I bellow for the trainers to come out faster, even if they’re already on the way. Other teammates jog over, in part to form a human wall between Asher and the TV cameras. Only Crawford remains stationed at first base, squinting up at the afternoon sun adding another layer of sunburn to his already sunburned face.
Finally, two trainers arrive. “Don’t sit up,” one says to Asher. “We have to check your neck.”
They poke him for a minute, shine a light in his eyes, ask him questions about if he knows his name—“Asher”—the state he’s in—“flat on my back in Illinois”—and what just happened.
“I embarrassed myself in front of Brayden Forsyth,” he says as if we’re not also in front of thirty thousand or so people.
The trainers laugh. “We’re still gonna advise that you come out of the game,” one of the trainers says.
“I’m good. Just came down too hard.” He tries to sit up again. This time, he goes slightly pale under his tan. “Maybe not.”
“Do you need the cart?” the trainer asks.
“No, just give me a sec.” Asher winds a fist into the grass nearby, fingers tugging at it like he’s trying to hold onto the Earth.
I’m still crouched beside him, my knees blocking my hand from view. Carefully, I nudge my knuckle against his until Asher’s eyes go wide. “You good?” I ask.
He nods this time, surer. His breathing is more even, not that I’m noticing. Except I am and he knows I am and I know it too.
“Here.” I extend a hand and help pull him to his feet. Around us, the stadium claps, a smattering of applause. “Good hustle on that play.”
For some reason, he laughs, sudden and sharp. “Thanks, Forsyth.”
“No problem,Asher.”
“Thanks, B.” His mouth tugs at the edge in that infuriating way that would normally make me want to rub his face in the dirt.
Now it makes me want something else. To wrap my arms around him. To know he’s okay. But I can’t do any of that, so I just stand there as the trainers walk Asher away, scrubbing my hands on my uniform pants so I can forget how empty they are.
Chapter Forty-Three
Savannah
I’mup in the stands, watching the game with Lexi, when Asher goes down on the field in a crumple. “Is he—” I’m on my feet before I can say the wordhurt. Clearly, he’s hurt. I glance over at Lexi. She must know something’s going on. She has to know.It’s not like she isn’t right to be suspicious.But she’s looking at the game, lips tense and white.
Out on the field, Brayden sprints over to where Asher is lying, waving for the team medical staff. I don’t need the camera to zoom in on his face to know what he’s feeling. A desperate clawing panic that I also can’t show.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask Lexi.
“Maybe.” Said like ano.
The trainers come out. I wait, breath held, as they do their checks.Please be okay. Please be okay.Asher is at least responding. If I squint hard enough, I think I can just make out his facial expression—he’s talking. Laughing even. Then he gets up and sinks right back down.
Oh no.
Brayden is still beside him. He reaches for Asher, offers a hand. Pulls him to standing and doesn’t immediately let go of his palm.
“Huh,” Lexi says. “Didn’t realize they were friends.”
“I’m not sure they are.” I’m not sure there’s a word for what they are—whatweare—that feels adequate.
Two of the trainers wind their arms around Asher and help him slowly back to the dugout.
I flex and release my hands a few times, feeling entirely useless.You have no claim to Asher. We’re not family. There’s nothing to bind us together but a few hot encounters, the complication of Brayden andmarriageand whatever happened last night. It occurs to me that, in case of a real emergency, I wouldn’t know who to call on his behalf.Me, the realization hits. Iwant that person to be me.
Somehow. Some way. A feeling as impossible as reaching up and grabbing a handful of clouds. And yet…
“I gotta go,” I tell Lexi. She might think something’s up. She might know something’s up. At this moment, I really don’t care.
