I match his pace, close but not touching. Every so often, he’ll nudge me sideways, just to see if he can knock me off the curb.
I let him, because the alternative is feeling nothing.
At the pier, we sit on the cold concrete and stare at the ferries.
The water is dark and ugly, but the boats look perfect, white and clean, like they haven’t been touched by the shit world outside.
He’s quiet for a long time.
Then, “You know what I miss? Pre-game warmups. When Cap would blast that fucking country music and make us skate laps until half the team wanted to quit.”
I laugh. “He said it built character.”
“He said a lot of things.”
Ash’s voice goes quiet. “I keep expecting him to text. Like, I know he’s dead, but my brain still… waits for it.”
I nod. I get it. Some mornings, I wake up and expect to see Cap’s face at the rink, yelling at me to “move your ass, Webb.”
Ash takes a breath, looks at me. “You think it gets better?”
“No,” I say, honest. “But you get used to it.”
He chews that over. Then, softer, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I feel it like a punch, right below the ribs. “Me too,” I say.
We sit until the cold drives us back to the car. He rides shotgun, feet up on the dash, humming tunelessly to whatever shit song is on the radio.
I watch him, careful, and wonder if he knows how much I want to reach over and grab his hand.
I drop him at his place. He pauses, keys in hand, and says, “You want to come up? Got a new PlayStation.”
I almost say yes. I want to say yes. But I have therapy at one, and if I’m late Dr. Sharma will give me the look.
“Rain check,” I say. “Poker night?”
He nods, fake casual. “Yeah, poker night.”
He steps out, slams the door, and for a second I watch him in the rearview, hoodie up, hands deep in pockets, walking fast like he’s trying to outrun something.
—
The next day is a blur, cardio and therapy and the brutal monotony of pretending to be a functioning human being.
By evening, my legs are shot, and the only thing I want to do is eat peanut butter out of the jar and fall asleep to the sound of rain on the window.
Instead, I get a text from Ash, “u coming or what.”
The “what” is new. The old Ash would have just sent the emoji, maybe a single letter. I text back: “on my way. bring snacks?”
He replies, “already did. u bring the muscle.”
I smirk, but it’s real, and it hurts my face a little because I haven’t smiled that hard in weeks.
At O’Doul’s place, the usual suspects are already half-drunk, chips everywhere, cards sticky with beer and regret.
The walls are plastered with old Steelhawks photos, half of them with Cap front and center, grinning like an idiot.
