Ash goes still. Not deer-in-headlights, but close. He glances, just for a second, in my direction.
I look away, fast, pretending to be absorbed in the tape on my stick. But I see it anyway, the moment where the world tries to reroute itself.
Ash recovers, smooth as ever. “I appreciate it, but I’m kinda busy right now. Playoffs and all.”
Vincent nods, slow, like he knew it was a long shot but took it anyway.
He holds Ash’s gaze another half-second, then steps back, slips out through the tangle of gear and people and noise.
When he’s gone, the world snaps back to normal. Raz calls Ash a “fucking celebrity,” and O’Doul starts a slow clap.
Ash ducks his head, laughs, but I can see the way his hand shakes just a little, the afterimage of being wanted by someone with nothing to lose.
I towel off, pack my shit, and tell myself I don’t care. I tell myself there’s nothing to worry about.
But the ache in my jaw, the death grip I have on my water bottle, says otherwise.
———
After, in the hall, I hang back, waiting for the chaos to settle. The rest of the team trickles out, hair still wet, faces already looking past the win to the next game, the next party, the next anything.
Ash walks slow, feet shuffling, hoodie half-zipped, bag slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t look up when he passes, but he knows I’m there.
I follow, a half-step behind, trying to think of something to say that isn’t, “What the fuck was that?”
Outside, the air is a brick wall of wet and cold. The parking garage is empty except for a couple of staffers and the line of rental SUVs.
We walk to his car, our footsteps echoing off the concrete like they’re the only honest sound left in the world.
He stops at the trunk, tosses his bag in, and turns to me.
“Vincent, huh?” I say, trying to play it cool, but my voice is thinner than I want.
He shrugs. “I guess.”
“Guy’s intense,” I say.
Ash snorts, “He’s a freak. Bet he’s already DM’d me.”
I want to ask if he’s going to answer. I want to ask if it matters. I want to ask if we’re still us, or if the rules just changed.
Instead, I just say, “You handled it.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. “What’s to handle? He’s not the first guy to think I’m desperate.”
“You’re not.”
He looks at me. Really looks, and for a second the world goes quiet.
“No,” he says. “I’m not.”
I nod, unsure if I believe it or just want to.
He pops the door, slides into the driver’s seat, and I watch the way he grips the wheel, the way his knuckles go white before he lets go, the way he sits there, for just a second, before turning the key.
I want to get in, I want to follow him home, I want to grab his face and tell him that he’s worth more than the entire fucking city.
But I don’t.
