“That matters to you?” she says.
I think about it. Really think.
“Yeah. It does.”
She nods, writes something down. I wonder if she knows, if she’s seen this a hundred times before, if she’s waiting for me to get brave enough to say it out loud.
I almost do. But then I hear my own voice, the one I used to use at post-game interviews, the one that always dodged the real question.
“Is it wrong to be happy after something so awful?” I ask.
She looks at me, not judging. “It’s not wrong,” she says. “It’s human. Sometimes the only way to survive is to let yourself want things, even if they scare you.”
I sit with that. I let it settle.
When I leave, I text Ash: “You want to run?”
The reply comes back in seconds: “Always.”
———
The next few weeks, we get creative.
We meet at libraries, at Asian noodle places way across town, at the climbing wall where neither of us is any good but the chance of running into a teammate is almost zero.
We get good at hiding, at the calculus of who might see, at the art of standing close without making it obvious.
Sometimes I forget and I touch his arm, and he goes still, a deer in the headlights, but never pulls away.
We talk about everything and nothing: the book, the playoffs, the way the world feels tilted and dangerous, but also like it’s just waiting for us to be brave enough to take it.
Every night, I think about telling my mom. Every night, I think about what she’d say, how she’d hug me so hard my ribs hurt, how she’d feed me rice and beans and say, “The world can get bent, as long as you have someone who makes you feel real.”
But I wait. I wait because the stakes are too high, because the closer I get to Ash the more terrified I am that if I say it out loud, the universe will find a way to take it back.
———
The night it almost breaks is a Thursday, just before curfew. There’s a party at O’Doul’s place, because there’s always a party at O’Doul’s place, and this time the whole team is invited, plus some girlfriends, plus a couple of hangers-on who show up just for the free beer and to see if they can get Raz to do a keg stand.
I told myself I wasn’t going to go, but Ash is already there, texting “get your ass over here, they’re trying to start beer pong with White Claw and I need you to save me.”
I show up late, wearing the wrong jacket because my usual one still smells like Ash and I’m not ready to risk that yet.
The apartment is a chaos engine, every square foot packed with bodies, the air dense with sweat and weed and bad decisions.
I make a beeline for the kitchen, where Ash is holding court with Kai and Tommy. He’s laughing at something, but his eyes track me the second I walk in.
He raises his can in salute, like we’re just teammates, just bros, but I see the smile that’s only for me.
We get sucked into the party. Someone shoves a Solo cup in my hand, and O’Doul tries to tell me about the time he saw Zdeno Chára at SeaTac and got his autograph on a pack of Marlboros.
Ash stands just close enough that our shoulders touch every now and then, but never lingers long enough to draw heat.
It’s perfect. It’s hell.
At midnight, Kai wants to do shots. Ash looks at me, eyebrow cocked, like he’s asking permission.
I nod. I’d follow him anywhere.
