0013

Rowan’s Pov

I thought the night would be tense and awkward, filled with unspoken questions and walls built a mile high, but it turned into something entirely different.

Sitting there on the couch with a slice of pizza in my hand, surrounded by the quiet hum of the television, the heavy knot in my chest slowly began to loosen. Asher didn't press me for answers about Bianca, and he didn't demand to know why I had looked like a ghost earlier that day. He just handed me food, turned on an old hockey classic, and gave me a safe place to breathe.

Before long, we were arguing loudly over the movie on the screen.

"There is no way a defenseman would leave the slot wide open like that," I groaned, pointing a piece of crust at the television. "That goalie is completely out of position. Any rookie would score on that shot."

Asher raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, really? You think you could do better against a pro-level tender?"

"In my sleep," I shot back, narrowing my eyes playfully. "I’ve seen better positioning in a Pee-Wee house league game."

"Alright, expert," he laughed, tossing a sofa pillow right at my head. "Let's see your stats then. Who won the national finals back in nineteen-ninety-eight?"

"The Ironclad Pack," I answered instantly without missing a beat. "Won in triple overtime. Legendary game. Next question."

For the next hour, we turned movie-watching into a full-scale trivia competition. We argued about famous players, historic championship rivalries, and the best training drills. It felt so easy, so natural, that I completely forgot I was sitting next to the future Alpha of the Nightfall Pack—the most respected, intimidating student at Silvercrest. He wasn't the captain right then. He was just Asher, the guy who shared my kitchen, argued about hockey statistics, and made me laugh when my world felt like it was falling apart.

The playful atmosphere slowly shifted as the movie faded into the credits, leaving the room quiet except for the hum of the TV.

Asher stared down at his hands for a long moment, his expression growing thoughtful. He turned his head to look at me, his crystalline eyes catching the dim light.

"Rowan?" he asked softly.

"Yeah?"

"What would you do..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "What would you do if hockey was taken away from you tomorrow?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat. The very thing I worried about every single day—the fear of exposure, of expulsion, of being banned from the ice forever—was hanging right there in front of me.

"I don't know," I whispered, my voice barely audible. I looked down at my lap, blinking back a sudden wave of heat behind my eyes. "I honestly don't think I'd survive it. Hockey isn't just a sport for me, Asher. It's... it's the only place where I feel like I'm actually myself. If you took the ice away from me, I wouldn't even know who I was anymore."

Asher didn't laugh or tell me I was being dramatic. He listened with a heavy, intense focus that made my chest ache.

"That's how I feel too," he admitted quietly, turning his gaze back to the screen. "My entire life, people have told me who I have to be, what pack I have to lead, and what rules I have to follow. The only time the noise stops is when I'm on the ice. It's the only place that belongs to me."

He looked back over at me, his gaze softening in a way that made my pulse race.

"You don't have to tell me your whole story, Rowan," he said gently, his voice thick with a raw, unexpected sincerity. "I know you're hiding something. But anyone who watches you play for even two minutes can see it. You love this game more than almost anything else in the world. And anyone who tries to take that away from you is blind."

The words wrapped around my heart like a warm blanket. He didn't know I was an Omega. He didn't know about the forged records or the stolen suppressants. But he saw my soul, right through all my armor, and he understood my passion without needing the full truth.

"Thank you, Asher," I murmured, a tiny, genuine smile touching my lips.

The heavy conversation slowly faded into a comfortable exhaustion. As the second movie played on in the background, neither of us moved back to our respective bedrooms. Sometime past midnight, completely worn out from the emotional weight of the day and the brutal practices, we drifted off to sleep right there on the couch, sitting on opposite ends.

At least, we started on opposite ends.

I woke up hours later in the middle of the night, shivering slightly as the room's temperature dropped. My eyes fluttered open, and I realized I wasn't curled up on my side of the couch anymore.

Somehow, in my sleep, I had slid sideways. My head was resting comfortably right against Asher’s solid, broad shoulder, and one of his arms was wrapped securely around my waist, holding me close against him as if his body instinctively knew to keep me safe.

My breath hitched. Every logical thought in my brain screamed that I needed to move right now, to scramble back to my side of the couch before he woke up and realized what was happening.

Instead, I stayed completely still.

I listened to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat right beneath my ear. I breathed in the clean scent of pine, winter air, and vanilla that always followed him. For the first time since I had stepped foot through the iron gates of Silvercrest Academy, I felt entirely, perfectly safe. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to just exist in that moment, soaking in the warmth of being close to him.

That peaceful little bubble popped violently the next morning.

Bright sunlight poured through the living room windows, waking me up. Before I could move away from Asher, the front door of our suite clicked open with a loud, sharp rattle.

Heavy footsteps echoed across the entryway floor, accompanied by Mason's loud, cheerful voice.

"Hey, captain! I brought the extra playbook notes you asked for, and—"

Mason stopped dead in his tracks right at the entrance of the living room.

I jerked awake, my eyes flying wide open. Asher stirred beside me, blinking against the morning light, but it was already too late.

Mason stood frozen by the kitchen counter, staring straight at us. He looked at the empty pizza boxes, looked at the blanket wrapped around us, and then looked directly at me cuddled tightly against Asher's side.

A slow, disbelieving grin spread across Mason's face, stretching from ear to ear.

He didn't scream, and he didn't drop his papers. Instead, Mason slowly raised both hands, took two very deliberate steps backward toward the front door, and made his grand announcement:

"I have absolutely no idea what I just walked in on, but I am definitely telling the team."