For the last decade, successful restaurant owner and chef, Ash Ariti, has worked to make amends for the career-ending mistake he made when he was young and allowed anger to consume him. Driven to be worthy of the second chance he’s been afforded, Ash built a life centered around giving back to his community, all while maintaining a low profile. When he finds himself thrust into the spotlight of a bachelor auction to help one of his favorite causes, he never expects to come face-to-face with the sexy man who’s career he destroyed.
Isaiah Blake has spent a lifetime proving he’s deserving of what he has. After a hit on the ice prematurely ended his NHL career, he committed to becoming a better version of himself. Now, he’s living an open and honest life. So, when he has an opportunity to interview bachelors participating in the Hockey Allies auction for the Hockey Network, the only thing he’s hoping to gain is exposure for his non-profit. That is, until his former rival Ash, steps onto the auction block. Isaiah sees an opportunity to make amends for the suffering he caused ten years ago. Unfortunately, Ash is wary of Isaiah’s motives, and soon Isaiah realizes there is more to Ash’s cautiousness than the history that binds them.
Attraction takes hold as Ash and Isaiah begin to build a new professional alliance and friendship. They must learn to forgive each other, and most importantly, themselves. With outside forces and public opinion hawking, will their relationship be over before it begins? Or will they discover joy and redemption in each other, and find their happily ever after?
For once I'm going to start out at the end😉. This is the third entry of the Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid series I've read and I just want to say how much I love the epilogues of each one and Absolving Ash is no different. Now I won't give anything away but I just needed to put it out there because, epilogues can be tricky, if not done right then they appear as a quick way to wrap up or guarantee a HEA, but when done right . . . well, when done right they are a perfect conclusion that doesn't have to be a be-all-end-all, there's always room for more if the characters wish to tell more.
As for Ash and Isaiah, what's not to love? They both did things wrong and then never took the chance to resolve it until 10 years later when fate stepped in, fate always finds a way. What these two have together is unmistakable and energetic, that's not to say it's all unicorns and roses but it's definitely deliciously entertaining. One thing I really loved, despite the horrible reasons why they had to, was the fact that both characters found a satisfying life after hockey, not something we often see in sports romances and that element made this story even better for me.
Chantal Mer is a new author to me, which for some people that can be a scary notion, for me it adds an extra layer of adrenaline rush. I was not disappointed. Chantal Mer is definitely going on my authors-to-watch list. Some might call Absolving Ash a second chance romance but I call it a second chance at life journey. A winning gem not to be missed.
RATING:
PROLOGUE
Asher
Sweat stings my eyes as I tear off after the center of the Buffalo Bedlam. We’re down by one with only forty seconds left in the period, and I’m going to make sure the Hellfire put the puck in the goal. I slam into Karnovich, steal the puck, and slice it to my teammate Christoph Côté. Topher sprints over the ice, passing the puck to Kaas, who shoots it by the Bedlam’s goalie’s outstretched leg and into the net.
YES! I punched the air as the Houston crowd goes wild. An air horn blasts while “Hellfire,” by Joe Louis Walker, blares over the speaker system. Electricity fills the rink, and with thirty seconds left, we still have a chance for another goal.
“You’re not gonna win, Delacroix.” This comes from the biggest trash talker in the league, which is saying something. But being the kid of Booker Blake, one of the best players in the sport— turned annoying as hell commentator―― has made Isaiah Blake an asshole.
“Believe what you want, jackass. The Bedlam are going down.” When I take off to get away from the guy who’s more talk than talent, he’s on me, ramming into my shoulder. “What the fuck, asshole?”
“What?” He smiles around his mouth guard and pushes again.
I’m not gonna lie; I’m itching for a fight. Slamming my fist into someone’s face, feeling the crunch of cartilage as my knuckles make contact. The woosh of breath and a grunt from a right jab to the ribs. The cheers and jeers of the crowd and shouts of my teammates. All of it would make the excruciating emptiness that comes with the anniversary of my sister Serena’s death feel less real.
If only for a few blissful seconds.
Another push.
My fingers tighten and flex in my gloves. “Keep it up, and I’ll fucking take you out.”
“Big talk from a big pussy.” Isaiah is in my face, taunting like he wants to prove something. “Do you even know what a pussy is? Should I speak in terms, you know? How about big talk from a big dick?”
It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last that I get crap for being gay and out. But I promised myself and Serena’s memory that I wouldn’t let small-minded assholes, as she put it, make me feel less, nor would I hide who I was.
“Real original.” I shove back and then hit him with what hurts insecure jackasses like Isaiah Blake the most. “Hang up your skates. You’ll never be as good as your daddy.”
