Asher’s POV
Game day.
The arena buzzes with electric anticipation hours before puck drop. Media trucks line the parking lot. Cameras set up at every angle. Reporters swarm like vultures scenting blood.
"Carpenter vs. Wilson" plastered across every sports network in the country.
The rivalry narrative the NHL loves to sell. Former teammates turned enemy captains. The story writes itself, and the league milks every drop of drama.
They don't know the half of it.
I arrive early, hoping to avoid the worst of the circus. No such luck. Reporters ambush me in the tunnel before I even reach the locker room.
Microphones thrust toward my face. Camera lights blinding. Questions firing like bullets.
"Asher! What's your strategy against Wilson tonight?"
"Any bad blood between you two?"
"Sources say you were close in college—what happened?"
My jaw tightens as I arrange my face into the neutral mask I've perfected over six years of professional hockey.
"Blaze is a talented player," I say, voice steady despite the churning in my gut. "One of the best in the league. We're focused on our game plan."
"But is it personal?" A blonde reporter pushes closer, eyes gleaming with hunger for a headline. "The intensity between you two seems to go beyond normal rivalry."
You have no idea.
"It's hockey," I say flatly. "Every game is intense. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare."
I push through the crowd without looking back. Empty words that reveal nothing. The same answers I've given a hundred times before.
The locker room feels like a sanctuary. My teammates are already gearing up, the familiar sounds of tape and skates and pregame rituals grounding me.
But I can't shake the tension coiling in my chest.
Tonight I face Blaze. First time on the same ice since the playoffs. First time since that moment in the gym where his fingers brushed mine and the world tilted sideways.
I can't afford distractions. Can't afford to think about brown eyes and the ghost of his touch and everything we used to be.
Hockey. Focus on hockey. It's all that matters.
The puck drops, and the game becomes war.
Every shift against Blaze's line feels charged with electricity. The air crackles with something the crowd can sense but can't name.
We meet at the faceoff circle, crouched low, sticks ready. His eyes lock onto mine across the painted ice.
To the crowd, it reads as competitive intensity. Two captains battling for dominance. The rivalry they came to see.
Only we know what simmers beneath.
The ref drops the puck and we clash instantly.
The first period is brutal. Bodies colliding. Sticks slashing. Whistles screaming. Neither team gives an inch.
I check one of his wingers into the boards, maybe harder than necessary. Blaze retaliates minutes later, his shoulder driving into my chest hard enough to rattle my teeth.
We end up tangled along the glass. His body pressed against mine for a beat too long. His breath, hot against my ear.
"Miss me, Captain?" he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
Then he's gone, skating away like nothing happened. My hands won't stop shaking.
Second period. Ottawa scores first. The crowd groans and I dig deeper, pushing my body past exhaustion into something primal.
I tie it up with an assist to Davidson. The arena erupts and Blaze's jaw tightens from across the ice.
That's right. Watch me.
Third period. The score is 2-2. Every second feels like an hour. Every play could decide everything.
A scramble in front of Ottawa's net, and the puck squirts loose and lands on my blade. I don't think, I just shoot. The red light flashes. 3-2 Boston.
My teammates mob me. The crowd screams my name. Victory tastes like copper and sweat and vindication.
I find Blaze through the chaos. His face is carefully blank, but I know him too well. I see the frustration burning beneath the mask.
I beat you. I finally beat you at something.
The thought should feel better than it does. The buzzer, buzzes, an indication that we won.
The media swarms again, but this time they want both captains. Joint interview. Side by side at the press table, microphones ready, cameras rolling.
Blaze sits close enough that I can smell his cologne. The same one he's worn for years. The one that used to cling to my pillows.
"Great game tonight, gentlemen." The moderator beams at us like we're performing animals. "Let's talk about this famous rivalry. It's become one of the most compelling storylines in the NHL."
Blaze leans back in his chair, all easy charm and disarming smiles. The persona he wears for the public like a second skin.
"What can I say? Asher brings out my competitive side."
Laughter ripples through the press corps.
"You two have history," another reporter notes. "Teammates in college, won a championship together. What changed?"
Blaze's smile sharpens. Something dangerous flickers in his brown eyes.
"Oh, Asher and I go way back." His voice is casual. Light. A knife wrapped in velvet. "We know each other's weaknesses."
He pauses. Lets the silence stretch.
"Every intimate detail."
My blood turns to ice.
His eyes flick to mine. Just for a second. Long enough to deliver the message.
I know your secrets. I could destroy you with one word.
"Of each other's game, obviously," he finishes smoothly.
The reporters laugh. Of course they do. Classic Wilson charm– competitive banter between rivals, with absolutely nothing suspicious here.
But I see the edge beneath. The deliberate cruelty dressed up as a joke. The reminder that Blaze holds secrets that could end my career, my reputation, my entire life.
One slip. One moment of honesty. That's all it would take.
"Wilson talks a lot." I force a smile that feels like broken glass. "Always has. Runs his mouth on the ice too. Doesn't help him win games, though."
More laughter. The tension breaks. The moment passes.
But my hands are shaking under the table.
The interview drags on. More questions about strategy and playoffs and next matchups. I answer on autopilot, my mind spinning in panicked circles.
Would Blaze actually out me? Is he angry enough? Hurt enough? Does he hate me that much now?
The man I loved would never. But the stranger sitting beside me, with that sharp smile and those cold eyes—I don't know him anymore.
Finally, mercifully, the moderator wraps up. Cameras power down as the Reporters disperse.
Blaze stands without looking at me, then walks away without a word. I sit frozen at the table, alone with the echo of his threat.
Every intimate detail.
The words replay in my skull like a death sentence.
He could ruin me. Whenever he wants. However he wants. And I'd have no defense, no denial, nothing but lies that would crumble under the smallest scrutiny.
My career. My family. My entire carefully constructed life.
All of it hanging by a thread only Blaze can cut.
I finally stand on legs that feel like water. Make my way to the locker room, nodding at teammates, accepting congratulations I barely hear.
We won tonight.
So why do I feel like I've already lost everything?