Blaze’s POV
Team dinners are supposed to be fun. Bonding before the championship push.
So why does this one feel like walking into a minefield?
We've taken over the back section of an Italian restaurant downtown—twenty guys crammed around pushed-together tables, loud and raucous. The noise is deafening, bread baskets being passed and stolen and fought over.
I settle into a chair near the middle, scanning the room for the one face I actually want to see.
Then Asher slides into the seat directly across from me.
Our eyes meet. Brief. Charged. A silent acknowledgment before he looks down at his menu. But I catch the faint color rising in his cheeks. The way his fingers tighten on the laminated edges.
The table is narrow. I stretch my legs, and my knee bumps against Asher's under the tablecloth.
He goes completely still.
I don't move away. Hold my breath.
He doesn't move either.
The contact is small, hidden beneath red-checkered fabric while teammates argue about appetizers above us. But it feels monumental. A secret pressed between our bodies, electric and terrifying. I can still feel him from that night in his shower—still hear the sounds he made, the way he said my name.
"You're staring at the menu like it personally offended you," I say, forcing my voice to stay light.
Asher's lips twitch. "Just trying to decide if I want to carb-load or pretend I have self-control."
"Get the pasta. Championship's in two weeks. You've earned carbs."
"Is that captain's orders?"
"Consider it strong encouragement." I press my knee against his again—deliberate this time—and watch the flush creep up his neck. "Unless you need me to make it an order, Ashy."
His eyes snap to mine. Dark. Warning. But underneath the glare, I see heat. Want. The same desperate hunger I've been drowning in since he fell apart in my hands.
"Don't start something you can't finish," he murmurs, so low I barely catch it.
"Who says I can't finish it?"
His throat bobs. Under the table, his knee presses back against mine. Harder. A challenge.
My heart slams against my ribs. We're playing with fire in the middle of a crowded restaurant, surrounded by teammates, and I've never felt more alive.
"Mind if I sit here?"
Jackson's voice slices through the moment like a blade.
Before I can respond, he's already pulling a chair up beside me, wedging himself into the narrow space so aggressively that Danny has to scoot down. His shoulder presses against mine—proprietary, firm, claiming territory.
Under the table, Asher's knee retreats.
"Thought we could catch up," Jackson says, flagging down a waiter with practiced ease. "Feel like I've barely seen you lately. You've been... busy."
The emphasis isn't subtle. Neither is the way his eyes cut to Asher across the table.
"Practice has been intense," I manage. "Championship prep."
"Right. Championship." Jackson nods slowly, then leans back, arm stretching along the back of my chair. His fingers brush my shoulder—casual to anyone watching, possessive to me. "That's actually what I wanted to talk about. Focus. Making sure we're all locked in on what matters."
He says it to me, but he's looking at Asher. The message is clear: You don't matter. You're in the way.
Asher's expression goes carefully blank. I know that look—it's the armor he wears when he's protecting himself. The walls slamming back into place.
Fuck. We were getting somewhere. We were finally getting somewhere.
"We're focused," I say, jaw tight.
"Are we?" Jackson's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Because I've noticed some distractions creeping in lately. Side projects. Extra practice sessions."
"I just want to make sure we're not losing sight of the goal." Jackson's voice is pleasant, reasonable, completely at odds with the threat underneath. "Two years I've had your back on that ice. You think chemistry like ours grows on trees? It takes work. It takes loyalty."
The words land like accusations. Asher's shoulders have gone rigid across the table, but he doesn't react. Doesn't give Jackson the satisfaction.
"I know what I'm doing," I say quietly.
"Do you?" Jackson holds my gaze for a beat too long. "Because the Blaze I know wouldn't let anything get in the way of winning. That's what made us unstoppable."
Us. Not the team. Us. Like Asher isn't part of the equation. Like he's a threat to be neutralized.
I want to tell Jackson to go fuck himself. Want to announce to the entire table that I'd choose Asher over a hundred championships without hesitation.
But I can't. Not here. Not without outing something that isn't mine alone to reveal.
So I smile. Nod. Play the game while rage simmers beneath my skin.
Dinner becomes an endurance test. Jackson dominates every conversation, telling stories from our old college, reminding everyone of championships we won together. Every anecdote features "we" and "us"—constant reinforcement of the history we share. He laughs too loud, touches my arm too often, performs friendship like a threat.
Across the table, Asher retreats further into himself. He barely eats. The warmth from earlier completely extinguished.
When the check finally comes and people start shuffling toward the exit, I catch Asher's arm before he can disappear. "Hey. You okay?"
His smile is tight. Doesn't reach his eyes. "Fine. Your friend's pretty territorial."
"He's just—" I stop, unsure how to finish. Protective? Possessive? Obsessed? "He's intense about winning. That's all."
"Sure." Asher pulls his arm free gently. "I'll see you at practice."
He walks away before I can stop him. I watch him go, frustration and guilt churning in my gut. We were making progress. Real progress. And Jackson just—
"Good dinner." Jackson materializes at my elbow, satisfaction radiating off him. "Felt like old times."
I round on him. "What the hell was that?"
"What was what?"
"Don't play dumb. The comments, the looks—you were being an asshole to Asher all night."
Jackson's mask slips, revealing something harder underneath.
"What happened to the plan? No distractions. No drama. Hockey first, everything else second—that's what made us champions." He steps closer, voice low and bitter.
"We sacrificed everything. Turned down parties, ignored girls, put the team above all of it. And we got rewarded—trophies, scouts, a future. Now you're risking everything we built for some guy who still can't figure out which way he swings?
The words hit like fists. I stare at Jackson—at the person I thought was my best friend—and finally see what Asher probably saw from day one.
This isn't friendship. This is ownership.
"You don't get to decide who I care about," I say, voice cold.
Jackson's expression flickers. Surprise, then fury, then something calculated. "Don't say I didn't warn you. When this blows up in your face—and it will—I won't be there to pick up the pieces."
He stalks away into the parking lot.
I stand alone in the cold, breath fogging in the night air, trying to reconcile the friend I thought I knew with the stranger I just saw.
My phone buzzes. Asher: "Sorry I left. Needed air."
I type back immediately: "Not your fault. Jackson was out of line."
Finally: "Maybe he's right though. About the distraction thing."
My chest tightens. Jackson's poison is already spreading.
I type back: "He's not. Don't let him get in your head."
No response. The dots don't even appear this time.
I stare at the screen, an uneasy feeling settling in my gut. Jackson's words are doing exactly what he intended—making Asher doubt himself, doubt us, doubt everything we've been building.
I'm starting to realize my best friend might be something else entirely. And Asher is paying the price for my blindness.