Page 52 of Puck You Both

"What do you want?"

"Resistance bands. Bring your spare tomorrow? Mine died a warrior's death." There’s a pause, and I can hear his antenna extending. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Like what?"

"Disappointed. Like I'm the wrong—" The pause turns interested, which is the most dangerous thing a Becker pause can do. "Who were you expecting?"

"Nobody. You'll get the bands."

I hang up before he can come up with a theory.

The disappointment has texture, that's the inconvenient part. It sits under my sternum for another hour while I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Three weeks ago my nights had a shape I'd run for a decade. Tape, stretch, food, sleep. Now they have a frequency in them, a channel I keep open on purpose.

Night three.

By eleven, I've built the case, and it's a strong case. Exhibit one: I asked, and specifically surrendered the scheduling. Exhibit two: three nights is a long-ass time. Exhibit three: they have each other. Same city, probably the same bed. And no real need for a third man's breathing in the room.

Maybe the ask changed it. Maybe the whole thing ran on me not asking. Maybe trying to insert myself into it, on purpose, collapsed something that only worked as theft. Maybe Patrick heard the request, heard how much was packed under it, and the two of them are up there now, working out how to let the big one down easy.

At half past eleven, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, drafting again. This one is short.

Me: Disregard the request.

Three words and everything goes back. The campaign stays professional, the thread stays quiet, my nights return to their old shape. Better to end it from in here, on my terms, before—

The phone rings in my hand.

P.G.

The draft vanishes behind the incoming-call screen, and takes my exit with it.

My whole body locks. Almost midnight, my bedroom dark, and the name I gave up on twenty minutes ago lighting the room blue.

This is what you asked for.

The thought does nothing useful to my pulse.

I answer on the third ring, and my voice comes out wrecked before anything has even happened to it. "Hello?"

Movement precedes words. Fabric dragging over a microphone. The give of a mattress under weight, and breathing that doesn't belong to one person. Or maybe I’m imagining things.

But then, there’s Theo, somewhere past the phone, ragged and impatient. "If you don't hurry up I'm calling the league office."

"Put me on speaker," Patrick says, close and calm.

Fabric shifts. Theo again, nearer, all the impatience gone somewhere else. "He's here?"

"Ask him."

"Are you—" a sharp inhale bends the sentence in the middle "—you here, big red?"

My mouth has gone dry. Two words in, and I already need a rulebook nobody issued. Am I supposed to talk? Stay quiet? Sit in the dark and be an ear? My request bought me a ticket without a seat number.

"I'm here."

"Oh, fuck." Reverent. Not a joke, nowhere near one. He says it like something arriving, and the sound of it lands directly below my navel.

"Speaker," Patrick says again.