Ashton’s POV
Practice feels different this morning. Sharper, somehow, like every stride against the ice is burning off something I can't quite name, not just adrenaline, but a low, simmering anger I haven't let myself fully feel until now.
Raoul Havant.
I keep turning the name over between drills, trying to reconcile it with the man I've played against a dozen times, competitive, sure, a friend? Absolutely not, but despite our rivalry, I never would have suspected him of this kind of calculated cruelty. I run through old memories, searching for some sign I missed, some moment that should have warned me.
The only thing that comes close is the draft. Years ago now, before Beth, before any of this, Raoul and I both up for the same centre position with the Hawks. I got picked. He didn't. I
