Asher's POV
Jackson's been keeping me updated on the investigation—or what passes for one. His contact is still working to trace the source, he tells me, but the digital trail is more complex than expected.
Multiple routing servers, encrypted pathways, the kind of sophisticated setup that suggests someone with serious technical knowledge. But he can say with one hundred percent certainty that it wasn't Chad.
The timing doesn't match, the technical expertise doesn't fit, and there's no evidence of the necessary software on any of his devices. I'm an idiot who nearly destroyed a teammate's career over paranoid delusions.
The video finds me when my defenses are already crumbling.
I'm scrolling through social media mindlessly, a habit that's become as automatic as breathing, when it appears in my feed.
Some random bystander's post from downtown, shaky camera work that somehow makes it feel more intimate than professional footage would.
Blaze on one knee. Velvet box open, diamond catching the last light of sunset. Sophie's hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide with what the internet will interpret as joy.
The caption reads: Witnessed the most romantic proposal ever tonight! #LoveWins #SoulMates #BlazeWillson #Hockey
The comments overflow with heart emojis and congratulations from strangers who have no idea they're watching my world end in real time.
I watch it once. Twice. Seven times before I can breathe again. Each replay is a fresh knife between my ribs.
The way Blaze's voice carries across the water: Will you marry me? The crowd's eruption when Sophie whispers yes. The careful way he slides the ring onto her finger, like she's made of something precious that might break.
I should close the app. Should delete it entirely, throw my phone in a drawer, go for a run until my lungs burn and I can't think about anything except the next breath.
Instead, I grab my keys.
The bar I choose is deliberately anonymous—the kind of dive where nobody asks questions and the whiskey doesn't cost more than my hourly salary. I claim a corner stool and order three fingers of whatever's cheapest.
The burn down my throat doesn't touch the devastation spreading through my chest, but it's something. A different kind of pain to focus on.
"Another," I tell the bartender when the glass empties.
I'm halfway through my fourth drink, or maybe fifth, the count has gotten fuzzy, when I spot Chad at the other end of the bar. He's nursing a beer and watching some basketball game on the mounted TV, looking perfectly content to drink alone.
The tension between us thickens the air immediately. I can feel it from twenty feet away, that uncomfortable weight of unresolved conflict and mutual embarrassment.
I should leave him alone. Should finish my drink and go home to wallow in private like a reasonable adult.
Instead, I slide off my stool and make my way over.
"Chad."
He glances up, expression carefully neutral. "Asher."
"Can I..." I gesture at the empty stool beside him. "Or would you rather I fuck off?"
Chad considers for a moment, then shrugs. "Sit if you want. It's a free country."
I settle beside him, signaling the bartender for another whiskey. The silence stretches between us, filled with everything I said in that locker room and everything I can't take back.
"I owe you an apology," I say finally.
"You owe me a lot more than that, but an apology's a start."
"I was wrong. About the messages, the phone call, all of it." The words taste like ash. "Jackson confirmed you weren't involved, and I... I fucked up. Badly."
Chad takes a slow sip of his beer, studying my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "You thought I was stalking you electronically for months. That's a pretty specific kind of paranoia."
"I know how it sounds."
"It sounds like you're losing your shit." But his tone lacks the venom from earlier. Just stating facts. "Are you? Losing your shit?"
The honest answer sits heavy on my tongue. "Maybe. Probably."
"Well, at least you're self-aware." Chad turns to face me properly. "Look, what happened in that locker room was fucked up. You physically assaulted me based on a conspiracy theory. That's not something teammates do to each other."
"I know."
"But I also know what it's like to have your head messed with. So let's call it even and move on. No grudges. No drama. We focus on hockey and pretend the rest never happened."
Relief floods through me so intensely I almost laugh. "You'd do that?"
"Life's too short to carry grudges over stupid shit." Chad raises his beer bottle. "We good?"
"We're good," I agree, clinking my glass against his bottle.
The basketball game provides comfortable background noise as we drink in companionable silence. It's nice, this absence of tension. Like I can finally breathe properly for the first time in days.
"Want to step outside for a smoke?" Chad asks after finishing his beer. "I could use some air."
I don't smoke, but the prospect of fresh air sounds appealing. We make our way through the crowded bar to the back alley, where a few other patrons lean against brick walls with cigarettes and conversations.
Chad lights up, offering me the pack. I shake my head, content to just stand there and let the cool night air clear some of the whiskey fog from my brain.
"So what's eating you?" Chad asks, exhaling smoke into the darkness. "And don't say nothing. You look like someone killed your dog and made you watch."
The question catches me off guard. I wasn't expecting personal interest from someone I'd accused of psychological warfare six hours ago.
"It's complicated."
"Most things worth talking about are."
Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the relief of having one less enemy in my life. Maybe it's just the desperate need to tell someone, anyone, about the video I can't stop watching.
The words spill out—vague and nameless, but enough. A relationship that destroyed me. Someone I can't stop wanting despite knowing it's impossible. The way seeing them happy with someone else feels like drowning in slow motion.
"Sounds like you're stuck," Chad observes when I finish.
"Yeah. That's one way to put it."
"You know what the problem is with being stuck? You start thinking too much instead of just living your life."
Chad takes another drag, studying my face in the dim light from the bar's back window.
"Sometimes you need to stop overthinking and just... take what's in front of you."
His voice drops slightly on the last words, and something in his tone, the way he's looking at me, the careful space between us that suddenly feels charged, sends a jolt through my alcohol-soaked brain.
Is he...?
Before rational thought can intervene, I'm moving toward him. Closing the distance. Pressing my mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like whiskey and cigarettes and desperate hope.
Chad yanks back immediately, eyes wide with shock.
"Whoa, man... I'm not gay."
The ground opens beneath my feet. This is it. I'm finished. My career, my reputation, everything I've worked for—gone in one moment of catastrophic misjudgment.
"I... fuck, I'm sorry. I misread... I thought you were..." I can barely form coherent sentences.
But Chad just laughs, shaking his head like I'm an amusing puzzle he can't quite figure out.
"Relax, Carpenter. You look like you're about to have a heart attack."
"Please don't tell anyone. Please."
"Tell them what? That you kissed me?" Chad shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette. "I couldn't care less what anyone puts in their mouths. Not my business."
I stare at him, disbelief warring with desperate hope. "You're not going to...?"
Chad reads my expression and sighs. "Your secret dies with me, Carpenter. I don't do drama or gossip or any of that high school bullshit. I focus on hockey and my own shit."
"Why?"
"Because life's complicated enough without making other people's problems your entertainment." He drops his cigarette and crushes it under his heel. "We good?"
For the first time in weeks, I exhale fully. "We're good."
"Good. Now let's go back inside before someone thinks we're having some kind of moment out here."
As we head back toward the bar, I feel something I haven't experienced in months: the absence of one more weight on my chest.
One less secret threatening to destroy me. One less person I have to worry about.
It's not much, but right now, it feels like everything.