Page 48 of Caught Offside

Good morning. Hope your day is okay.

Patrick knew the blame was his. He’d had the chance to be honest the night Asher raised the subject of the draft, and he’d brushed it off instead. The knowing sat heavy and low in him, and every time Asher’s name lit up his screen, it got heavier.

Morning. Day’s fine. How’s yours?

He read it back after he sent it and thought about leaving the next one on read instead. Asher deserved more than this. If he didn’t get out of his own head, Asher would stop trying.

His phone buzzed again.

Game tonight. Wish me luck.

Patrick typed back.

Good luck.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself:

I’ll be thinking about you.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, Asher’s name on the screen.

“Hey.” Asher’s voice came through bright, carrying the ambient noise of a parking lot. “Figured I’d call instead of texting for once. Radical concept.”

“Hey.”

“It’s a doubleheader tonight. Briggs is starting game one and his slider’s been filthy lately, guy’s locked in. And I’m trying a new stance adjustment Delgado suggested—wider base, hands a little higher. Feels weird in batting practice, but the ball’s jumping off the bat.” He was talking fast, filling the space, and Patrick could hear the effort in it. “Anyway. What are you up to?”

“Not much. Trained this morning. Reading.”

“Reading what?”

“A book.”

The pause on the other end lasted three seconds. Three seconds of Asher holding the joke he wanted to make, letting it die because the jokes had stopped landing.

“Hey, listen.” The performance went out of his voice. “We’re home this week. Come up. And before you say no, hear me out. You don’t have to do anything. Sit in my crappy apartment, read your book, pretend I’m not there. I just want you around for a few days. I know I’ve got no business asking—not after the way we left things last time, and maybe that’s me needing to take the hint. But I couldn’t not ask, just in case it’s not only me losing my mind. That week you were up here was good. It was good for me. And I think it was good for you too, right up until I pushed you to talk about stuff you weren’t ready for. I’m not going to do that again. No pushing, I swear. I get it if you’re not there yet, and I can live with that.” He let out a breath. “I just miss you. Come up. Like before.”

For a second, Patrick let himself feel how much he wanted it: a week of Asher being loud in the next room, every space filling up just because Asher was in it. Then he did what he’d done every day for a week.

“It’s not you,” he said before he could stop himself. “That week was good. I want you to know that.” He made himself stop there because everything after it was the draft. “But I can’t come up. Not this week. Marc’s down to the wire with the front office, and they could want me in a room on no notice. And I wouldn’t be good company right now. You’d get the worst version of me.”

The contract was real, but it wasn’t the reason, and they both knew it. Asher didn’t call him on it. He’d quit doing that days ago, and Patrick hated that he’d taught him to.

“Okay,” Asher said. “I miss you. I know I keep saying that and you keep not knowing what to do with it, but I’m going to keep saying it because it’s true.”

Patrick closed his eyes. He’d drifted to the window without deciding to, the strip of lake bright between the buildings now.

“I miss you too,” he said, and it was true, the truest thing he’d said in days. He left it there with nothing after it, and Asher took it and didn’t ask for more.

“Okay,” Asher said. “I’ll text you after the game.”

“Yeah. Good luck tonight.”

“You said that already.”

“I know.”

They hung up. Patrick gripped the windowsill, knuckles white.