Asher’s POV
I can't stop thinking about the deal.
Two days since Blaze cornered me outside the locker room. Two days since he offered to give up the captaincy—the thing I've resented him for since the moment he arrived—like it meant nothing. Like I meant more.
Two days since I broke down crying in a supply closet while he held my face in his hands and told me I'd be okay.
I should be thinking about Amelia. About the betrayal. About walking in on my girlfriend straddling another guy. But here's the thing that keeps me up at night, staring at my ceiling in the dark:
I'm not as upset as I should be.
Shocked? Yes. Humiliated? Absolutely. But that bone-deep devastation I expected—the kind that should come from losing someone you love—it never arrived. I keep waiting for it, searching for it, and finding nothing but emptiness where grief should live.
What does that say about me? About us? About the entire year I spent convincing myself she was everything I needed?
Maybe she was never what I needed at all.
I push the thought away and drag myself to practice. The ice is the only place that makes sense anymore—the cold, the burn in my muscles, the simple clarity of chasing a puck.
Except today, even that feels wrong.
I'm off. Every pass slightly mistimed, every shot lacking power. My body moves through the drills on autopilot while my mind circles endlessly around brown eyes in the darkness, around hands cupping my face, around a voice whispering "I've got you."
During the scrimmage, I fumble a pass. The puck slides wide, an easy interception for the opposing team. A small mistake. The kind everyone makes.
Marcus's voice cuts across the ice.
"Nice one, Carpenter." He's smirking from the bench, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "Little soft on that pass, don't you think? Actually, that tracks. Always figured you were a bit too delicate."
I clench my jaw and keep skating. Don't engage. Don't give him the satisfaction.
But Marcus isn't done.
As I pass the bench for the line change, he leans in close. His voice drops to a stage whisper that's still perfectly audible to anyone within ten feet.
"Maybe that's why your bitch liked me better. Wanted someone who could actually handle her."
The words hit like a physical blow. I freeze, blood roaring in my ears, hands tightening on my stick until my knuckles ache.
Before I can react—before I can decide whether to swing or walk away—a blur of motion erupts from across the bench.
Blaze vaults over the boards with a snarl that doesn't sound human. His fist connects with Marcus's face before anyone can stop him.
The impact is brutal. Marcus's head snaps back, blood spraying from his nose. He stumbles but doesn't fall, and Blaze hits him again. And again. Driving him into the boards with a fury I've never seen from him before.
"You don't talk to him like that." Blaze's voice is low, dangerous, completely unrecognizable. "You don't even look at him. Understand?"
Teammates are shouting, grabbing at jerseys, trying to pull them apart. Marcus spits blood onto the ice, face already swelling.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Marcus sputters. "It was just a joke—"
Blaze grabs his jersey, yanking him close. "Does it look like I'm laughing?"
"Wilson! Enough!"
Coach Wellington's bellow finally breaks through the chaos. Blaze lets go, chest heaving, knuckles bloody. Marcus slumps against the boards, a mess of bruises and split skin.
"Locker room. Now. Both of you."
Marcus limps toward the exit, shooting Blaze a look of pure hatred. But Blaze doesn't follow. Instead, he skates toward the back exit—the one that leads to the auxiliary hallway—and disappears.
I stand frozen on the ice, heart pounding.
He did that for me. Beat his own friend bloody because of words thrown in my direction.
Why? Why does he keep doing this? Keep fighting battles that aren't his to fight?
My feet move before my brain catches up. I'm skating toward the exit, ignoring the confused looks from teammates, pushing through the door into the cold hallway beyond.
Blaze is leaning against the wall, pressing his knuckles against the concrete. His shoulders are tense, breath coming in harsh gasps. He doesn't turn around when I approach.
"That was stupid," I say.
"Probably."
"You could get suspended. Kicked off the team. Right before regionals."
"Worth it."
The certainty in his voice makes something twist in my chest. I should leave. Should walk away like I always do, put distance between us, rebuild the walls he keeps tearing down.
Instead, I move closer.
"Let me see."
He turns. We're closer than I expected, barely a foot of space between us. His hands hang at his sides, knuckles bloody and already starting to swell.
"It's fine," he says.
"Let me see." I don't make it a question this time.
Slowly, he lifts his hands. I take them in mine before I can second-guess myself. His skin is warm despite the cold hallway, rough with calluses, smeared with blood that might be his or might be Marcus's.
"You're an idiot," I murmur, turning his hands over to examine the damage. "These are going to bruise badly."
"I've had worse."
My thumb traces across his knuckles without my permission. Feather-light. Careful. The touch sends something electric shooting through my veins, settling low in my stomach.
I should let go. Should step back. Should do anything except stand here holding his hands like they're something precious.
I don't move.
"Why did you do it?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why do you keep—" I can't finish. Can't put words to the thing I'm really asking.
"Keep what?"
I force myself to meet his eyes. Brown. Warm. Looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"Why do you keep fighting for me?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with everything I can't say. His fingers curl slightly around mine, holding on.
"Because someone has to." His voice is rough. "Because you deserve someone in your corner who isn't going to leave."
My breath catches. The walls I've built—the ones that have kept me safe for years, kept everyone at arm's length, kept me from wanting things I shouldn't want—they're crumbling. I can feel it happening, piece by piece, and I'm terrified.
"Blaze..." His name comes out softer than I intended.
"You don't have to say anything." He steps closer, and I don't step back. "I'm not asking for anything, Ash. I just need you to know—I'm not going anywhere. No matter how hard you push."
We stand there in the empty hallway, hands intertwined, close enough to share breath. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—a flicker I almost miss—and something hot and confusing floods through me.
Then voices echo from around the corner. Teammates heading our way.
I drop his hands like they burned me. Step back. Feel the walls slamming back into place, brick by brick.
"I should go," I mumble.
"Ash—"
But I'm already walking away. Fleeing, really. Putting distance between us because if I stay—if I let myself feel whatever is building in my chest—everything I thought I knew about myself will come crashing down.
I don't look back.
But I feel his eyes on me the entire way. And when I finally reach my car, collapse into the driver's seat, press my forehead against the steering wheel—
It's not Amelia's face I see.
It's his.
And I have no idea what to do with that.