Seeing an opening, if I make one, I fly over to the winger and knock him into the boards, freeing the puck. But before I can move, fucking Blake plows into me, a well-placed jab in my back.
His head is pressed to mine. The words low and sinister. “If you’d shown your sister how to suck dick, she would have been chugging cum instead of vodka.”
As quickly as he was there, he’s gone.
I’m paralyzed, pressed to the glass. Everything stills and goes black. The heat of Isaiah’s words sears my organs, my skin, my fucking soul.
“C’mon, Delacroix.” My alternate captain, Topher, bumps me as he skates by.
I rush my target.
The cheers and shouts of the crowd grow silent as my vision tunnels with rage. At the age of seventeen, Serena made the worst mistake, which caused the paralysis of one of her friends, her own death, and the heartbreak of too many people to count. But no one— NO ONE— is going to sully her memory because she was dumb enough to get behind the wheel, drunk.
“FUCK YOU.” The buzzer sounds, and a moment later, I make contact, slamming my shoulder into the disrespectful asshole’s back and launching him into the boards. Numb satisfaction floods me as I witness the cocky sonofabitch’s head ricochet off the glass. His helmet flies through the air as his body crumples to the ice.
In what seems like slow motion, I watch his head hit the cold, hard ice, bounce up, then collide again.
Horror and dread overwhelm me, and I force my legs to skate closer.
There is a collective gasp from everyone in attendance before chaos erupts. Whistles blowing, refs pointing and yelling. I don’t bother to brace myself when every Bedlam player not at their teammate’s side charges me, fists pummeling. I collapse, moving my head only to try to locate Isaiah. And when I spot him before my left eye has completely swollen shut, I swallow back the acid bile.
The doctors and medical staff surround him. The spinal board is brought out.
A tap on my helmet and I turn my attention to Topher, who shakes his head in disappointment and grabs my hand to help me up. Hellfire players hold back Bedlam players and try to talk them down, but they aren’t ready for the brawl to end.
I wipe my mouth and run my tongue over my teeth. Only two loose, not bad.
My legs are jelly as I skate toward Isaiah, but I can’t get close enough to see him. Dropping to my knees behind the medical staff I catch glimpses as they move and bend, attending to the man I just bashed. His eyes are closed, and he’s not moving. The medics are talking to him, but there’s only eerie stillness. Rivets of blood drip from my nose, covering the snow-colored ice with dots of red. Orders are being shouted back and forth from medic to trainer to medic. Refs huddle together in conference. In one fluid movement, Isaiah is lifted onto the board and strapped down. The crowd is on their feet. A woman in a Hellfire jersey holds her hand to her mouth. A guy in a gray puffer jacket and black skull cap watches with arms crossed over his chest, his face sullen. On the jumbotron, the scene plays out, as the medical team wheels Isaiah off the ice.
Game over, fans quietly shuffle out as a foreboding blankets the rink, stifling any merriment that was present moments before.
Hands on my knees, I let my head drop, and my shoulders droop. Specks of red have bled together, creating a morbid painting on the thick canvas of ice. Tracing the design with my eyes, I freeze when they reach the splotch of ruby where Isaiah’s head lay only moments before. I squeeze my good eye shut, but when I open it, the spot is still there, shouting and screaming at me for letting anger consume me.
Questioning how I could lose control.
Blaming me for unknown injuries.
Demanding how I could place my parents in a position of shame, again.
After everything we’ve been through. Everything they’ve endured.
What the hell did I do?
Asher
Sweat stings my eyes as I tear off after the center of the Buffalo Bedlam. We’re down by one with only forty seconds left in the period, and I’m going to make sure the Hellfire put the puck in the goal. I slam into Karnovich, steal the puck, and slice it to my teammate Christoph Côté. Topher sprints over the ice, passing the puck to Kaas, who shoots it by the Bedlam’s goalie’s outstretched leg and into the net.
YES! I punched the air as the Houston crowd goes wild. An air horn blasts while “Hellfire,” by Joe Louis Walker, blares over the speaker system. Electricity fills the rink, and with thirty seconds left, we still have a chance for another goal.
“You’re not gonna win, Delacroix.” This comes from the biggest trash talker in the league, which is saying something. But being the kid of Booker Blake, one of the best players in the sport— turned annoying as hell commentator―― has made Isaiah Blake an asshole.
“Believe what you want, jackass. The Bedlam are going down.” When I take off to get away from the guy who’s more talk than talent, he’s on me, ramming into my shoulder. “What the fuck, asshole?”
“What?” He smiles around his mouth guard and pushes again.
