So I hustle down through the ballpark, heart in my throat, scared of what I’m going to find—or worse, that Asher might turn me away.
I haveto flash my team-issued badge at four security guards before they finally let me into the clubhouse. “I’m Brayden Forsyth’s wife,” I say, over and over. “Asher—Adler, I mean—got hurt and I want to make sure his family knows he’s okay.”
The last security guard seems unpersuaded. She stands between me and the clubhouse entrance, hand on her hip, expression skeptical.
“Please,” I say. “He doesn’t have anyone.” A lie. Because he does, judging from Brayden’s hand in his on the field, from the way my heart won’t stop hammering.
The guard takes my ID, examining it closely.
It’s real,I want to say, but sometimes, the best thing to do in a negotiation is to shut the hell up.
“Okay,” she says, finally. “You can go in.”
I enter the clubhouse, follow the signs to the medical suite, a series of rooms that look more like doctor’s offices than baseball facilities. Asher’s lying in on one of the padded tables, eyes closed, a cold pack across his forehead. The lights are dimmed.
“Hey,” I whisper. I don’t want to wake him if he’s asleep.
But he winks an eye open at me. “Hey, princess.” His voice comes out as a croak. “You came all this way to see me?”
“I needed to know if you were—” I bite offokay, because he’s clearly not. “Concussed.”
“Yeah, I feel pretty concussed.” He shuts his eyes again as if that amount of light is too much.
“Sorry,” I say, “I can let you sleep.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. With the way Brayden and I left last night, it’s possible I’m the last person he wants to see right now. Then he shakes his head slowly from side to side. “You don’t need to go.”
Not quite astay, but I set my purse on one of the chairs. Pace for a minute, taking in Asher in details: pale and tense in the half dark, hand draping limply off one side of the table.
I look around—the medical staff are somewhere else—then take his hand in mine. The edge of his lips curves up in a slight smile. “First concussion?” I ask.
“No.” But he doesn’t elaborate.
“They give you something for the pain?” I ask.
He nods. “Two whole Tylenol. I can have more in six to eight hours.”
“Unfortunately, the only thing to do is really get some rest,” I say. “Avoid bright lights and sounds. Minimize screen time.”
“So stare at the ceiling until I get better?” He squeezes my hand briefly, before letting go.
“Should I call someone?” I ask.
He nods, then looks like he regrets moving his head even that much. “Here, take my phone.” He pats his pocket, pulls it out, winces at the sudden glare of the screen before handing it to me unlocked. “Can you text my mom?”
I scroll through his contacts. Find the one labeledMomthat’s a few entries above the one labeledPrincessthat has my number. Go to his text thread with his mom, which is mostly them just sending each other their Wordle scores every day. My heart is doing that thing again, the one that makes me want to crawl onto that bed beside him, even if common sense tells me I should stay put. “What should I say?”
“Tell her I’m fine and not to worry.” He sighs.
I type that, hit send, get a paragraph-long response back a minute later. “She says she knows you’re lying,” I say. “And she asked if you have someone to take care of you.”
Asher doesn’t smile, but the lines around his eyes relax slightly. “What should I tell her?”
I take his hand back, threading our fingers together, answering without words. This time, I don’t let go.
Chapter Forty-Four
Asher
