I nod, jaw tight, because if I open my mouth right now it’ll be either a confession or something worse.
He lets the silence ride. It’s not awkward. It’s the silence of people who have run out of things to lose.
His hand finds mine on the seat, fingers interlacing, and for a second, I forget about the last year, the last month, the last fucking disaster of our lives.
“D,” he says, voice soft but not uncertain. “You can come up, if you want.”
I want.
He grins, like he already knew the answer. “I gotta warn you, though. My apartment is full of Pop-Tart wrappers and unassembled IKEA furniture.”
“Doesn’t scare me,” I say.
He leans in, mouth almost at my ear. “What does?”
I think about it. “Not much anymore.”
The city is a blur of color and hunger, every closed bar and every open 24-hour noodle shop spilling light out onto the street. I press my forehead to the cold glass, watch the shapes whip by, feel his hand in mine, hot and alive.
When we get to his building, Ash throws a bill at the driver and pulls me out by the wrist, half-running up the steps.
We crash through the door, shoes off, tripping over a pile of boxes and a laundry basket stacked with goalie jocks.
Inside, the only light is a lamp shaped like a moose that casts insane shadows on the wall. He looks at me like he’s about to say something important, but instead he just grabs the back of my neck and kisses me, hard, like it’s the only way he knows how to communicate.
We make it as far as the couch before collapsing. He’s laughing, breathless, and I can taste the salt of his skin, the sweet tang of champagne still clinging to his mouth.
After, we lie there, the both of us half-dressed, my hand tracing the faded bruise on his thigh from last week’s game. He’s staring at the ceiling, eyes wide, smile lazy and unguarded.
I should say something. I should tell him.
Instead, I start with, “You remember Vincent?”
His body goes rigid, just for a second, then he lets out a low laugh. “Does anyone not remember Vincent?”
“Do you know what he told me?” I ask.
Ash shrugs, “I mean, he told me a lot of things, but—what, specifically?”
I look at him, really look, and decide I’d rather be honest than smart.
"You already know what he told me about you, the white supremacist shit, the photo, all of it. That's why I shut down." I take a breath. "But here's the part I need to hear from you. What did he tell you about me?"
Ash goes still.
Then, quiet, "He told me you were part of a Black separatist group. That you were targeting mixed-race relationships. That being with me was some kind of political stunt."
I stare at him.
Then the absurdity lands, Vincent told me, the only Black goalie in the league, that my white teammate was a violent racist.
And he told Ash that I was a Black supremacist trying to destroy him. Mirrored lies, perfectly calibrated, each one designed to weaponize the exact fear that would hurt the most.
The laugh that breaks out of my chest is huge and stupid and unstoppable.
Ash watches me for a second, confused, then it hits him too, and he's falling back on the couch, hands over his face, howling.
"Holy shit," he says, gasping. "He played us both. The exact same trick, just flipped."
