Page 20 of Caught Offside

The screen went dark, and Asher sat in the living room of his parents’ house with the phone in his hand and the desert silence pressing against the windows.

Pops called on a Sunday afternoon while Asher was stretched out on a lounger by the pool. He’d uncovered the pool his second day after Sean texted him the chemical instructions, which Asher had followed closely enough. The water was cold but swimmable, and the sun was doing the rest.

“How’s my house?” Pops asked.

“Still standing, but I broke your coffee maker.”

“Which one?”

“The fancy one.”

“Your father’s going to kill you. That’s the one he shipped from Italy.”

The espresso machine was fine. It had been fine since the day Dad unpacked it, aligned it on the counter like a museum piece, and spent twenty minutes explaining the pressure settings. Asher and Pops had been telling him it was broken ever since.

“It was already making a noise.” Asher sat up straighter on the lounger, committing to the bit.

“It’s an espresso machine, Asher, it makes noises. That’s what it does.”

“This was a different noise. A bad noise. A noise that said ‘I’m about to stop working forever.’”

“Buy him a new one before he finds out.” Asher shifted the phone to his other ear.

“Already ordered.”

Pops’s laugh was warm and close. “How’s camp? Braun treating you okay?”

“Braun doesn’t treat anyone any way. He watches. He takes notes. Occasionally, he says something that sounds like criticism but is actually a compliment if you parse it.”

“Sounds like your father.”

“That’s what I said.” Asher pulled his cap lower against the sun.

A pause, and then Pops’s voice changed. “You catching for Henley yet?”

“Yesterday, two innings of live BP. His fastball sits ninety-five.”

“How’d it feel?”

“Like the real thing.” Asher heard himself say it and let the rest sit there unspoken. He’d be sent down when rosters finalized. He knew that. Everyone knew that. But for three weeks, he was catching big-league arms in a big-league facility with his name on a locker. Some mornings, the gap between where he was and where he wanted to be felt like nothing at all.

“You’re quiet,” Pops said.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“About how I’ve wanted this since I was nine years old and I’m still not sure I’m allowed to want it this much.”

Pops didn’t say anything for a moment. The patient kind of silence, from someone who’d decided the next words belonged to Asher and was willing to wait.

“You’re allowed,” Pops said. “For the record.”

“Thanks, Pops.” The word came out smaller than he’d intended, and Pops let the moment breathe before changing direction.

“Now tell me about the hockey player.”

Asher closed his eyes. “How do you know about the hockey player?”