Page 48 of Puck You Both

“Why does he have to ask?”

Patrick takes long enough that I almost fill the space for him. “Because he needs to know he wants it.”

I know all about wanting something and keeping my mouth shut so it can’t be taken away. Patrick provides what I need without me asking. Orgasms. His charger beside my phone every night. The exact shape of my body he makes room for in his bed.

Did I mention orgasms?

Still, I don’t ask for any of it. The second you name a thing, it grows a handle. People can grab handles. They can carry things out.

An ex once kissed my forehead after six months and told me, You’re a great time, Theo. Warm voice, soft hands. Past tense before he reached the door.

Patrick and I have no label and no drawer declared mine. If we never define this, it can’t end. That is excellent logic, if you don’t count the fact I’m basically living at his apartment while my last surviving condiment expires alone, because if I throw it out it means I’m leaving there and he can kick me out when I inevitably become too much.

I hook my chin over Patrick’s shoulder and reopen the group thread on his phone. “Fine. We wait for him to ask.”

“We do.”

“Patiently.”

His eyes slide toward me.

I roll mine. “I can be patient.”

His keep sliding.

“Oh, shut your judgmental face.”

Patrick takes his phone back before I can prove patience by texting Wall from it.

I last until he goes to check whether I have a clean dress shirt. Then I take out my own phone, open Wall’s direct thread, and type from the couch.

Me: settle a bet. best hands in the division, you or him? be honest. only one of you gets to be smug.

Patrick returns holding a white shirt and eyes my screen. “There is no bet.”

I grin. “There will be once he answers.”

The dots appear before Patrick makes it back to my bedroom. They disappear, then come back. Wall takes longer with a few words than most people take with tax returns. By the time the answer arrives, Patrick’s back and I’m standing on the couch for no reason I can defend.

Finally:

Wall: I think it’s clear. Best hands in the division never have to ask.

I read it twice, then turn the screen toward Patrick.

His eyes move over the message. One corner of his mouth lifts, and he lets the silence do rest of the talking.

Nine hours later, game adrenaline has replaced my blood.

The Hawks spend three periods trying to pin me to the boards, and three periods discovering I consider this a recreational activity. I finish with an assist, seven hits, and a ten-minute misconduct for explaining to an official where he could store his whistle. The Vipers win 3–1.

By the time Patrick drives us back to my apartment, which I insisted on to keep up appearances, the city is glossy with cold and my knee won’t stop bouncing. He opens the refrigerator, looks at the hot sauce, and puts his coat back on to find us food. I drop onto the couch still wearing my celebratory suit pants and open Wall’s thread.

Adrenaline has replaced judgment too. I type before it wears off.

Me: serious question. that night on the call. did you like hearing him or watching him?

The refrigerator hums behind me while traffic whispers over the wet street below. The message changes from sent to delivered, and my heartbeat climbs with it.