—"
"I'm ready," I cut him off. "I need to be out there."
He studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Alright. But if something doesn't feel right, you tell me immediately. No heroics."
"No heroics," I agree, though we both know it's a lie.
The tunnel fills with the sounds of skates on concrete as my teammates prepare for the opening ceremony. I close my eyes and try to center myself, to find that familiar pre-game focus that used to come as naturally as breathing.
Instead, all I can think about is the last time I saw Asher. Three days ago in that empty corridor, the words he couldn't say hanging between us like ghosts.
"Hey."
I open my eyes to find Sophie at my side, her smile bright and encouraging despite the chaos around us. She looks beautiful in her team colors, hair pulled back, wearing the jersey with my name and number that I gave her months ago.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, reaching up to straighten my collar.
"Nervous," I admit. "It's been a long time."
"You're going to be amazing out there. I know it." She rises on her toes and presses a soft kiss to my lips. "I'll be watching from the family section. Cheering loud enough for both of us."
The kiss is sweet, familiar and grounding. Everything I should need to focus on the game ahead.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Asher is walking past, close enough that there's no way he missed Sophie's kiss. His ice-blue eyes flicker toward us for just a fraction of a second—so brief I almost convince myself I imagined it.
His face reveals nothing. Just a carefully constructed mask of indifference that I recognize from years of watching him navigate situations he'd rather avoid.
Without a word, Asher pulls his helmet on and continues walking toward the ice. He doesn't look back. Doesn't acknowledge my existence beyond that split-second glance.
I watch him disappear around the corner, something heavy settling in my chest like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake.
"Blaze?" Sophie's voice brings me back. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine." I force a smile. "Just game nerves."
She squeezes my hand once before heading toward the stands, and I'm left alone with my teammates and the weight of everything I'm trying not to think about.
The game itself is brutal from the first shift.
My body doesn't move the way it used to—slower, more hesitant, constantly second-guessing every decision. The timing that once felt instinctive is off by milliseconds that feel like hours on the ice.
"Wilson! Pick up the pace!" Coach's voice cuts through the arena noise during a line change. "You're dragging out there!"
He's not wrong. I can feel it in every stride, every turn, every failed attempt to find the rhythm that used to define my game. The injury healed, according to the doctors. The physical therapy worked.
But something deeper is broken, something that can't be fixed with exercises and cortisone shots.
"You good, Cap?" Tommy asks as we set up for a face-off. "You seem off tonight."
"Just rusty," I lie. "First game back."
"Take your time. We got your back."
But I can see the concern in his eyes. The same concern I've been seeing in everyone's faces for weeks now. They're all waiting for the old Blaze Wilson to resurface, and I'm starting to wonder if he's gone for good.
The frustration builds with every shift, every missed pass, every opportunity that slips through my fingers like water. This isn't how it was supposed to go. This was supposed to be my triumphant return, proof that I could come back stronger than ever.
Instead, I'm playing like a shadow of my former self.
In the second period, during a stoppage in play, Jackson Blake glides past close enough that only I can hear him. His voice is casual, conversational, like he's commenting on the weather.
"Pathetic, really," he says, not looking at me directly. "How much you still affect him."
My blood turns to ice. "What?"
"Asher. Poor guy can barely function when you're around. It's actually kind of sad to watch." Jackson's smile is all teeth, predatory and cold. "Lucky for him, I've been there to pick up the pieces. In more ways than one, if you know what I mean."
The words hit like physical blows. The implication behind them—that Jackson has taken my place not just as Asher's teammate, but in his bed—makes my vision tunnel.
"You're lying."
"Am I? You saw how he looked at you in that tunnel tonight. Like you were nothing. Like you never mattered."
Jackson's laugh is genuinely amused. "Took a while, but I finally helped him see the reason. Helped him understand that some people just aren't worth the trouble."
Something snaps inside my chest. Some last thread of self-control that's been holding me together for months.
I don't remember dropping my gloves. Don't remember the first punch. Only know the satisfying crack of my fist connecting with Jackson's face, the shock that flickers across his features as he realizes what's happening.
"You piece of shit!" I roar, grabbing him by the jersey.
Chaos erupts around us. Players from both teams converge, shouting, grabbing at us. The refs blow their whistles frantically, but I barely hear them over the roar of blood in my ears.
Jackson tries to fight back, but he's not expecting the fury that pours out of me. Years of suppressed rage and pain and jealousy find their target in his smug face.
When he goes down, I don't stop.
My stick is in my hands somehow, and before anyone can intervene, I bring it down hard across his helmet. The impact reverberates up my arms, crossing every line of acceptable behavior on the ice.
"Wilson! Stop!" The referees are on me now, pulling me away from Jackson's motionless form. "That's enough!"
I'm escorted off the ice to a chorus of boos from the Boston crowd and shocked silence from my own fans. My knuckles are bleeding, my jersey torn, my chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline.
As I reach the tunnel, I catch one last glimpse of Asher on the bench. He's staring at me with an expression I can't read—surprise, maybe, or something that might be concern.
Then I'm in the locker room, alone except for the team doctor who's examining my hands.
"What the hell was that about?" he asks, cleaning the cuts on my knuckles.
I don't answer. Can't explain that hearing Jackson talk about Asher that way—about taking my place in his life, in his bed—made something primitive and territorial rise up in me.
Can't admit that despite everything, despite Sophie and the life we're building together, I'm still so fucking in love with Asher Carpenter that the thought of someone else touching him makes me want to burn the world down.
The penalty will be severe. Suspension, probably. Fines or worst case scenario, Media scrutiny.
I don't regret a single second.