Asher’s POV
My blood is still boiling when I leave the press room.
That smirk. Those words. Every intimate detail. Playing it off like a joke while holding a knife to my throat in front of every camera in the building.
The audacity. The cruelty. The casual way he reminded me that my entire life exists at his mercy.
I spot Blaze heading down an empty corridor toward the visiting team's locker room. His back is to me, shoulders relaxed and stride unhurried.
Like he didn't just threaten to destroy everything I've built.
Before I can think, I'm moving.
My hand grabs his collar, and spin him around and slam him against the concrete wall hard enough to hear his breath punch out of his lungs.
The impact echoes through the empty corridor. His head bounces off the wall. Good.
"What the hell was that?" My voice is low. Dangerous and barely controlled.
Blaze blinks at me. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't struggle. Just stares with those infuriating brown eyes like I'm mildly amusing.
"You'll have to be more specific, Captain."
"Those comments." I press him harder into the wall, forearm against his chest. "In front of the press. Are you trying to ruin me?"
His expression stays maddeningly calm and casual. Like we're discussing weather instead of my career imploding.
"Relax," he says. "It was a joke. Everyone laughed."
"I didn't laugh."
"You never do anymore." His eyes soften with mocking pity that makes me want to hit him. "Lighten up, Ashy."
The nickname hits like a punch to the solar plexus.
Ashy. Whispered against my neck at the cottage. Moaned into my mouth during desperate 2 AM reunions. Murmured soft and sleepy on Sunday mornings.
He has no right to use it now. Not like this. Not as a weapon designed to cut.
I shake him harder, pressing his shoulders into concrete. "Don't call me that. I'm warning you to—"
"Or else what, Ashy?" His voice drops, sharp and bitter. All pretense of calm evaporating like morning fog. "You'll shove your tongue up your ass again like you always do?"
The words slice through me like a blade.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I want to deny it. Want to throw something back that hurts just as much.
But I have no answer. No defense. Because Blaze is right.
That's what I do. I Hide and retreat. I swallow my truth until it chokes me. He watched me do it for four years, and nothing has changed.
The silence stretches between us. His eyes bore into mine, waiting for a response we both know won't come.
"Fuck you," I spit finally. The words taste like defeat.
I shove him away roughly and turn to leave. Walk away like I've done a thousand times before because it's easier than standing still.
Easier than facing the truth in his accusations.
"There you go again!"
His voice echoes down the corridor. Mocking and furious. Wounded beneath the anger.
"Running away like a coward. Some things never fucking change!"
Something snaps inside me.
A wire pulled too tight for too long, finally breaking. Years of tension and want and regret exploding in a single moment of madness.
I spin around and launch myself at him.
My shoulder connects with his chest. We crash backward, his body absorbing the impact as we hit the floor together. The concrete is cold and unforgiving beneath us.
Fists flying. Grappling. Rolling. The sounds of our struggle echo off the walls.
He's strong, always has been, but rage makes me reckless. I swing wild, catching his jaw with a satisfying crack.
He retaliates with an elbow to my ribs that steals my breath. Pain explodes through my side.
We roll again. He ends up on top, pinning my wrists above my head. I buck my hips violently and reverse our positions.
Now I'm straddling him. Pinning him down and breathing hard. Then his thigh presses between my legs.
We both freeze.
Our faces hover centimeters apart. His breath is hot against my mouth, with his chest heaving against mine in a ragged rhythm.
Blood trickles from his split lip. A crimson trail I want to trace with my tongue.
The position is obscene. Intimate. Everything we're not supposed to be anymore.
My body responds before my brain can intervene. Heat flooding south. Hardening against his thigh in the most humiliating betrayal possible.
His eyes widen. He feels it. Of course he feels it.
For one insane moment, I think he's going to kiss me. His gaze drops to my mouth. His lips part on a sharp exhale.
The air between us crackles with four years of memories and one year of desperate longing.
"Hey! What the hell is going on here?"
A staff member shouts through the corner, his footsteps thundering toward us.
The spell shatters like glass.
Hands grab my shoulders, hauling me off Blaze. Someone else pulls him to his feet. Two security guards position themselves between us.
"Break it up! Both of you!"
I wrench free from the grip on my arms. My chest heaves and my hands shake. My body still thrums with adrenaline and something far more dangerous.
Blaze wipes blood from his lip with the back of his hand. The gesture is slow. Deliberate. His eyes never leave mine.
Dark and Blazing– full of something I refuse to name but recognize intimately.
"This isn't over," I hear myself say. The words come out rough and wrecked. "Tomorrow. I'll destroy you on that ice."
Tomorrow. Game two. Another chance to channel this into something acceptable. Something the world can watch without questions.
Blaze laughs. Short and sharp and humorless.
He steps forward, shrugging off the security guard's restraining hand. Stops close enough that I can see the bruise already forming on his jaw.
My handiwork. My mark on his skin. The thought satisfies me more than it should.
"Suck." He leans closer, voice dropping to a register that vibrates through my bones. "My." His breath ghosts across my face like a phantom kiss. "Dick."
The words land like grenades detonating in my chest.
My cock twitches traitorously. Muscle memory from years of hearing those words in very different contexts. Commands I used to follow eagerly. Hungrily. Desperately.
He sees it. The flicker in my eyes. The way my breath catches despite every effort to control it.
His smirk widens. Victorious, cruel and knowing.
He understands exactly what he's doing. Knows my body better than I know it myself. Knows how to destroy me without throwing a single punch.
"Gentlemen, I need you both to return to your respective locker rooms immediately."
A league official has appeared. Face stern. Tablet in hand, probably documenting this incident for tomorrow's headlines.
I don't respond. Can't form words around the chaos rioting in my chest.
I turn and walk away. Each step feels like wading through wet concrete. The corridor stretches endless before me.
My hands won't stop shaking. My body won't stop betraying me.
I can still feel his thigh between my legs. Still feel the heat of him beneath me. Still taste the almost-kiss that would have ruined everything.
I hate him, I tell myself with every step. The lie doesn't stick. Never has. Never will.
I wanted to destroy him, and instead I almost devoured him. Almost threw away everything I've built for one moment of weakness.
One moment of truth I can't afford.
Game two is tomorrow. Another battle. Another performance. Another exercise in pretending the man across the ice doesn't own pieces of me I'll never get back.
I don't know if I'll survive it.
I don't know if I want to.