He doesn’t say anything else, but I feel the weight of it all the way home.
———
I can’t sleep that night. I stare at the ceiling, counting cracks, listening to the city moan through the old walls.
I think about what it would be like to just tell the truth, to stand in front of the team, the coaches, the world, and say “Yeah, it’s us. Yeah, we’re together. If that’s a problem, you can find another fucking goalie.”
But I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I don’t know if Ash is.
At 3:07 a.m., I text him: "You up?"
He replies instantly: "Always."
I say, "Meet me at the pier?"
Thirty minutes later, we’re on the bench, the same one where it started, the water black and endless, the city just a smear of light.
He sits down next to me, hair wet, jacket zipped up to his chin.
“You okay?” he says.
I want to lie, but I don’t.
“I don’t want to hide anymore,” I say.
He leans back, closes his eyes. “Me neither.”
We sit there, side by side, the world just as dangerous as ever. But for the first time, I can see a way through it.
I can see a future where the truth is lighter than the secret, where the people who matter will understand, and the rest can get bent.
I turn to him, take his hand, and this time I don’t care who sees. I squeeze it, hard.
He squeezes back.
We watch the ferries crawl across the water, the lights flickering in the rain.
Tomorrow will be hell. Tomorrow we’ll have to make a decision.
But tonight, right now, we have each other.
And it’s enough.
The first thing you notice when you come off the ice isn’t the stink or the heat or the way your jersey fuses to your back.
It’s the sound, a relentless, bone-shaking, turbocharged version of white noise that never fucking stops. Media scrum.
Every game, every loss, every win, there’s a fresh wave of reporters waiting to jam microphones into your teeth and ask if you "feel like you let the team down." Usually they go for Raz or O’Doul, maybe Tommy if he’s scored.
Today, though, they’re lined up outside the showers, a salivating, highlighter-wielding army of them, waiting for Ash.
He’s not even out of his gear yet.
They’re at the door, waiting for him to towel off before they descend. I watch from the bench, helmet in my lap, hair still wet, heartbeat trying to slow itself down after a triple OT grinder that should have killed all of us but instead ended on a tip-in by the “eternal sub” himself.
Ash is first star of the game. First star.
The kid who spent two years as the eternal sub, the warm body they slotted in when someone else couldn't go, is now a starter, promoted to the first line three weeks ago when the tournament began and for the first time in his life, everyone gives a shit.
