Asher's POV
I watch the brawl unfold from the bench like a slow-motion car crash I can't look away from.
One second Blaze and Jackson are skating past each other during a routine stoppage. The next, Blaze is throwing punches like his life depends on it, his face twisted with a rage I've never seen before.
"Holy shit," Chad mutters beside me. "What the hell set him off?"
I can't answer because my stomach has dropped somewhere around my ankles. This isn't normal hockey fighting—quick, strategic, designed to send a message. This is personal. Raw. The kind of violence that comes from something deeper than sport.
When Blaze brings his stick down across Jackson's helmet, the arena goes dead silent for a heartbeat. Then the boos erupt from our home crowd, mixed with shocked gasps from the Ottawa fans.
"Wilson's lost his fucking mind," someone says behind me.
I watch the refs escort Blaze off the ice, his knuckles bleeding, his chest heaving like he's just run a marathon. He doesn't look back. Doesn't acknowledge the crowd or his teammates or anyone else.
Just disappears into the tunnel like a ghost.
The moment Jackson settles back onto the bench, after the team doctor clears him for a possible concussion, I turn to him with barely contained anger.
"What did you say to him?"
Jackson touches the side of his helmet where Blaze's stick connected, wincing slightly. "Nothing. Just regular trash talk."
"Bullshit." I lean closer, lowering my voice so the guys around us can't hear. "I've seen Blaze play for years. He doesn't lose it like that over regular trash talk."
"Guy's been unstable since his injury," Jackson says with a shrug. "Probably just couldn't handle being back on the ice. Some players crack under pressure."
"That's not…"
"Look, Ash, I get that you two have history. But this isn't about you. Wilson's got his own demons to deal with."
There's something in Jackson's tone that doesn't sit right. A flicker of satisfaction in his eyes that disappears too quickly, replaced by concern that feels performative.
I file it away, a seed of suspicion taking root in my chest.
My gaze drifts across the rink to where Blaze sits in the penalty box, waiting for the official ejection paperwork. Sophie has descended from the stands somehow, her face pinched with worry as she hovers near the glass.
Security lets her through, family privileges, probably, and she kneels beside Blaze's seat. Her hands cup his face gently, thumb brushing beneath a cut above his eyebrow that I hadn't noticed before. She's speaking softly, words I can't hear from this distance.
But Blaze isn't looking at her. He's looking at me.
Our eyes lock across the expanse of ice and empty seats, and neither of us looks away. Even with Sophie's hands on his face, even with twenty thousand people watching, he stares at me like I'm the only person in the arena.
Something twists in my chest—part pain, part longing, part confusion about why he fought Jackson in the first place.
The game continues around us, but I barely register the plays. My attention keeps drifting to that penalty box, to the way Blaze's shoulders are set with tension, to the careful way Sophie tends to his injuries like he's made of glass.
Boston wins 4-2. I score once in the third period, but it feels hollow and mechanical.
After the final buzzer, while my teammates celebrate in our locker room, I slip away. I tell myself I need to know what really happened out there. Tell myself it's about professional courtesy—checking on an injured opponent.
I find Blaze alone in the visitor's locker room, sitting on the bench with his head in his hands. His knuckles are wrapped in medical tape, and there's a butterfly bandage over his eyebrow.
"Decided to destroy your career before officially ending it?" I ask, my voice coming out colder than I intended.
Blaze looks up, unsurprised to see me. "Something like that."
"What the hell was that about? Jackson says it was just trash talk, but I've never seen you lose control like that."
"Jackson," Blaze repeats, something dark flickering across his face. "Yeah, he would say that."
"So what really happened?"
Blaze is quiet for a long moment, staring at his wrapped hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and honest.
"He said something about you. About us." He looks up, brown eyes meeting mine. "I didn't like it."
Something cracks in my chest. "What did he say?"
"Does it matter? It was bullshit designed to get under my skin. And it worked."
The admission hangs in the air between us. Blaze fought Jackson because of something about me. Threw away his comeback game, risked suspension and fines, all because someone talked shit about us.
Before I can stop myself, before I can think about what I'm doing, I'm moving toward the first aid station in the corner of the room.
"What are you doing?" Blaze asks.
"That bandage is shit." I grab a clean rag and antiseptic, then sit beside him on the bench. "You're going to get an infection."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You just beat the hell out of someone with a hockey stick." I turn to face him, our knees brushing. "Let me look at it."
Blaze goes very still as I reach up to peel away the butterfly bandage. The cut isn't deep, but it's still bleeding sluggishly. I tilt his face toward the overhead light, dabbing carefully at the wound.
This close, I can count the faint freckles scattered across his nose. Can see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Can smell his familiar scent—sweat and adrenaline and something uniquely him that I've never been able to forget.
"Your bedside manner needs work," Blaze says quietly, but there's no bite to it.
"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly planning on a career in medicine." I apply a fresh bandage, my fingers gentle against his skin. "Good thing you've got a thick skull."
Blaze huffs out a laugh—warm and familiar and so achingly nostalgic it makes my chest tight. "My mom always said that was my best feature."
"Your mom has questionable taste."
"Ouch. And here I thought you were being nice to me."
"Don't get used to it. This is purely medical."
But even as I say it, neither of us moves away. My hand is still cupped against his jaw, thumb unconsciously tracing the line of his cheekbone. His eyes are fixed on mine, dark and intense in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
For a moment, we're just us again. Not rivals. Not enemies. Not the broken pieces of something that used to be beautiful.
Just Asher and Blaze, sitting close enough to share breath, the rest of the world faded to background noise.
"There," I murmur, but I don't pull away. "Good as new."
"Thanks," he whispers back.
Our eyes meet. Hold. The moment stretches between us, soft and fragile as spun glass. I can see the exact instant when something shifts in Blaze's expression—when professional courtesy becomes something else entirely.
He's going to kiss me. I can see it in the way his gaze drops to my mouth, in the way he leans infinitesimally closer.
And God help me, I want him to.
Then reality crashes back in like cold water. We both realize how long we've been staring, how close we're sitting, how easy it would be for someone to walk in and find us like this.
The spell shatters.
I jerk back, dropping my hand from his face like I've been burned. "I should go. Team's probably wondering where I am."
"Right," Blaze says, his voice rough. "Of course."
I stand up too quickly, nearly knocking over the first aid supplies. "Take care of yourself, Wilson."
"You too, Carpenter."
I'm halfway to the door when his voice stops me.
"Asher?"
I turn back, and the vulnerability in his expression nearly undoes me.
"Thanks. For..." He gestures vaguely at his bandaged eyebrow. "For this."
"Don't mention it," I say, then escape into the corridor before I do something stupid.
Like stay. Like ask what Jackson really said. Like kiss him the way I've wanted to for the past year and a half.
Some moments are too dangerous to hold onto. Even the beautiful ones. Especially the beautiful ones.