Vincent lets it hang in the air. "I’m not saying he’s a Nazi. But you know how these things go, especially for athletes. A photo like this, plus the right spin…"
I feel the anger boiling up, but it’s got nowhere to go. My fingers dig into the coaster, bending it in half, beer sloshing in the glass as my hands start to shake.
"You said you weren’t going to run this," I say.
"I’m not," Vincent says, voice flat and plausible. "But someone else might. I thought you should know what’s out there. Before it gets worse."
I want to flip the table. I want to reach across and break his nose, but I don’t. I just sit there, letting the doubt drip into my brain, corroding the tiny bit of certainty I have left.
I try to remember if Ash ever mentioned these guys, this party, this fucking photo. I can’t.
All I remember is the look on his face after the last game, blood on his chin, laughing at the ref’s expense, like he was daring the world to knock him down again.
Vincent pockets the phone, finishes his beer in one long swallow, and stands. "I’m sorry," he says, and for a second it almost sounds like he means it. "You deserve to know who you’re trusting."
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with the empty glass, the broken coaster, and a head full of poison.
The next few days are a blur. I ignore Ash’s texts, all variations on "Can we talk?" and "D, please."
I change my gym schedule, running late at night so I don’t have to see him on the treadmill, on the rower, anywhere at all.
At practice, I keep to myself, eyes on the puck, ignoring the way Ash looks at me across the ice, the way he hovers in the tunnel like he’s hoping I’ll walk past and say anything at all.
The locker room is colder now. Nobody says it out loud, but the silence is thick enough to suffocate.
I tune it all out, counting saves, sets, miles, anything to drown out the memory of Vincent’s voice, "You deserve to know who you’re trusting."
By Friday, I’ve got the routine down. Skate, shower, eat, repeat. Don’t answer texts. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t let yourself think about anything except the next game.
That night, I sit on the edge of my bed, scrolling through the missed calls. Ash’s name is at the top, unread.
The urge to call him, to scream or explain or just hear his voice, is so strong my thumb hovers over the button for a full minute.
Instead, I turn the phone facedown, and lie back in the dark, letting the silence fill every part of me.
If I dream, I don’t remember.
All I know is that when I wake, I check my phone again, and it’s still just his name, and the empty space underneath, waiting for me to do something.
I do nothing.
———
The Uber stops at the curb, right in front of the pomegranate tree that’s dropped fruit all over the cracked sidewalk.
It’s dusk in Oakland, the kind of California twilight that turns the whole neighborhood lavender, makes the houses look like cutouts against a flat, painted sky.
I sit in the back seat with the engine running, staring at the porch light, not ready to move.
The driver glances at me in the mirror. “You good, man?”
I nod, but my hands are locked around the duffel in my lap, white-knuckle tight. “Yeah. Sorry.” I get out, sling the bag over my shoulder, and walk up the steps.
Before I even hit the doorbell, the front door opens.
My mother is there, in a t-shirt and workout pants, hair wrapped in a scarf, face bare and so open it hurts to look at.
She doesn’t speak. She just wraps me up, both arms, and holds me against her chest like she’s afraid I’ll blow away if she lets go.
