Blaze’s POV
All-Star Weekend tradition: the players' mixer.
A lavish penthouse suite overlooking the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Open bar stocked with top-shelf everything. Music pulsing through speakers at the perfect volume for mingling.
The NHL's finest letting loose before tomorrow's game. Captains rubbing shoulders with rookies. Rivals sharing drinks like old friends. The kind of night that builds legends and fuels gossip columns for weeks.
I nurse a whiskey in the corner, trying to mingle. Making small talk with players I've battled all season. Laughing at jokes that aren't funny. Playing the role expected of me.
My phone buzzes. Sophie's name lights up the screen.
A selfie. Her at some rooftop bar, cocktail raised, winking at the camera. She looks beautiful. Happy. The kind of uncomplicated joy I can't seem to access anymore.
I respond with a thumbs up. Feel nothing. It’s not even her fault. She's wonderful. Easy. Everything I should want.
But my heart isn't in it. Hasn't been since…
The penthouse door opens. Asher walks in.
Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Forearms on display—all muscle and veins and pale skin I've memorized with my mouth. Hair slightly tousled like he ran his fingers through it once and gave up.
He looks devastating. The kind of beauty that makes people forget how to breathe.
I hate that I notice. Hate more that I can't stop noticing. Can't stop cataloging every detail like my brain is building a shrine against my will.
His eyes scan the room. Find mine.
The contact lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough to feel like a physical touch. Long enough to make my chest tight.
Asher looks away first.
Small victory. I collect them like coins, these tiny moments where I win whatever game we're playing.
I watch him work the crowd. Handshakes with other captains. Forced smiles for cameras that materialize from nowhere. The perfect performance of relaxed confidence.
He's good at this. Always has been. Wearing a mask so convincing even he forgets what's underneath.
A blonde reporter corners him near the bar. Pretty and aggressive. Her hand lands on his arm and stays there. She laughs too loud at something he says, head thrown back, chest pushed forward.
Asher doesn't pull away.
My grip tightens on my glass until I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.
I have no right to be jealous. No claim to him anymore. He can flirt with whoever he wants.
Doesn't stop the acid from burning through my veins.
Someone suggests poker. Six captains around a table, cards dealt, stakes rising. Bragging rights are more valuable than the money changing hands.
I end up directly across from Asher. Of course I do. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Eye contact is unavoidable now. Every glance across the green felt becomes a conversation. Every bet is a message.
Asher raises. His eyes flick to my mouth as he pushes chips forward. I call. Let my tongue drag slowly across my bottom lip. His jaw tightens. Almost imperceptibly. But I catch it.
"You're bluffing," I say. Voice casual. Meaning anything but.
"Am I?" He meets my gaze. Holds it.
The table thinks we're talking about cards. The other captains chuckle at the competitive banter between famous rivals. They have no idea.
I win the hand. Rake in the chips with a smile I don't feel.
Under the table, Asher's knee bumps mine. Could be accidental. But it isn't. Neither of us moves away.
The game continues. More whiskey. More loaded glances that say everything we can't voice out loud. The stakes feel higher than poker now.
Asher loosens his collar between hands. Just one button. Enough to expose the column of his throat.
I remember marking that skin. Leaving bruises that lasted for days. The sounds he made when my teeth found his pulse point.
I shift uncomfortably. Suddenly too warm despite the air conditioning. Grateful for the table hiding my lap.
The poker game ends eventually. Winners gloat. Losers demand rematches. The party continues around us until someone mentions the hot tub on the terrace.
Several players strip down to boxers, settling into the steaming water with fresh drinks. Steam rises into the night air. City lights glitter below like scattered diamonds.
I join them. The heat feels good after hours of tension. I let my head fall back against the edge, closing my eyes.
Voices blur into background noise. Water ripples as people shift positions. Then the ripples change. Someone new climbing in. I open my eyes. Asher stands at the edge. Shirtless.
All muscle and tension. The body I know better than my own. Every line and plane and scar mapped in my memory forever.
He hesitates when he sees me–just for a heartbeat, probably weighing the options. Then, deliberately, he climbs in. Sits directly across from me. Maximum distance in minimum space.
The water isn't that hot, but the heat between us is unbearable.
Other players chat around us. Discussing games and girlfriends and summer plans. Normal conversations I can't follow because every nerve ending is focused on the man four feet away.
Under the water, my foot drifts. Brushes against Asher's calf lightly. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away. Doesn't acknowledge it at all.
But he doesn't break eye contact either. Our gazes lock, as we speak volumes in silence.
My foot trails higher over his ankle. Along his shin. Slow enough to be deliberate. Obvious enough to be a question.
Asher's breath hitches.
Barely visible. A slight catch in his chest. The smallest interruption in his breathing pattern. Anyone else would miss it completely.
I don't miss anything when it comes to him. Never have.
His pupils dilate. Just slightly. Enough to tell me he feels this too. That this pull won't release us no matter how hard we fight.
My foot reaches his knee and pauses there, waiting. His hand twitches under the water. Moving toward me or away—I can't tell.
Someone cracks a joke.
Laughter erupts around us. Loud. Startling. Shattering whatever spell had wrapped around us like steam.
Asher blinks. The moment fractures into pieces I can't reassemble.
He's climbing out before I can react. Water streaming down his body in rivulets I want to trace with my tongue. Muscles flexing as he hauls himself over the edge.
He grabs a towel. Doesn't look back. Walks inside like he wasn't just drowning in the same current pulling me under.
I watch him go. Watch the door close behind him. Watch my chance dissolve into chlorine and night air.
The other players keep talking. Keep laughing. Keep existing in a world where that moment didn't just happen.
I stay in the hot tub. Let the heat punish me. Aching everywhere.
For something I had. Something I lost. Something I don't know how to stop wanting even when wanting is the only thing I'm allowed to do.
The city lights blur below. Beautiful and distant. Like everything I can't have.