I find Jackson in the weight room the next morning.
It's early—before practice, before anyone else arrives—and he's alone at the bench press, earbuds in, oblivious to my approach. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that harsh, unflattering glow that makes the gym feel clinical.
Good. I want this conversation private.
I yank out his earbuds without warning.
Jackson jolts upright, irritation flashing across his face before he recognizes who interrupted him. The annoyance smooths into something friendlier—that easy smile I used to trust.
"Jesus, Blaze. Little warning next time?" He sets down the weights, reaching for his water bottle. "What's up? You look like shit."
"We need to talk about Asher."
Jackson's expression flickers—just for a second, a crack in the mask—before settling into careful neutrality. "What about him?"
"You cornered him in the parking lot." I keep my voice steady, even though fury is simmering beneath every word. "Told him he was a distraction. Told him to stay away from me." I step closer. "That sound familiar?"
Jackson takes a long drink of water. Unhurried. Calculating. Like he's deciding which version of himself to show me.
"I was looking out for you," he says finally. "Someone had to say what everyone's thinking."
"No one's thinking that except you."
"Really?" Jackson sets down the bottle and stands, facing me directly. The scar near his eye catches the fluorescent light, making his expression look almost sinister. "Because I've been watching you tank for weeks. Missing workouts. Skipping team dinners. Walking around with your head in the clouds because some guy from your childhood finally gave you attention." He steps closer, voice dropping. "That's not the Blaze Wilson I know. That's not the captain who led us to two championships."
"Maybe I'm tired of being that guy." I hold my ground. "Maybe I want something more than trophies and stats."
"More?" Jackson laughs, but there's no humor in it. "What more is there? This is everything we've worked for. Everything we've built together. You and me, Blaze. We're a team. We've always been a team."
"Asher is my teammate too."
"Asher is a distraction." Jackson's voice hardens, the friendly mask slipping further. "A confused, mediocre player who can't decide if he wants to fuck you or fight you. He's not worth throwing away your future for."
"That's not your call to make."
"Somebody has to make it!" Jackson explodes, the last pretense of calm shattering. His face contorts with something ugly—rage and desperation and something else I'm only now beginning to recognize. "Because you're clearly not thinking straight! Three years I've had your back. Three years I've helped you become who you are. I transferred with you, Blaze. Left everything behind because you said you needed me here. And now you're choosing him over me?"
The words land like a slap.
I stare at Jackson—really stare—and see something I've been blind to for years. This isn't concern. This isn't friendship. This isn't a teammate looking out for another teammate.
This is possession. Ownership. Jackson doesn't care about my happiness or my future. He cares about control.
"I didn't ask you to transfer with me," I say quietly.
Jackson's face twists. "You didn't have to. That's what partners do. That's what we are."
"We're teammates. That's all we've ever been."
"Bullshit." He steps closer, close enough that I can see the fury burning in his dark eyes. "We're more than that and you know it. I've given you everything. My time, my loyalty, my career trajectory—all of it, for you. And this is how you repay me? By chasing some guy who couldn't even admit he liked you until a week ago?"
"My relationship with Asher is none of your business."
"It became my business when it started affecting the team." Jackson's voice drops to something deadly quiet. "When it started affecting me. I made you, Blaze. I pushed you to be better. Covered for you when you fucked up. Built you into the player scouts are drooling over. And now you're going to throw all of that away for him?"
"You didn't make me." My voice comes out steel. "I made myself. And whatever twisted version of our friendship you've built in your head, that's not reality. I never owed you anything."
Something snaps in Jackson's expression.
The friendly mask crumbles completely, revealing the cold, calculating person underneath. The person who cornered Asher in a parking lot and told him he was worthless. The person who spent weeks inserting himself between us, blocking my access, filling the gaps with his own presence.
"You're making a mistake," Jackson says.
"No. The mistake was not seeing you clearly sooner."
"Fine." He steps back, a bitter smile curling his lips. It's the ugliest expression I've ever seen on him—pure contempt mixed with wounded pride. "Choose him. Ruin everything we've built. But when you lose this championship—and you will lose—don't come crawling back to me."
He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Pauses at the door, looking back with that same cold smile.
"You're going to regret this, Blaze. I'll make sure of it."
The weight room door slams behind him with a bang that echoes off the walls.
I stand alone in the silence, heart pounding, hands shaking. The friendship I thought I had—the brotherhood I believed in for three years—was a lie. A carefully constructed illusion designed to keep me under Jackson's control.
How did I not see it? The possessive comments, the way he always positioned himself between me and others, the subtle manipulation disguised as concern. I thought he was protective because he cared. Now I realize he was territorial because he thought he owned me.
I think about Asher—how quickly he saw through Jackson's mask, how he tried to warn me even when I wasn't ready to hear it. How Jackson's poison almost destroyed the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I pull out my phone and open my text thread with Asher.
"Talked to Jackson. It's over. He showed his true colors."
The response comes seconds later: "Are you okay?"
I stare at the message, something warm blooming in my chest despite everything.
Is he okay? Asher, who Jackson manipulated and threatened, who spent a week torturing himself because of Jackson's lies—his first response is to ask if I'm okay.
Is he okay? My best friend just revealed himself to be a manipulative narcissist. My team is fractured six days before the biggest game of our lives. The person I trusted most just threatened to sabotage everything I've worked for.
But Asher is asking. Asher cares. And somehow, that makes everything else bearable.
"I will be," I type back. "Can I come over tonight?"
"Yes. I'll be here."
I pocket my phone and head for the door. The weight room feels different now—tainted by the conversation that just happened. By the loss of something I thought was real.
But as I walk toward the parking lot, toward Asher, toward whatever comes next, I realize the truth.
I'm not losing anything. The friendship with Jackson was never real to begin with. It was a transaction I didn't know I was part of, a debt I never agreed to owe.
What I have with Asher—the history, the connection, the love that survived years of distance and weeks of denial—that's real. That's worth fighting for.
And if Jackson thinks he can sabotage the championship out of spite, he's going to find out exactly how wrong he is.
I'm not just fighting for a trophy anymore.
I'm fighting for everything that matters.