Chapter 13
WYATT CHASE
Staying busy is good. Necessary, even. Especially when being so tired means that I barely have time to think. It’s been a very helpful way to stave off dealing with my emotions.
A little over a week ago, I hauled Asher’s drunk ass home and was left with way more questions than answers where his behavior was concerned.
Things haven’t gotten much better since then.
Now, I’m left wondering if he’s actually homophobic, once he really thought through the hands-on nature of our professional relationship. Or worse, if he’s clocked my attraction to him and he’s uncomfortable.
I’m almost at the point where I feel like I should say something, just to clear the air. But I’m definitely not going over to his apartment to talk to him outside of our scheduled physical therapy slots, and the sports medicine room has been bustling with people lately.
Last week, we had to adjust his sessions because of our first away games on Thursday and Friday night in Vermont, so I haven’t spent any one-on-one time with him in the last six days.
With three games under our belt for the season, the injuries are already stacking up.
Vermont was a formidable opponent. We lost the first night but won the second, and thanks to the team grinding it out to come up with a win, I have three new treatment plans that I’m working through with the players who were injured during the road series.
Plus, Lyla’s kindergarten class is already rehearsing for their winter recital–which is insane, for the record.
Tempting fate on a New England winter that will be here soon enough is masochistic as all hell.
Now, every night, because apparently I raised the world’s biggest go-getter, we practice her songs when I get home from work.
I didn’t expect that her being cast as a snowman would include so much preparation, but apparently, she got the lead.
And, she’s a perfectionist, just like her dad.
I got to bask in my pride for about three days before I wondered if I was being punished for something.
I’m ecstatic for her, truly, but I’ve about had my fill of the brave snowman song and its accompanying choreographed dance–which she also insists that I do with her. I know that it doesn’t make me a bad parent to get sick of a song, but I still feel guilty about it.
I’ve clearly been feeling guilt about a lot of things lately, and I think that it’s making me more sensitive than normal.
I’m walking out of my office, thinking about the dozens of things that I need to get done today ahead of another double header this weekend, though luckily we’re at home.
Unfortunately, I don’t see Zane walking into the sports medicine room, and we collide. Hard.
“Watch it,” he seethes as I scramble to secure the iPad I’m barely managing to hold onto.
“Sorry.” The word is automatic.. As in, I’m sorry that I accidentally ran into another human being when I wasn’t paying attention, but–once I get my bearings–I’m not especially bent out of shape that it was him.
“Looking to cop a feel?” he mutters under his breath, and it’s crazy how fast I see red.
It’s backwards thinking like this that, even though gay marriage is federally legalized and we’re in the best societal place that we’ve ever been with LGBTQ+ rights, makes people nervous to come out of the closet.
Because if someone has an ax to grind or just a narrow mindset, they can hurl your sexuality back in your face like an accusation.
And in the world of professional sports, no matter what anyone wants to think, being gay does change things.
But the joke’s on Zane because I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot-pole. And of all the garbage that I actually don’t have time for, this just bumped right up to the top of the list. “Not even for a shot at playing in the pros again.”
I stare him down until he walks into his office right next to my own. God, I can’t stand that guy. Usually, I get along with most people, but I have to admit, sometimes–especially lately–I fantasize about ripping his head off.
And it’s not just because he’s homophobic. My biggest problem is that I don’t think that he’s very good as the team’s athletic trainer. Before our second away game in Vermont, I saw a tape job on our goalie’s ankle that looked like it was done by a toddler decorating with crepe paper.
Thankfully, I was able to correct it before he went out on the ice, but now I’m constantly wondering what else he’s doing a half-assed job at where the players are concerned. I don’t have time to watch him like a hawk, but it’s just another in the list of things that I’m trying to juggle every day.
I have about a minute to focus on my breathing and finish what I was typing up on my iPad when Asher walks in the door.
He doesn’t make eye contact but gives me a cursory nod, which is about what I’ve come to expect from him.
Here we fucking go again I guess.
And I know that I’m on edge because of what just happened with Zane, but I’m getting sick of this shit. Does he really think that just because I’m interested in men I can’t keep it in my pants while we’re working together?
We did hydrotherapy again last week along with some self-guided exercises, but we’re back to working in a hands-on capacity for our next few sessions, where I’ll need to guide his body to make sure that he’s doing the movements safely.
Honestly, I’ve been dreading it. But instead of dwelling on that, I give him the most genuine smile that I can manage and gesture for him to come over.
We’ve been working him out for close to an hour when I hit my limit of one-word answers.
Do you have any pain? No.
How does that feel when I extend your leg a little more? Fine.
Somehow, he even manages to give one-word answers to questions that aren’t yes or no. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so fucking annoyed.
Physically, he’s in the best shape that he’s been since we started working together. Believe me, I’ve noticed, even against my best judgment. But mentally? It’s like we’re back to our first day in my office, when he was working much harder against his recovery than for it.
My hand is braced on his calf, and I extend his leg down the treatment table.
I hold it there for a beat before using my fingertips to coax his leg toward me.
He’s wearing shorts today, and his skin’s warm against my palms. “Stretch from your hips and groin,” I guide, focusing on seeing the stretch in my mind. “You should feel your hips opening up.”
He exhales, opening his hips wider as I see his chest expanding with his breathing.
“Great job,” I encourage. From my vantage point, this is the most productive stretch that he’s managed so far. I squeeze his calf, excited for his progress.
