Asher’s POV
Sleep doesn't come that night. By morning, I give up trying.
The arena is empty at five AM. Just me, the ice, and the echo of my skates cutting through silence. I've been here for an hour already, running drills until my muscles scream and my lungs burn with cold air.
If I can't be captain, I'll be undeniable. I'll be so damn good they'll have no choice but to finally notice me.
My stick connects with puck after puck, sending them into the net with satisfying thuds. Sweat drips down my spine despite the chill. This is what separates me from everyone else—while they sleep, or party, or fuck, I work.
Yesterday replays in my head on a loop. Coach's voice announcing Blaze as captain. The way my stomach dropped. The way Blaze winked at me across the circle, oblivious to the devastation written across my face.
The doors bang open around six-thirty, and voices flood the space. I don't look up. Don't acknowledge the teammates filing in, the shuffle of gear bags, the lazy morning chatter. I focus on my form, my speed, my precision. Everything I can control.
Then I hear him. Blaze's laugh carries across the rink, warm and easy, and my jaw tightens on instinct. I glance over despite myself.
He's surrounded by teammates already, slapping shoulders, cracking jokes, radiating that effortless charm that makes people gravitate toward him. One day as captain and he owns the room.
I turn back to my drills, grip tightening on my stick.
Skates whisper across the ice behind me. Close. Too close.
"Nice moves," he says.
The way he says it—slow, deliberate—makes something twist in my gut. I ignore it. "Don't you have a team to lead, Captain?"
"I'm leading right now." He tilts his head, studying me with those warm brown eyes. "Showing up early to check on my hardest-working player."
"I don't need checking on."
"Sure you don't." His grin widens. "That's why you've been out here since before dawn, running the same drills over and over. Totally normal behavior."
"It's called dedication. You should try it sometime."
"Ouch." He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "That one actually stung, Ash."
Coach Wellington's whistle saves me. We gather at center ice, and I position myself as far from Blaze as possible. It doesn't matter. I feel his gaze on me the entire time Coach explains today's formations.
The drills are brutal. Exactly what I need. I throw myself into every play, pushing harder than anyone else. But Blaze matches me at every turn. Faster. Smoother. Reading the ice three moves ahead while I'm still processing the first.
"Partner drills!" Coach bellows. "Carpenter, Wilson—you're together."
My stomach drops. Blaze skates over, looking far too pleased. "Lucky me."
"Shut up and run the drill."
We move through the formations, bodies forced into close proximity. Pass, receive, pivot, repeat. His stick brushes mine. Our shoulders collide on a turn. Every point of contact sends unwanted awareness sparking through my nerves.
During a brief pause, Blaze leans in. His breath ghosts against my ear, warm in the frozen air. "Why do you tense up? Every time I get close."
I jerk back, pulse spiking. "I'm not—"
"Relax, Ash." His voice drops lower, teasing, almost intimate. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Touch me again and I'll break your stick over your head."
Something sparks in his eyes—not anger, but delight. "You can try. But we both know you'd fail."
That's it. I slam my shoulder into his as I skate past, hard enough to make him stumble backward. Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.
His laugh chases me across the ice. "There he is. Missed that fire!"
I don't respond. Can't respond. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something that reveals how much he gets under my skin.
The rest of practice passes in a blur. By the time Coach calls it, my body aches and my mind is in chaos.
In the locker room, I peel off my gear in silence. Around me, teammates cluster around Blaze. Everyone hangs on his every word, captivated.
One day. That's all it took for him to become everyone's favorite person. Three years of me building respect on this team, and he waltzed in and surpassed it without trying.
I grab my bag and escape. The cold air outside hits my face, and I exhale slowly.
“Rough day, baby?”
I turn. Amelia stands by the entrance, bundled in her oversized jacket, dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
"Something like that." I close the distance, and she rises to press a kiss to my cheek.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
She doesn't push. That's one of the things I appreciate about my girlfriend—she knows when to let things go. Her fingers thread through mine, and for a moment the chaos in my head quiets.
I have this. I have her. I don't need Blaze's friendship or approval.
We start walking toward the parking lot. She's talking about something—her classes, maybe—but my mind drifts.
"Ash." She tugs my hand, pulling me to a stop beside her car. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?"
"Sorry. Just tired."
She sighs, stepping closer, arms looping around my neck. "You're always tired lately." Her fingers play with the hair at my nape. "You know how long it's been since we've actually spent time together? Real time?"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Three weeks, Ash." She rises on her toes, lips brushing my jaw. "Three weeks since you've touched me properly. I miss you." Her voice drops. "I miss your hands on me. Miss feeling you against me."
She kisses me—soft at first, then deeper. I kiss her back because that's what I'm supposed to do. Because she's my girlfriend and she's beautiful and any normal guy would be dragging her into the backseat right now.
But my mind won't quiet. Won't stop replaying brown eyes tracking me across the ice.
I pull back gently. "I'm really tired today, Ames. Practice was brutal."
Disappointment flickers across her face. "It's always practice."
"I know." I press a kiss to her forehead. "After the season settles down, I promise. I'll make it up to you."
"You mean after you figure out whatever's going on with the new transfer?" She says it lightly, but there's an edge underneath.
I freeze. "What?"
"Blaze." She tilts her head. "You've mentioned his name like six times since he got here. More than you've talked about anyone on the team in three years."
"Because he's annoying. He stole my captain position. Of course I'm going to talk about him."
"Mm-hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "Just don't let him get in your head, okay?"
"He's not in my head."
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "If you say so."
She drives off. I stand alone in the parking lot, her words echoing.
You've mentioned his name like six times.
Have I? Maybe I've been so focused on how much he irritates me that I haven't noticed how much space he's taking up in my thoughts.
Then I feel it. That prickling awareness at the back of my neck.
I glance over my shoulder.
Blaze stands at the arena doors, arms crossed, still in his practice gear. He's not smiling anymore. That easy charm is stripped away, replaced by something I can't read. Something that makes my chest tight and my throat dry.
Our eyes lock. One heartbeat. Two.
I force myself to turn away. Walk to my car. Don't look back.
But I feel his gaze burning into my back the entire way. I tell myself I don't care what Blaze thinks. Tell myself that look meant nothing.
I'm still telling myself that hours later, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by brown eyes that see too much.