Score me, Captain

Chapter 61

Ryan’s POV

A knock at the door.

I wasn't expecting anyone. It's nearly midnight. Rain hammers against my windows like the sky is trying to break through. The kind of night where sensible people stay inside. Pretend the world doesn't exist.

I set down my beer and cross to the door. Open it without checking the peephole first.

Asher stands there. Soaked through to the bone. Water streams down his face. Drips from his hair. Pools on my welcome mat. His jacket clings to his shoulders like a second skin.

His eyes are red-rimmed and hollow. Shattered. That's the only word for what I'm looking at.

"Jesus, Ash." I reach for him instinctively. "What happened? You're soaked."

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at me like he's not entirely sure how he ended up here.

"Can I come in?" His voice cracks on the last word. Barely a whisper. "I didn't know where else to go."

Every instinct screams at me to say no. Protect yourself, Torres. Stop letting this man use you as a landing pad between crashes.

But this is Ash. My Ash.The captain I've admired since joining this team. The man who makes my knees weak despite everything he's put me through.

Despite knowing I'll never be more than a convenient distraction.

"Of course." I step aside, letting him in. "Get in here before you catch pneumonia."

He crosses the threshold like a ghost. Leaves wet footprints on my hardwood floors. Stands in my entryway looking lost in a way that makes my chest ache.

"Talk to me." I grab a towel from the bathroom. Drape it over his shoulders. "What's going on?"

"He's gone." The words come out hollow. Empty. "Blaze. He kissed me goodbye and walked away. In the rain. Just... left."

My stomach twists. Of course it's about Blaze. It's always about Blaze.

"Okay." I guide him toward the couch. "Okay, just sit down. You're shaking."

"Everything's falling apart, Ryan." He collapses onto the cushions like his strings have been cut. "The articles. Coach is threatening to cut me. And now..."

His head falls into my lap without asking permission. Wet hair soaks through my sweatpants. I should push him away. Should demand he stop using me as a backup plan whenever his real life implodes.

Instead, I stroke his wet hair. Let my fingers card through damp curls while he trembles against my thigh.

"You don't know that for sure," I hear myself say. "People say things in the heat of the moment."

"You didn't see his face." Ash's voice breaks. "It was goodbye. Real goodbye."

I keep stroking. Keep offering comfort I have no right to give.

Because guilt coils in my stomach. Heavy. Poisonous. The kind that keeps you awake at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling. Wondering when you became the villain in someone else's story.

Guilt I shouldn't feel. Guilt I've earned. The memory surfaces before I can stop it.

A few weeks ago

Jackson catching me in the hallway between practices a few weeks ago. That easy smile. Warm eyes full of understanding.

"Sorry Ash keeps taking everything out on you," Jackson had said. Voice soft with sympathy. "But damn, Torres. You're a hockey player, not a doormat. Stand up for yourself."

Finally. Someone who actually saw what I was going through.

"Only three of us on this team know about our... preferences," he'd continued. Lowering his voice, like sharing a secret.

"You know what I've been thinking? Maybe a small scandal would wake Ash up. Help him realize some things. Make him appreciate what he has before he loses it."

Just a thought. Nothing serious. Two teammates venting about a difficult situation. Even though it felt like two nosy bitches gossiping. But I needed that talk. Needed someone to see my struggles, to see me.

"But of course it's impossible. He hides everything so well," Jackson had mused. "Hard to help someone who won't let anyone see them struggle."

The idea planted itself like a seed. Festering. Growing.

I was hurt. Wounded from being used and discarded. Desperate for something to change the pattern we'd fallen into.

Until I convinced myself it was actually a good thing. A wake-up call Ash needed.

Present

I took those photos at the club. Sold them to the tabloids through an anonymous tip line.

Convinced myself it would push Ash to get better. Scare him straight. Force him to confront whatever demons were driving his self-destruction.

Instead, I made everything worse.

The articles. The coach's ultimatum. The spiral that brought him to my door tonight. Broken and desperate. Seeking comfort from the very person who helped destroy him.

He doesn't know. Can't know. If he ever found out what I did, he'd never look at me the same way again.

"Ryan?" Ash's voice pulls me back. "You still there?"

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Yeah, I'm here. Just thinking."

"About what?"

About how I betrayed you. About how I'm the reason those articles exist. About how I don't deserve your trust.

"About how you're going to get through this," I lie instead. "You're stronger than you think, Ash."

His trembling slows eventually. The rain continues its assault on my windows. But the storm inside him seems to be quieting.

He shifts in my lap. Turns to look up at me with those exhausted blue eyes.

My heart clenches at the vulnerability there. The raw pain he usually hides behind walls of ice and sarcasm.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "For how I've treated you. You didn't deserve it."

"Ash, don't—"

"No, let me say this." His hand finds mine. Squeezes weakly. "You've always been there. Never pushed. Never demanded more than I could give."

Because I knew you'd never give it, I think. Because I accepted crumbs and called them a feast.

"I'm glad I have you, Ryan." His eyes drift closed. Exhaustion finally winning the war. "Really glad."

The words slice through me like razors. Each one cutting deeper than the last. Drawing blood he can't see.

He's grateful for me. For my presence. For my patience. For the very qualities that led me to betray him in the worst possible way.

The confession burns in my throat. Claws at the inside of my mouth, desperate to escape.

"Ash, there's something I need…"

But his breathing has evened out. His grip on my hand has loosened. Sleep has claimed him, finally offering mercy.

The words die on my lips. Coward.

"Of course, dude," I murmur to his sleeping form instead. "Always."

The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. I sit there for hours. Watching him sleep. Stroking his hair. Hating myself with every gentle touch.

The rain eventually stops. Dawn creeps across the sky, painting my windows gray.

And I stay exactly where I am. Trapped by guilt and love and the terrible knowledge that I'm not the person Asher thinks I am.

I'm something much worse.