Page 65 of Caught Offside

“The major leagues,” Sylvie said. “Patrick. He is in the major leagues.”

“I was there, Maman. I came to his first game.”

A silence on the line. Then, quieter: “You went to a baseball game.”

“I went to a baseball game.”

“In the stands. With people.”

“Maman.”

Asher looked over. Patrick’s ears had gone red. He filed it away.

The line went quiet for a moment, and when Sylvie spoke again the teasing was gone. “Mon cœur. You sound different. You have for months. I kept deciding not to ask because you would give me one word and change the subject.” A pause. “Now I don’t need to ask. The answer is standing in your kitchen.”

“His kitchen,” Patrick said. “I’m in Milwaukee.”

“Even better,” Sylvie said.

The call ran forty minutes. Sylvie asked about Asher’s parents, and he gave her the rundown. Two dads, one a former pitcher, one a former outfielder, both retired, both in Milwaukee, one of them with a history at the same franchise Asher had just joined. Sylvie’s chief concern was whether his dads preferred red or white because she was already planning a dinner she had no date for.

Patrick’s father asked about the draft, framed with care, more curious how the waiting had been than whether Asher had worried. Asher answered honestly. The not-knowing had been worse than any outcome.

“He’s stubborn, our Patrick,” his father said. “Gets it from his mother.”

“I am flexible. I adapt,” Sylvie said.

“You rearranged the living room three times last month because you didn’t like how the light hit the couch.”

“That is responding to conditions.”

They said goodbye in three attempts, each farewell followed by one more thought, Sylvie remembering to ask about Patrick’s shoulder, his father asking whether Asher could explain icing to Maman, who had spent thirty years in hockey rinks and still didn’t understand it. The indignation carried them another two minutes.

The apartment went still.

Patrick sat with his arms crossed, ears still red.

“They’re great,” Asher said.

“They’re a lot.”

“They’re great.”

Patrick tipped his head back against the couch and shut his eyes. The red was fading from his ears.

“I want to meet them for real,” Asher said. “In person, not propped on a counter.”

“That’s going to be hard.” Patrick’s eyes stayed shut. “They’re in Montreal. You play almost every day until October. I’m in camp in September.”

“Then we find a way. An off day and a flight. The offseason. I don’t care how.” Asher nudged his knee. “We’ll make it work. That’s the job now.”

Patrick opened his eyes and looked at him. “It’s a lot of miles.”

“Same direction though.”

“Same direction.”

Asher leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, and Patrick’s arm came around his back without hesitation. The couch was too small for two men their size. Neither of them moved.