But then he flinches, and suddenly, Zane’s words come rushing back. I know that Asher’s reaction isn’t from any pain. It’s because I touched him. In a way that maybe he felt was too intimate.
As quickly and safely as I can manage, I guide his leg back to the table and then remove my hands. After that, I take a half-step back for good measure.
I’m in a really shitty position here. I can’t in good conscience turn his care over to Zane, given that one, he’s not qualified to manage injuries of this degree as an athletic trainer, and two, I don’t trust that even with extensive oversight, he would do a good job for Asher.
But the reality is that, technically, this is my fault.
I didn’t need to tell Asher that I’m bi.
I selfishly wanted him to know. Even though nothing can happen between us, I liked the idea of him getting to see the real me.
More than that, I didn’t want him to think that he’d done anything wrong with regards to our sessions together.
So, I took a chance, and it backfired. Now, I have to push forward with the situation that we’ve found ourselves in.
I sigh, taking a few seconds to compose myself.
I won’t pretend that I’m not frustrated as all hell that Asher seems to think that I’m half-a-second away from ripping off his gym shorts and trying to go down on him on the table, but I still have a responsibility to him and his recovery.
I bite the inside of my cheek, making a decision. I guess I picked a bad day to have principles.
Because it means that… “We need to talk about whatever’s going on,” I force out, crossing my arms over my chest so that there’s no mistake about my intentions. That’s the last thing that I’d want to happen right now, when we’re already on such thin ice.
I shoot a glance at the door to the hallway, which is blessedly closed. All the skaters are on the ice practicing, and Zane’s with them.
When my eyes find Asher’s, he’s looking up at me with a wide, unblinking stare, like he’s been caught doing something.
His lips are parted, and I half expect him to start gasping like a fish out of water.
It’s the same look that Lyla gives me when I roll up on her in the kitchen unexpectedly and she’s scarfing down cookies before dinner.
“Um… what’s going on?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically high. Great. That makes two of us that don’t want to have this conversation.
I run a hand through my hair, waiting for him to speak.
Only, he doesn’t. I grimace, steeling my resolve.
He’s really going to make me say it. “Look,” I say pointedly, “things have been weird between us since I told you that I’m not straight.
I know that the world has come a long way, but theory is different than practice.
Now, we’re up close and personal every day, and maybe you have some feelings about that.
Unfortunately, I’m the guy who says the quiet part out loud. Even if it’s awkward for both of us.”
It stings, the idea that Asher could be so uncomfortable because of my sexuality that he doesn’t even want me to touch him.
Intolerant as all hell, too, which isn’t something that I ever expected from him.
So, I guess at this point, I just need to lay my cards on the table and make it very clear to him that, regardless of any attraction, I have no plans to be anything except professional with him.
It’s never been a problem with the dozens of players I’ve treated before, and I sure as hell won’t let it be a problem now. And yeah, I shouldn’t have to do it, but it doesn’t change the fact that we’ve found ourselves here.
He clears his throat and finally breaks eye contact, like even looking at me face-to-face is too much. “I’m not being weird,” he lies.
Conversely, I’ve always been a bad liar.
I know this about myself. To be fair, he’s not very good at it either.
Which means that all I can do is bite back a scoff.
I want this idiotic dance to be over as soon as possible with the air cleared.
“You barely said a word to me when I drove you home last week. In fact, you did everything that you could to stop that from happening. Even though there’s no practical reason that it should have bothered you. Staff helps out players all the time.”
I’m waiting for him to give me another excuse. Instead, he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the table so that we’re facing one another now. His blue eyes are clear, but he still has that panicked look in them. I can’t for the life of me figure out what his deal is.
Finally, he says dourly, “Maybe I’m not the person that you want me to be. Or the person that I thought I was, either.”
His words hang heavy between us, and my blood is buzzing in my ears. What the hell does that mean? I give him a hard look. “I don’t want you to be anyone except a person who can put their own shit aside for the good of their recovery.”
“No, I mean–”
I cut him off. I cannot deal with anymore of his bullshit today.
I will truly combust if I have to listen to him evade, lie, or hedge one more time.
“Attraction is a feeling, but behavior is a choice. You of all people should know that our emotions don’t control us unless we let them.
I would never put you in a difficult position, Asher.
I take my responsibility to your care seriously.
So, if your problem is with gay people, in general, then we may need to have a conversation with Coach if we can’t find a way forward.
But if your problem is with me, specifically, then I can promise you that regardless of how I feel toward you, I will not cross a line. ”
There. I said it. I don’t think that I can make my stance any clearer, and I hope we can move past whatever was creating friction between us.
Of the scenarios I consider, being prepared for how quickly he stands up isn’t one of them.
Suddenly, he’s in my space–so fucking close that I can smell him– and I don’t have time to take another step back.
Standing, he’s a few inches taller than me, and we’re almost pressed together, especially when he lets out a haphazard exhale.
His breath ghosts across my cheek, and I’m stunned into silence.
His eyes go wide at the same time that he bites his lip, and I hate myself for it, but my focus is drawn down to his mouth.
“I need to go.” He’s already shifting sideways to get away from me.
The door is swinging closed behind him before I’ve processed what’s happening. All I can do is let out a groan into the silent room and scrub my hands down my cheeks because whatever it is, I know that it’s not good.