Page 23 of Caught Offside

“I was late,” Patrick said. He hadn’t meant to say it.

“On the tying goal?”

“My gap was too wide. I knew where the center was going and my feet didn’t get there.”

“Okay.”

Not that happens to everyone, not you’ll get it next time. Just okay. Patrick had told the truth about what happened on the ice, and Asher had taken it without flinching or trying to reshape it into something more comfortable.

“Okay,” Patrick repeated, and some of the tightness he’d been carrying since the third period loosened.

They stayed on the line. Fireflies camp had started the week before, and Asher was still in Arizona, now splitting time between the big-league complex and the minor-league facility down the road. He talked about a pitcher who’d been moved to the bullpen and was handling the demotion with theatrical grief, a tantrum involving a bucket of baseballs and the bullpen coach’s rapidly thinning patience. Patrick listened to the sound of his voice more than the story itself, easy and warm, filling the kitchen.

Patrick pushed off the counter and walked to the couch without thinking about it, settling into the corner with his legs stretched out and the phone against his ear.

“Thanks,” Patrick said. “For picking up.”

“You called me. That’s not nothing from you.”

Patrick almost smiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’d rather chew glass than ask someone for something, and you called me, and I’m choosing not to make a big deal out of it even though I want to.”

“Appreciate the restraint.”

“It’s killing me. You have no idea.”

“You’ll survive.” The breath left Patrick before he could catch it, something between a laugh and the sound a person makes when they’ve been holding their breath too long. “I should sleep.”

“Yeah. Early skate?”

“Always.”

“Then go. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Asher said it casually, but Patrick held the words longer than he should have. I’ll be here tomorrow. People said that. It wasn’t unusual. But Asher had also been here tonight, and last Tuesday, and the Saturday before that, and he kept showing up without being asked and without making it a thing Patrick had to acknowledge or repay. It was the easiest thing anyone had given him in a long time, and he didn’t know what to do with that either.

“Goodnight, Asher.”

“Night, Patrick. Set your alarm.”

“It’s already set.”

“I know.”

Patrick hung up and stayed on the couch for a while, the apartment quiet around him. Eventually, he got up and went to bed.

He fell asleep faster than he had in weeks.

The Syndicate won three of their next four games. Patrick’s game was steady, the kind of stretch where nothing spectacular happened and nothing went wrong, which was the best version of how he played. Barlow started pairing him with Toews, the rookie defenseman, for the tougher matchups. Patrick talked him through reads between shifts without being asked.

“Fonty’s in dad mode,” Pruitt announced to the locker room after the win. “He’s adopting the rookies. Someone get him a whistle and a clipboard.”

“Leave him alone, Pru.” Kubara didn’t look up from his phone.

“I’m complimenting him. I’m saying he’s got range.”

“You’re saying words. Some of them are in the right order.”