Chapter 18
WYATT CHASE
Asher is everywhere–except for in my bed, and I’m committed to keeping it that way.
I see him twice a week at our physical therapy sessions.
I watch the back of his head from my seat on the bus, now that he’s coming to away games.
Sometimes, our paths cross when one of us is leaving in the morning or coming back home at night.
The place he exists most persistently is in my mind, even as I do everything that I can to keep my behavior toward him professional.
I’m thinking about him so often that I’m hallucinating hearing his voice.
And he’s… singing?
I crane my ear from the upstairs bathroom–the one that both Lyla and I share so it’s filled with bath toys.
I step on an especially spiky one and let out a muttered curse.
It only takes me a few seconds to throw on a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt–one of my old ones from when I played for Seattle.
When I hit the bottom of the stairs, I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. Asher, standing across the threshold of the open front door. His hands are on his hips, which he’s pumping side to side. I refuse to let my eyes follow his movement.
Neither of us has sought the other out–beyond our requisite training sessions– since our rather… intimate evening two weeks ago, and I’m both grateful for it and in a state of constant unrest.
I realize that he’s following Lyla’s lead while she teaches him her snowman dance which involves a lot of hand waving to mimic snow falling around them. I refuse to acknowledge the way that my heart beats a little faster in my chest, watching the two of them together.
Instead, I put my hand on Lyla’s shoulder and give him a nod. “Asher. What’s up?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. All I can do is watch as he keeps singing until finally, he and Lyla–who’s wriggled away from my hand–belt out the last line and throw their hands out with a flourish.
“You nailed it, kid,” he says, putting his arm out so that she can high-five him.
She jumps to reach his extended hand. “I’ve been practicin’.”
“It shows.” I try not to melt at the megawatt smile he bestows in her direction as they shift into a fistbump. Or be jealous of a five-year-old because I’m not the one on the receiving end of it.
Touching has been at a minimum now that he’s so far along in his recovery.
Generally, I model the exercise that he’ll be doing and then he follows suit.
I’ve been trying so fucking hard not to let my stare or my hands linger.
I was the one who drew the line, and I’m trying my damndest to hold firm to it.
And yeah, maybe I’m a tiny bit annoyed that he’s adhering to my boundaries so readily. Which, don’t worry, I’m aware makes me a complete piece of shit.
But right now, I need to focus on my parenting abilities, not what a mess my love life–or lack there-of–has become.
“I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to open the door when I wasn’t here,” I remind Lyla.
I’m flirting with the idea of getting her a GPS tracker, just to make sure that I can always keep her as safe as possible.
She’s one of the friendliest kids that I’ve ever met.
Or, maybe in this case, it’s just a genetic predisposition to not being able to resist Asher Reynolds.
“But I know him, Dad,” Lyla whines. “Plus, he didn’t even knock or anything.”
My brows draw upward. “Is that so?”
Asher cocks his head to the side, and I notice a trash bag on the ground near my door.
He would need to walk by our apartment, where Lyla likes to sit like a puppy at the window, to reach the dumpster at the end of the street.
“I did ask Lyla what she had going on when she opened the door, so that’s on me.
I heard singing, and I didn’t exactly peg you as the type. ”
I resist smiling. I know that he’s not flirting with me–probably–but it feels good to have an almost normal conversation with him after the awkwardness of the last few weeks. Plus, it’s been really fucking hard to pretend that I don’t know what he tastes like or how he feels sitting in my lap.
Thankfully, with a full schedule of games, a precocious daughter, and a roster full of rotating injuries to keep me busy, I’ve been managing things so far.
I cross my arms. “Well, joke’s on you because I do a mean rendition of most Disney songs.”
Lyla nods enthusiastically. “He does. He’s so good. He always sings the girl parts best.”
I watch as Asher’s eyes turn playful. “Is that so? I’d love to hear that sometime.”
My stomach flutters, and I remind myself that I just need to hang on for this year. He’s graduating, and then I’ll be free of my obsession with him. Maybe he’ll get a roster slot on a farm team or head back to Michigan to be with his family.
It’s only six more months. I can resist this urge that seems to be ballooning in me by the day for that long.
