Page 24 of Caught Offside

Patrick peeled off his jersey and shoulder pads in one motion and dropped them in the stall.

Dev was beside him, pulling tape from his wrists. Lindy was two stalls down, head bent over his phone, close enough that his equipment bag touched Dev’s. Dev’s gaze tracked to Lindy, seemingly involuntary but brief, and returned to the tape. Patrick saw it.

Dev caught him looking, held it for a beat, and said nothing. Patrick turned back to his stall and started on his skates.

“You’re different,” Dev said. Pitched below the room’s volume, aimed at the two of them. Eyes down, still working tape.

“I’m the same.”

“You talked to Toews between every shift tonight. I’ve been next to you for three years, and you’ve never said ten words to me voluntarily.”

Patrick pulled the left skate free and set it on the mat. “He needed help with his gaps.”

“Sure.” Dev tossed the tape. “Different isn’t bad though. Just out of character for you.”

He stood, grabbed his towel, and headed for the showers. His path took him past Lindy’s stall, and as he passed, his hand landed on the back of Lindy’s chair, not Lindy, just the chair, a contact that could have been accidental and was not. Lindy’s head came up for a second, tracking Dev across the room, before dropping back to the screen.

Patrick finished undressing, showered, and drove home. He made dinner, ate standing up, and called Asher while he was cleaning the pan.

Asher picked up mid-sentence, already talking to someone else. “—because he’s been staring at samples for three days, and I’m not getting involved. Hey.”

“Hey.” Patrick set the pan in the drying rack. “Who’s staring at samples?”

“Dad. He’s redoing the kitchen countertops. Pops flew in this morning, supposedly for sun, but I think he’s escaping the renovation. He’s been in the guest room for six hours, refusing to have an opinion about granite.”

Patrick could hear someone in the background, a voice he didn’t recognize, warm and carrying.

“Is that him?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah. He’s— Hold on.” The phone shifted, muffled, and Patrick heard Asher say something he couldn’t make out. Then, clearer, “Pops, I’m on the phone.”

The background voice got louder, theatrical and amused. “With the hockey player?”

A pause. Asher came back. “He knows there’s a hockey player. He doesn’t know anything else. He’s been calling you ‘the hockey player’ for two weeks. I think he’s hoping to catch me in a weak moment so I’ll slip and say your name.”

Patrick leaned against the counter. “How does he know I play hockey?”

“Because I asked Dad what the expansion draft was, and Pops was in the room, and apparently, that’s all it takes.” Asher’s voice dropped. “I told him I’ve been talking to someone. That’s it. He’s not as dumb as he tries to play, so he put two and two together.” Asher’s voice dropped. “I didn’t use your name. I wouldn’t, not without asking.”

The background voice again, louder now, like his pops was right next to Asher. “He’s being super secretive. He doesn’t realize that makes me think it’s serious. But I promise I won’t push him too hard.”

“I’m going outside,” Asher said, and Patrick heard a door slide open and close, and then the background went quiet, just desert air and evening.

“Sorry. He’s a lot.”

“He sounds like a lot.”

“He’s great. He’s just nosy as hell. He doesn’t want me to hide the way he and Dad had to. Ever since he realized I’m interested in someone, he’s been relentless.” A beat. “Does that bother you?”

Patrick thought about it. Someone in Asher’s life knew he existed. Not his name, not his team, just the fact of him—and somehow that felt bigger than the details would have. It should have felt like exposure. It didn’t. What it felt like was that Asher had been talking about him to the people who mattered, and Patrick wasn’t ready to look at how much he liked that.

“No,” Patrick said. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Okay.” Asher’s voice was careful in a way it rarely was. “Good.”

They talked until Patrick’s eyes were heavy and the apartment was dark around him. He’d moved to the couch at some point, stretched out with the phone against his ear, listening to Asher describe a play at the plate that had gone wrong in three different ways.

“I should sleep,” Patrick said.