Page 19 of Caught Offside

“Show me the bruise,” Patrick said instead of hello.

Asher held up his forearm. The bruise was a plum-colored oval, vivid against his skin. Patrick leaned closer to the screen. Something that looked like concern surfaced before Patrick could compose his face over it.

“You should ice that.”

“I did ice it. Now it’s a different color of angry.”

“Wrap it. Compression. Keep it elevated.” Patrick’s voice carried the clipped authority of someone used to giving injury instructions, and Asher wondered how many times he’d talked himself through the same list.

“Are you a hockey player or a nurse?”

“In this sport? Both.”

Asher laughed and settled into the couch. Patrick’s face on the screen was steady, close, more present than he’d been in any of their phone calls. On the phone, Asher could imagine whatever expression he wanted. On video, he watched Patrick’s eyes track across the screen, caught the way Patrick’s gaze dropped to Asher’s mouth when Asher was talking and came back up when he stopped.

“How was the game?” Asher asked, and Patrick’s jaw shifted slightly before he answered.

“We won. I told you.”

“You told me the score, and I’m asking how it was.”

Patrick sorted through which version of the answer to give. “Physical. Their top line runs everything through the left side, and I spent most of the night angling their winger into the boards.”

“Is that the shot-blocking part or the target-practice part?”

“Both.” The corner of his mouth moved and went still. “Their power play is predictable though. Same entry, same one-timer setup off the left circle, and I jumped the passing lane three times.”

“So you were good.”

“I was effective.” Asher could practically see him shrug it off through the screen—the same guy who’d blocked four shots and called it “fine.”

“Patrick, were you good?”

The pause was longer this time. Something that might have been surprise at being pushed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was good.”

“Was that so hard to admit?”

“A little, yeah.”

They talked until Asher’s phone dropped to eight percent and Patrick’s voice had gone low and slow with exhaustion. The conversation moved the way their texts did, but with Patrick’s face on the screen, Asher could see when he stopped choosing his words carefully—the shift in his eyes, the way his shoulders dropped half an inch.

“I should let you sleep,” Asher said.

“Probably.” Neither of them hung up. The silence sat between them, comfortable in a way that would have felt strange a week ago.

“Tomorrow,” Patrick said. “If you want.”

“Same time?”

“Earlier if you can. I have a morning skate tomorrow.” Patrick’s eyes were half-closed on the screen, fighting sleep and losing. “Text me when you get back to the house.”

“Yeah. I will.”

Patrick’s mouth did the thing it did, the almost-smile that landed harder than anyone else’s real one. “Goodnight, Asher.”

“Night, Patrick.”