Page 17 of Caught Offside

“I’m also bigger than I look on TV.”

“Believe me, I noticed that when you walked in.” Asher’s shoulder was touching Patrick’s, a constant warm line of contact that neither of them had acknowledged or adjusted away from. Patrick draped his right arm over the top of the couch, inviting Asher to lean against him. Asher accepted the invitation with a shy smile. He hummed as he made himself comfortable. “That play in the second period where you stepped up and forced the turnover at the blue line… You made it look effortless.”

“It’s not effortless.”

“I know it’s not, and that’s exactly why it’s impressive when you make it look that way.”

Patrick’s ice was melting, the water seeping through the towel and pooling cold against his skin. He should rewrap it with fresh ice from the bucket, but moving would mean breaking the contact, and he was unwilling to lose it over something as minor as a wet towel.

Asher took the bundle from him without asking, got off the couch to refill it with fresh ice from the bucket, and came back to Patrick’s left side. When he pressed the new wrap against Patrick’s ribs, his hand stayed, holding it steady against the bruise with his palm flat and his fingers curled around Patrick’s side.

“You can sleep if you want to,” Asher said. “You look like you’re about thirty seconds from passing out.”

“I’m not tired.” He was lying, and they both knew it.

“You’re such a liar.” Asher’s voice had dropped to something quieter, almost fond. “Just close your eyes.”

Patrick was exhausted the way that only happened after a physical game, where the adrenaline wore off all at once and left behind nothing but the damage and the weight of his own body. The warm room, the background noise from the TV, and Asher’s hand steady against his side were pulling him toward something his body had already decided to stop fighting.

“I have to be at the rink by nine tomorrow morning,” Patrick said, already drifting off. “I should probably head home soon.”

“Just rest for a bit.” Asher’s thumb shifted against the towel, a small movement that Patrick wasn’t sure was conscious. “We’ll see how you’re feeling in about an hour. Do you have a change of clothes in your car?”

“Yeah, but that’s all the way downstairs,” Patrick mumbled.

“We can deal with that later.” Patrick wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or if Asher actually kissed the side of his head. He hoped it was the latter. God, he’d have to make it up to him once he felt better. “You can run down in the morning, and then we’ll get ready for breakfast. What time do you want to be up?”

“Seven-thirty works. There’s a place I like about two blocks from the rink that opens early. We could go get breakfast.”

“I’ll set an alarm.”

Patrick registered what that meant, the full shape of what they were agreeing to without saying it directly. He was staying, and he was going to fall asleep in this hotel room with Asher’s hand on his ribs, a bad movie playing, and no pretense between them about what any of this was.

“Okay,” Patrick said.

Asher reached over with his free hand and turned the TV volume down until it was barely audible, then shifted both of them so Patrick was the one stretched out against Asher. His breathing was already evening out, slow and steady.

The last thing he registered before sleep pulled him under was Asher’s hand going slack against the towel, his grip loosening as consciousness left him, and the warmth of his palm staying exactly where it was.

CHAPTER SIX

The heat hit him on the tarmac. It wasn’t the gradual easing-in of a Wisconsin spring. This was immediate, full-contact. The sun pressed down on his shoulders through his T-shirt. The air smelled like jet fuel and something dry underneath it, mineral and clean.

Asher shouldered his carry-on and followed the jet bridge crowd toward baggage claim, his legs stiff from the three-hour commercial flight out of Milwaukee. The major league pitchers and catchers had reported to the Mavericks’ big-league camp two days ago. The Fireflies’ spring training was still weeks out, but the invitation to work out with the big club had come in December, and Asher hadn’t waited for it to come twice.

He grabbed his checked bag off the carousel and ordered a ride. His parents’ house was forty minutes from the airport. He watched the Mavericks’ spring training complex pass from the back seat, its white façade and practice diamonds visible from the highway. Three more miles into the subdivision where his parents had kept a place since before he was born. His dads had bought it the year they got together—somewhere warm for the offseason and spring training, a place that was theirs instead of the team’s. After they adopted Asher, it became the house where winter didn’t exist.

The house was single-story stucco with a terracotta roof and a gravel yard with a cactus garden Pops had planted and Dad had been instructed not to touch. Asher punched the code on the keypad and let himself in, dropped his bags in the guest room. The house smelled like lavender—Pops put the same plug-in in every room he owned, and the housekeeper had been through recently enough that the floors were clean and the counters wiped down.

He opened the back sliders to let air in. The pool was covered and the patio furniture stacked. A text from Pops had come in while he was landing.

Pops

Wish you were here.

Attached was a photo of the front steps of the Milwaukee house buried under a snowdrift.

And below that, a message from Patrick sent forty minutes ago.