Page 67 of Caught Offside

They reached the locker room. Lindy was already at his stall, the one beside Dev’s. He looked up when Dev sat down.

“Good skate,” Lindy said to Dev.

“You too.”

Two words each, and that was the whole exchange. Patrick looked away.

He pulled out his phone while he unlaced. A text from Asher, waiting.

First day back. How’s the ice?

Same ice. Team’s good. Pruitt found the photos.

Already?? I figured you’d get at least a day.

He has a gift.

Did he chirp you?

He said good for you and walked away.

He also invited you and your dads to Kubara’s cookout. He has questions for Pops.

Pruitt and Pops in the same backyard. Nobody’s ready for that.

Patrick set the phone on the shelf and finished undressing. Pruitt was already narrating something to the draft picks who hadn’t yet learned that engagement only encouraged him. Kubara sat in his stall with the same watchful quiet, the captain’s awareness. He caught Patrick’s eye. The look was the same one he’d given Patrick in January. Patrick gave him a nod. The nod was enough between them.

He showered, dressed, and checked his phone.

Game tonight. Come if you can. I’ll leave a ticket.

Patrick had spent the summer on the road north, up for every homestand, back to Chicago when the team traveled. His French press lived on Asher’s counter now. The last homestand before camp, Sean had made the brisket again, and Mason had pulled Patrick aside after the meal and said, “It’s been a long damned time since I’ve seen both of them this happy. You have a part in that. I just thought you should know.”

Tonight was a weeknight, and training camp had an early morning skate. Driving up meant watching Asher work a big-league game and pointing the car south again in the dark, home in the small hours and back on the ice by morning.

He typed back.

Leave two. Dev might come.

Across the locker room, Dev was at his stall with his phone in his hand, the screen dark against his palm. Lindy had left, his stall empty, the space beside Dev open. Dev stared at the dark phone with the expression Patrick had seen in the gym in July.

Patrick walked over and sat on the bench beside Dev’s stall.

Dev looked at him. “Eli asked if I want to get dinner tonight.”

“Again?”

“Again. Different restaurant. Same question. Same three-hour deliberation on my end.”

Patrick waited.

“It’s just dinner,” Dev said.

“It’s never just dinner.”

Dev exhaled. He looked at his phone, then at the empty stall beside him, then back at Patrick.

“When did you figure that out?” Dev asked.