I’m not gonna lie; I’m itching for a fight. Slamming my fist into someone’s face, feeling the crunch of cartilage as my knuckles make contact. The woosh of breath and a grunt from a right jab to the ribs. The cheers and jeers of the crowd and shouts of my teammates. All of it would make the excruciating emptiness that comes with the anniversary of my sister Serena’s death feel less real.
If only for a few blissful seconds.
Another push.
My fingers tighten and flex in my gloves. “Keep it up, and I’ll fucking take you out.”
“Big talk from a big pussy.” Isaiah is in my face, taunting like he wants to prove something. “Do you even know what a pussy is? Should I speak in terms, you know? How about big talk from a big dick?”
It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last that I get crap for being gay and out. But I promised myself and Serena’s memory that I wouldn’t let small-minded assholes, as she put it, make me feel less, nor would I hide who I was.
“Real original.” I shove back and then hit him with what hurts insecure jackasses like Isaiah Blake the most. “Hang up your skates. You’ll never be as good as your daddy.”
Seeing an opening, if I make one, I fly over to the winger and knock him into the boards, freeing the puck. But before I can move, fucking Blake plows into me, a well-placed jab in my back.
His head is pressed to mine. The words low and sinister. “If you’d shown your sister how to suck dick, she would have been chugging cum instead of vodka.”
As quickly as he was there, he’s gone.
I’m paralyzed, pressed to the glass. Everything stills and goes black. The heat of Isaiah’s words sears my organs, my skin, my fucking soul.
“C’mon, Delacroix.” My alternate captain, Topher, bumps me as he skates by.
I rush my target.
The cheers and shouts of the crowd grow silent as my vision tunnels with rage. At the age of seventeen, Serena made the worst mistake, which caused the paralysis of one of her friends, her own death, and the heartbreak of too many people to count. But no one— NO ONE— is going to sully her memory because she was dumb enough to get behind the wheel, drunk.
“FUCK YOU.” The buzzer sounds, and a moment later, I make contact, slamming my shoulder into the disrespectful asshole’s back and launching him into the boards. Numb satisfaction floods me as I witness the cocky sonofabitch’s head ricochet off the glass. His helmet flies through the air as his body crumples to the ice.
In what seems like slow motion, I watch his head hit the cold, hard ice, bounce up, then collide again.
Horror and dread overwhelm me, and I force my legs to skate closer.
There is a collective gasp from everyone in attendance before chaos erupts. Whistles blowing, refs pointing and yelling. I don’t bother to brace myself when every Bedlam player not at their teammate’s side charges me, fists pummeling. I collapse, moving my head only to try to locate Isaiah. And when I spot him before my left eye has completely swollen shut, I swallow back the acid bile.
The doctors and medical staff surround him. The spinal board is brought out.
A tap on my helmet and I turn my attention to Topher, who shakes his head in disappointment and grabs my hand to help me up. Hellfire players hold back Bedlam players and try to talk them down, but they aren’t ready for the brawl to end.
I wipe my mouth and run my tongue over my teeth. Only two loose, not bad.
My legs are jelly as I skate toward Isaiah, but I can’t get close enough to see him. Dropping to my knees behind the medical staff I catch glimpses as they move and bend, attending to the man I just bashed. His eyes are closed, and he’s not moving. The medics are talking to him, but there’s only eerie stillness. Rivets of blood drip from my nose, covering the snow-colored ice with dots of red. Orders are being shouted back and forth from medic to trainer to medic. Refs huddle together in conference. In one fluid movement, Isaiah is lifted onto the board and strapped down. The crowd is on their feet. A woman in a Hellfire jersey holds her hand to her mouth. A guy in a gray puffer jacket and black skull cap watches with arms crossed over his chest, his face sullen. On the jumbotron, the scene plays out, as the medical team wheels Isaiah off the ice.
Game over, fans quietly shuffle out as a foreboding blankets the rink, stifling any merriment that was present moments before.
Hands on my knees, I let my head drop, and my shoulders droop. Specks of red have bled together, creating a morbid painting on the thick canvas of ice. Tracing the design with my eyes, I freeze when they reach the splotch of ruby where Isaiah’s head lay only moments before. I squeeze my good eye shut, but when I open it, the spot is still there, shouting and screaming at me for letting anger consume me.
Questioning how I could lose control.
Blaming me for unknown injuries.
Demanding how I could place my parents in a position of shame, again.
After everything we’ve been through. Everything they’ve endured.
What the hell did I do?
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Chantal Mer is an author and optimist. Her stories explore relationships and what it means to be family. When she’s not writing about strong women, strong men, and strong love, she can be found walking her adorable dog, volunteering at her kids’ school (in the library, of course), teaching at the local university, and reading.
Chantal lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband, kids, Toffee the Wonder Dog, and vicious cat, Gracie.
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