Score me, Captain

Chapter 30

Asher’s POV

Overtime.

Five minutes of sudden death hockey. Next goal wins. Everything we've fought for comes down to this.

I crouch at the bench during the brief intermission, lungs burning, legs aching, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. Around me, teammates gulp water and catch their breath, the exhaustion of three periods etched into every face.

But beneath the fatigue, there's something else. Hope. Belief. The electric certainty that we can do this.

"First line starts," Wellington announces. "Wilson, Carpenter, Jackson. Give me everything you've got."

I stand, rolling my shoulders, shaking out the tension. Blaze materializes beside me, our arms brushing.

"This is it," he murmurs. "Everything we promised each other. Same ice. Same team."

"Same dream." I meet his eyes. "Let's finish it."

We take the ice.

The atmosphere is suffocating—crowd on their feet, cameras flashing, the weight of thousands of expectations pressing down. I block it all out. Narrow my focus to the ice beneath my skates, the stick in my hands, the familiar presence of Blaze on my left wing.

The puck drops.

Overtime hockey is a different beast. Every shift feels like an eternity. Every mistake could be the last. Both teams play cautious at first, probing for weaknesses without overcommitting.

Two minutes pass. Then three. The tension ratchets higher with every second.

Our line cycles off for a rest. I watch from the bench, knuckles white around my stick, as the second line battles in the neutral zone. A turnover. A scoring chance. The opposing goalie makes the save, and my heart nearly stops.

"First line, back out!" Wellington barks.

I vault over the boards, legs screaming in protest. Four minutes down. One minute to go before the first overtime period ends.

Blaze wins the faceoff, drawing it back to our defenseman. We set up in the offensive zone, cycling the puck, looking for openings. The crowd chants our names, the sound building into a wall of noise that vibrates through my bones.

Forty-five seconds.

Jackson has the puck behind the net. For a heartbeat, I think he might force another selfish play. Instead, he finds me with a crisp pass to the slot.

I don't hesitate. I one-time it toward the net—but not to score. I know exactly where Blaze is, can feel his presence like a sixth sense, and redirect the shot across the crease instead.

Blaze is there. Stick ready. The puck hits his blade and he snaps it toward the open corner—

The goalie throws out his glove. Gets a piece. The puck bounces away.

"Fuck!" Blaze slams his stick against the ice.

"We're close," I pant, skating beside him. "Keep pushing."

Thirty seconds.

The opposing team tries to ice the puck. Their clearance goes wide, and I beat the defender to it along the boards. Shield the puck with my body, absorbing a heavy check, then dish it back to the point.

Our defenseman winds up for a slap shot. The opposing players drop to block it.

But the shot never comes. Instead, he fakes and slides a pass to Blaze at the top of the circle.

Time slows.

I see everything with crystalline clarity. The defenders converging on Blaze. The goalie squaring up. The small window of space opening up in front of the net—a gap that will only exist for a fraction of a second.

Blaze sees it too. Our eyes meet across the chaos, and something passes between us. A question. An answer. A decision made in the space of a heartbeat.

Blaze doesn't shoot.

He passes.

The puck slides across the ice, threading through three sets of legs, finding my stick with perfect precision. I'm already moving, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought can't keep up.

The goalie tries to adjust, diving across the crease, but he's too late.

The puck is already past him. Already crossing the line. Already—

Goal.

The horn blares. The crowd erupts. And I stand frozen in front of the net, stick raised, unable to process what just happened.

I scored. I scored the championship-winning goal.

Then Blaze slams into me from behind, arms wrapping around my chest, lifting me off my feet. "You did it! Holy shit, Ashy, you did it!"

Teammates pile on. Bodies everywhere, helmets knocked loose, everyone screaming and laughing and crying. I'm buried at the bottom of the celebration, crushed beneath the weight of my team's joy, and I've never been happier in my entire life.

When the pile disperses, Blaze is still there. Right in front of me. Eyes shining with tears and triumph.

"You passed to me," I say, still not quite believing it. "You had the shot."

"I could have taken it." His smile is radiant. "But you were open. And I knew—I knew if I gave you the chance, you'd bury it."

"What if I'd missed?"

"You wouldn't." Blaze cups the back of my neck, pulling our foreheads together. Around us, the celebration continues—teammates hugging, fans streaming onto the ice—but right here, we're in our own world. "I trusted you, Ash. I'll always trust you."

My vision blurs. "I love you."

"I love you too." His voice is rough. "Now come on. We have a trophy to lift."

The ceremony passes in a blur of flashbulbs and speeches. The championship trophy gleams under the arena lights, heavy and cold in my hands. I raise it above my head, the crowd roaring, and search the stands until I find the scouts. Notebooks closed. Satisfied smiles.

We did it. Together.

When the celebration winds down, when the ice clears and the crowd filters out, I find myself alone with Blaze at center ice. The arena is quiet—just the hum of the cooling system and soft emergency lighting.

"Hell of a game," Blaze says, voice echoing.

"Hell of a season." I look at the championship banners hanging from the rafters. "I still can't believe this is real."

"Which part?"

"All of it." I turn to face him. "But mostly the part where I get to share it with you."

He reaches out, threading our fingers together. "Remember what we promised? When we were kids?"

"Same ice. Same team." I squeeze his hand. "Took us a while to get here."

"Worth the wait."

We stand there in the silence, two figures on the empty ice where we just made history. Behind us, the past—years of separation, rivalry, denial, pain. Ahead, the future—uncertain but full of possibility.

"So what now?" I ask.

"Now we go home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we wake up as champions." He pauses, a smile tugging at his lips. "But I have ideas about tonight first."

I laugh—real, free, unguarded. "Is that so?"

"Mm." He pulls me closer. "If you're interested."

"Very interested." I rise up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Very, very interested."

We skate toward the exit together, hands linked. Outside, the night is cold and clear, stars scattered across the sky like promises.

I think about everything that brought us here. The frozen pond at ten years old. The promise before he moved away. The years of distance. The reunion that shattered everything I thought I knew about myself. The spiral. The withdrawal. The moment I almost gave up.

And through all of it—Blaze was there. Fighting for me. Believing in me. Loving me even when I couldn't love myself.

"Hey." He squeezes my hand. "You okay?"

I look at him—really look. At the boy who taught me to dream. The rival who pushed me to be better. The man who showed me what love actually means.

"Yeah," I say, and mean it. "I'm perfect."

We climb into his car. The engine rumbles. The radio plays softly—some sappy love song that should be embarrassing but feels exactly right.

As we pull out of the parking lot, leaving the arena lights behind, I realize the truth.

This isn't an ending.

It's just the beginning.