Score me, Captain

Chapter 23

Asher’s POV

The knock on Coach Wellington's office door feels like walking toward an execution.

I've been summoned—a curt text during breakfast that simply read "My office. 9 AM. Don't be late."

I'm not late. I'm five minutes early, sitting on the uncomfortable chair outside his door, leg bouncing with nervous energy. Through the frosted glass, I can see Wellington's silhouette moving around, probably reviewing footage or finalizing rosters.

The championship is in five days. Whatever this meeting is about, it can't be good.

"Carpenter. Come in."

I push through the door, closing it behind me. Wellington's office is small but intimidating—walls covered in championship banners, trophies gleaming on shelves, photos of teams past staring down at me like judges.

"Sit." He gestures to the chair across from his desk.

I sit.

For a long moment, he just studies me. Eyes sharp, assessing, missing nothing. I fight the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.

"I'll get straight to the point," Wellington finally says. "Your performance the past two weeks has been concerning. You went from being one of our strongest players to barely functional on the ice. Missed passes. Botched formations. Zero communication with your linemates." He leans forward, fingers steepled. "I need to know if you're committed to this championship."

My throat tightens. "I'm committed, Coach."

"Are you? Because what I've been seeing doesn't look like commitment. It looks like someone who's already checked out." Wellington's voice isn't angry—it's worse. Disappointed.

"Do you have any idea what's at stake here? This isn't just about trophies. A championship puts us on the national radar—funding increases, top recruits start calling us, the administration stops threatening budget cuts every semester. I've spent ten years building this program from nothing." His jaw tightens.

"We've got NHL scouts coming. Media coverage. This is the biggest opportunity most of you will ever have—and maybe the only shot this college gets to prove we're more than a second-tier program. I need players who are ready to win. Not ones who've already given up."

The implication hangs heavy in the air. My stomach drops.

"Are you saying I might not play?"

"I'm saying I need players I can rely on." Wellington sighs, rubbing his temples. "Look, I know something's been going on. I don't know what—personal stuff, team dynamics, whatever—but it's affecting your game. I need you to tell me, honestly, if you can pull it together in the next five days. Because if you can't, I need to make adjustments."

I stare at my hands. The calluses from years of gripping hockey sticks. The small scars from blades and falls and fights for the puck. Hockey is the only thing I've ever been good at. The only thing that made me feel like I mattered.

And now I'm failing at that too.

"I understand, Coach." My voice comes out hollow.

Wellington studies me for another long moment. "Roster decisions are final by Wednesday. That gives you three days to prove you belong on that ice. I hope you use them wisely."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Stand, move toward the door on autopilot.

"Carpenter."

I pause, hand on the doorknob.

"Whatever's going on—fix it. Or let it go. But don't let it destroy everything you've built."

I don't respond. Walk out, close the door behind me, and keep walking until I'm outside the building, cold air biting my face.

Three days. Three days to become someone I'm not sure I can be anymore.

I think about Blaze. About last night, the warmth of his arms when he came over, the way he held me while I cried and told him everything—about Jackson, about the research, about believing I was ruining his life. He listened to all of it and didn't let go. Kept whispering "I've got you" against my hair until I finally stopped shaking.

I think about his confession in the hallway. "I've been in love with you since I was fifteen." The way he looked at me like I was something precious, something worth fighting for.

But then I think about the ice. The missed passes. The way my body refuses to cooperate, my mind too fractured to focus. Two weeks of being a ghost, and now I'm supposed to transform in three days?

I can't do it.

The realization settles over me like a funeral shroud. I'm not going to magically become the player I was before. The damage is too deep, the spiral too complete. And if I stay on the roster—if I try and fail in front of scouts and teammates and Blaze—I'll drag everyone down with me.

The thought crystallizes into certainty. Cold. Logical. Final.

If I remove myself, the team can adjust. They can put someone else in my position, someone who isn't broken, someone who won't cost them the championship. Blaze can focus on playing his best game without worrying about whether I'll fall apart. Jackson won't have ammunition anymore.

Everyone wins. Except me.

I walk to my car, sit in the driver's seat without starting the engine. My hands are shaking. I watch them tremble on the steering wheel like they belong to someone else.

My phone buzzes. A text from Blaze: "How did the meeting go?"

I stare at the message. Can't bring myself to respond. What would I even say? "I'm about to give up everything we talked about last night"? "I'm too broken to be fixed"?

His voice echoes in my head: "Let's win this championship together. I'll prove to you that having you in my life makes me better, not worse."

I believed him. Last night, wrapped in his arms, I actually believed him.

But that was before Wellington's office. Before the reality of three days to prove myself. Before I had to face the truth that belief isn't enough—that wanting something doesn't mean you're capable of achieving it.

I open my email instead of texting back. Type before I can second-guess myself.

"Coach Wellington,

After careful consideration, I am writing to formally withdraw my name from the championship roster. I believe this decision is in the best interest of the team. My recent performance has not met the standards required, and I do not want my struggles to negatively impact our chances at the championship.

I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

Asher Carpenter"

My finger hovers over send.

My vision blurs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice screams at me to stop—Blaze's voice, fierce and desperate: "You're not a distraction from my dreams, Ashy. You ARE my dream."

But Jackson's voice is louder. Wellington's disappointment is heavier. The weight of my own failure presses down until I can barely breathe.

What if I stay and we lose? What if the scouts are watching and I'm the weak link? What if Blaze's future crumbles because I was too selfish to let go?

I can't risk it. I can't risk him.

I hit send.

The email disappears into the void. Gone. Irreversible.

I sit in my car for a long time, staring at nothing. My phone buzzes again—Blaze, probably, still waiting for an answer—but I don't look at it. Can't look at it. Can't face the person I just betrayed.

We made promises. On the ice, in the locker room, in his apartment with our bodies tangled together. I promised I wouldn't run anymore. Promised I'd trust him.

I just broke every single one.

Eventually, I drive home. The apartment is dark when I get there. I don't turn on the lights. Just drop onto the couch—the same couch where Blaze held me last night—and pull my knees to my chest.

My phone keeps buzzing. I turn it off.

Hours pass. The sun sets. Shadows creep across the floor, swallowing everything in darkness. I don't move. Don't eat. Don't sleep. Just exist in the hollow space my life has become.

I made the right choice. I know I did. This is what's best for everyone.

So why does it feel like dying?

The shoebox of photographs calls to me from the closet. I don't get up. Can't bear to look at those smiling faces—me and Blaze at ten years old, full of dreams and promises we didn't know how to keep.

I broke another promise tonight. The biggest one of all.

Same ice. Same team. Same dream.

Gone. All of it, gone.

I curl tighter into myself, pressing my face against my knees, and let the darkness swallow me whole.