“It’s a grace only bestowed on a select few.” God damnit. Am I flirting? I shake my head at myself.
“Asher, what are you gonna be for Halloween?” Lyla loves Halloween, even though she’s worn the same costume for the last three years now. We were lucky enough to not have a game tonight, so I can take her trick-or-treating in my parents’ neighborhood.
And even though I should be thinking about the next few hours and the sugar shock that will inevitably happen later tonight, instead, visions of him in a variety of different costumes float through my mind.
Anything that showcases his brawn and rugged manliness.
A lumberjack. A Greek god. Some type of warrior.
He’d look incredible as a fireman wearing nothing but suspenders and pants.
Maybe a sexy pair of big black boots. With the intensity of that last fantasy, I hope he doesn’t notice the heat on my cheeks.
He scratches at his beard, oblivious. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I wasn’t going to go out tonight.”
Lyla makes the most hilariously aghast sound, like she can’t fathom what he’s saying.
Then, she lowers her voice and grabs onto my hand.
“Dad, you always say that if someone’s left out, I should invite them.
We should invite Asher to come with us tonight so that he’s not alone.
” Except that kindergartners aren’t exactly known for their subtlety, and I’m pretty confident that even the neighbors at the end of the row could hear her.
I look at Asher then, who’s staring at me with bright blue eyes. I miss having him around more. I miss when our friendship was in a better place.
I miss… him.
And even if I know that I’m playing with fire, I can’t seem to stay away from him.
Plus, it’ll be an evening filled with Lyla and my parents. What’s the worst that could happen?
The worst that could happen is realizing just how effortlessly Asher slots into my life. Lyla hasn’t stopped running around, talking to him non-stop as we traverse the neighborhood. My mom has been looking at him like he’s the most handsome man in the world which, he is, but that’s not the point.
“The Eastern White Pine is beautiful,” I hear my dad say. He’s an introspective man who also has a fondness for nature. So, I get the similarities, but who knew that those two would be thick as thieves?
I’ve barely had the chance to talk to Asher for the last hour, given how he’s being passed around by my lovingly involved family like a new baby.
And then I watch, shocked, as Asher strips off his jacket, peels off his sweatshirt, and gleefully shows my dad his full arm of tattoos, including, I have to imagine, an Eastern White Pine.
Former pro hockey player or not, I’m suddenly feeling a little bit like a dork in my referee costume that complements Lyla’s hockey player outfit.
He notices me looking at him–I mean, who wouldn’t be a little dumbstruck when a hot guy whips off his clothing in the late-October air and still looks like he’s having the time of his life.
The worst part is that my mom of all people also seems to notice my reaction, and she takes my father’s arm and guides him up to the driveway where we’re waiting for Lyla to return with her latest candy haul.
Which means that it’s just the two of us, and one isn’t wearing nearly as much clothing as they should be. “Stripping for my dad?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He ignores my stupid comment, thankfully, and puts back on his layers. “Is this the neighborhood where you grew up? I feel like I’m getting an in-depth look at Wyatt Chase if it is.”
I try to see the neighborhood through his eyes.
Three or four-bedroom Cape Cods with well-manicured yards on manageably sided lots.
A lot of people have taken to getting mailboxes that match the style of their houses, so it’s like a miniature version.
We’re just about through fall, and we step on crunchy leaves as we follow Lyla and my parents to the next house.
A lot of the original owners of the homes have since retired or downsized, so in the last few years, the neighborhood has turned over. It’s filled with dozens of families, all out tonight with their kids in tow.
I’m struck again with embarrassment that I’m raising Lyla in an apartment that doesn’t have many other kids around. Where she spends time staring out the window, hoping to see someone her age pass by.
I refuse to let myself go down that guilty path right now.
“It was painfully idyllic. Only child. Great parents. A safe neighborhood.” I pull a packet of M&Ms that I pilfered earlier from Lyla’s bag and pop one into my mouth before asking, “What about you?”
“I grew up in a very cramped, very loud house. But it was always filled with love,” he adds.
I have the strangest sensation then, like I want to grab his hand while we’re walking down the street. It’s so domestic. Being with my parents. Watching Lyla as she bravely navigates the driveways for the promise of candy. Just… existing with Asher and learning more about his life.