Ryan’s POV
The offer letter sits on my kitchen table like an accusation, corners worn from weeks of handling. Boston to Denver. Immediate transfer. Competitive salary. The words blur together now, meaningless after countless readings.
Three weeks. I've been staring at this same piece of paper for three weeks.
Under any other circumstances, I wouldn't even consider it. I've worked too fucking hard to earn my place on the Boston Blazers, fought too long to play alongside Asher. Leaving would mean abandoning everything I've built here.
But everything is different now, and the guilt is eating me alive. Every practice, every team meeting, every moment Asher looks at me with something that might actually be trust—it's like swallowing glass. He has no idea what I did.
No idea that I'm the reason his private life became tabloid fodder. No idea that I sold those photos for thirty pieces of silver and a pat on the head from Jackson fucking Blake.
I told myself it was for his own good. A wake-up call. A push toward self-improvement.
But that justification rotted into ash weeks ago, leaving nothing but the bitter truth: I betrayed someone I care about because I was jealous and weak and desperate for any scrap of attention he'd throw my way.
My phone buzzes, and it was a text from Asher: Dinner tonight? That Thai place you mentioned?
My chest constricts painfully. He's been different lately—softer, more present. Actually making an effort. It should feel like victory. Instead, it feels like torture.
I type back: Can't tonight. Sorry.
The lie tastes metallic on my tongue.
I had a plan to tell him everything. Confess about the photos, about Jackson's manipulation, about how fucking sorry I am. Let him decide whether whatever fragile thing exists between us is worth salvaging. I owe him that much.
I owed him that much.
Three days ago
The parking garage is nearly empty when I reach my car. I'm fumbling with my keys when I hear footsteps echoing off the concrete.
"Ryan! Hey, man."
I turn to find Jackson walking toward me, a gear bag slung over his shoulder, that easy smile he always wears firmly in place.
"Jackson. Hey."
"Good practice today. You looked sharp out there." He stops beside my car, adjusting his bag strap. "You heading out?"
"Yeah, just..." I trail off, the weight of everything pressing down on my chest. "Actually, Jackson, I've been thinking about something."
"Yeah? What's up?"
The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I'm going to tell Asher the truth. About the photos. About everything."
Jackson goes completely still. For just a moment, his carefully maintained expression falters, and I see something flash across his face—something cold and calculating that makes my stomach drop.
"The truth?" he says slowly.
"That I took them. That I sold them." The confession feels like swallowing glass. "He deserves to know."
"Ryan." Jackson's voice is carefully controlled now, but there's something sharp underneath. "That's... that's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
His laugh sounds strained. "Because it won't help anyone. Think about this rationally—what exactly do you think you did wrong?"
"I betrayed someone I care about. We betrayed."
"You made a business decision," Jackson corrects. "About photos you took in public. I never told you to do anything, remember? I was just listening when you were upset. Being a supportive friend."
The words hit me like cold water. He's right. Jackson never explicitly told me to take those photos. Never directly suggested I sell them. He just... listened. Nodded sympathetically. Made casual observations about how Asher was treating me.
"All I did was be there when you needed to vent," Jackson continues, his tone becoming more reasonable. "The decision to act was entirely yours."
"But you—"
"I what? Agreed that Asher was treating you poorly? Yeah, I did. Because he was." Jackson steps closer, his expression earnest. "You were hurting, and you made a choice based on that hurt. That's on you, not me."
The guilt crashes over me fresh and overwhelming. He's right. It was my choice. My decision and my betrayal.
"Ryan, listen to me carefully."
Jackson says, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"If you confess this, your career is over. The media will destroy you. And for what? Asher's still going to hate you. The only difference is whether you have anything left when the dust settles."
"He trusts you," I say weakly. "He'll believe me if I tell him you were involved."
Jackson's smile turns cold. "Involved in what? Having conversations with a teammate? Being a supportive friend? You really think he's going to choose your word over mine when you're the one who actually took the photos?"
The question lands like a physical blow because I already know the answer. Jackson's been Asher's right-hand man for years. I'm just the rookie who warmed his bed when he was lonely.
"Besides," Jackson adds, his tone becoming almost gentle again, "things are finally good between you two, right? He's finally seeing you as more than just convenient. You really want to destroy all that progress with a confession that won't change anything?"
The logic is inescapable, almost brutal and true.
"Keep your mouth shut, Ryan," Jackson says quietly. "For both your sakes."
He walks away, leaving me shaking beside my car.
But even then, part of me wanted to defy him. To tell Asher anyway, consequences be damned. To prove that Jackson’s wrong.
Then the practice on the next day happened. Jackson got into it with Davidson, and Asher stepped in to defend Jackson without hesitation. Later, I heard them talking:
"You're my right-hand man. I trust you like I trust myself."
Jackson was right. It would be my word against his, and Asher would choose Jackson every time.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of guilt and indecision. Every text from Asher felt like another weight on my chest. Every smile, every moment of genuine connection—it all felt like lies built on a foundation of my betrayal.
Finally, last night, I witnessed something that shattered my remaining resolve completely.
During practice, a heated argument erupted between Jackson and another player. And Asher stepped in—not to mediate, but to defend Jackson. Without hesitation. Without question.
The fight drained out of me entirely. I saw the situation with painful clarity: telling the truth won't free me. It will only destroy what little I have left while Jackson walks away unscathed. Asher will hate me. My career will implode. And nothing will actually change.
Better to leave. Better to disappear before the guilt consumes me entirely, before I have to watch Jackson's manipulation play out any further, before I do something desperate and make everything worse.
I pick up the offer letter one final time. Denver. A fresh start. A chance to rebuild somewhere Jackson Blake's shadow doesn't reach.
I think about Asher—his intensity, his vulnerability, the way he looked at me sometimes like I might actually matter. I think about what could have been, in another life where I hadn't made such catastrophic choices.
Then I pick up a pen and sign my name at the bottom.
The ink looks permanent, no turning back.
I snap a photo of the signed contract and attach it to an email. Accepting your offer. When do you need me?
My finger hovers over the send button for a long moment. Once I do this, there's no going back. No more chances to make things right with Asher. No more opportunities to be the man he deserves instead of the coward I've become.
I hit send. The whoosh of the outgoing message sounds like a door slamming shut.