Chapter 20
WYATT CHASE
Whatever Asher said to Trevor this week is working wonders. We’re up by two goals and we won last night’s game, too. Which is incredible because it almost feels like we’ll be able to claw our way back to a season that has us in playoff contention. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed it.
I watch as the players move across the ice, switching out on the bench every minute or so. I’m paying special attention to the players that I know have pre-existing injuries, making sure they aren’t exacerbating anything.
Something’s steadied in me, too. I didn’t even get annoyed when I had to redo one of Zane’s tape jobs ahead of the game.
Instead, I was just grateful that I noticed it in time.
I know that he hates my guts and it would cause a whole lot of strife for me, but I am getting close to talking to the coach about the issues that I’ve been noticing.
It’s going to open a can of worms that I don’t want to deal with, though, so for now I’ve taken the path of least resistance.
Last year, there was no dedicated physical therapist on staff–the team contracted with a local medical center.
But with Radford U’s appearance in the Frozen Four finals and the change in NCAA staffing rules, the school decided that it was time to bring in more people.
A second assistant coach was hired under Coach Donovan, and they opened up the position for a physical therapist.
I wonder how much slid by in the past few seasons–especially on game days–with no one looking over Zane’s shoulder. I shake my head, thinking about all of the injuries that could have been prevented or better managed.
Now that I’m here, he’s been mostly relegated to the on-ice needs of the team along with pre-game taping and final checks.
I assume that’s why he’s been so pissy with me, but it still doesn’t excuse doing a poor job.
And if he was already doing his role badly and this is the best he’s got, then he should have already been fired.
Luckily for him, injuries are complicated beasts. Everyone’s recovery looks different, so there’s no clear timetable to assess whether he’s performing as expected.
I’m thinking about what I should do about this whole clusterfuck when the end of the second period sounds. The players quickly make their way off the rink. We all head back to the locker room while they clean the ice and I get some much needed time to check in on the team.
I’m surprised to see that Asher’s already there when we reach the locker room.
He flashes me a smile from his seat as the players crowd into the space and immediately focus on the coach and whatever he’s about to say, while also stripping out of their jerseys, pads, and for some, their base layers to switch them out.
If Coach Donovan says anything, I imagine it will be brief.
The guys are working their asses off tonight, and it shows.
Plus, the most important thing of all is that we actually look like a team.
I let out a sigh of relief at how much better this game is going than what’s become our routine of ties, losses, or barely eking out wins lately.
West’s shoulder started aggravating him again last week, so I’m focusing on his range of motion. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Asher stand up and walk over to Trevor, whose face immediately lights up.
I can’t help that I’m so attuned to him that I feel like we’re connected by an invisible string.
But I have a job to do, and I’m trying my best to give West my full attention.
He’s stripped off his jersey and pads, and I’m making him lift his arm up to assess if there’s a more serious issue at play.
Everyone is cooling down, repositioning pads, or chugging water, but the vibe of the room is infectiously positive.
All that Coach Donovan said was, “Take a rest, boys. We’ve got twenty more minutes to close this thing out,” before he huddled in the corner with the other coaches to discuss strategy for the last period.
While I run through the exercises with West, I see Asher talking animatedly to Trevor, his long arms moving, mimicking a play.
I’m grateful that he’s standing to my right so that I can see him.
When Trevor nods in agreement, Asher clasps him on the shoulder and laughs.
“Hell yeah,” I hear him say, and I try not to smile at the sound of his voice.
I’m down bad, and I know it. This whole friends thing is working out, but only because I’m giving it my all to keep things between us in a safe place.
Only, nothing about Asher is safe for me.
Not his slightly crooked smile, which he wears more often than not these days.
Or his thick head of hair that I fantasize about running my fingers through–just like he’s doing now to himself.
Let’s not even get started on his body, which is so perfectly masculine that I can’t look at him for too long without feeling a swell of desire that I have to put a lid on.
But my physical attraction to him isn’t the most dangerous part.
It’s the way I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around him.
I don’t talk about Lyla’s mom–ever–and earlier this week, he had me opening myself up to all kinds of past hurts and unresolved feelings.
My life only works if I’m moving forward and putting on a brave face, but Asher’s threatening to burn that all down with soft looks and genuine care for me and my daughter.
It’s a recipe for disaster. I know this. I know–
“This is probably the most you’ve ever raised your hand, West,” I hear him say from next to me, laughter in his full, rich voice.
While I was trying not to look at him for the tenth time in the last few minutes, he’s made his way over to us.
“Definitely way more than you ever participated in any classes that we had together.”
West glowers, but there’s no anger behind it. “Hilarious, man. This is going to be you soon, so I hope you’re having fun watching while we all schlep around the ice to keep our season alive.”
Asher stretches his arms, crossing them in front of his chest, and I try not to look at how the muscles bulge beneath his hoodie.
I let out a hiss of air and focus on bringing West’s arm down in a controlled manner. “How’s that feel?”
“Pretty good. A little sore but no bursts of pain.” He’s already reaching for his pads to put them back on.
I don’t stop him, but this conversation isn’t done. “Let’s check in again on Monday. I want to see you in the treatment room to run through a few more exercises and assess your full range of motion.”
West nods, even though I can see that he’s not thrilled.
I’m surprised when Asher says, “Chase is the only reason that I’m going to be back this year, so trust the man. He won’t steer you wrong.”
I do my damndest not to blush from the compliment. “Just doing my job. For both of you,” I add pointedly.
West, accepting his fate for our upcoming appointment, turns his attention back to Asher. “What are you doing tonight? We’re all heading over to Coop’s apartment to play some Mario Kart after the game. Are you coming?”
Asher’s lips twitch. In the spirit of being friends, the two of us had tentative plans to catch the Nauticals game that’s on tonight–they’re playing Seattle–but it was something that wasn’t set in stone.
“Thanks, dude, but I’m going to call it an early night,” he says. I wonder if he’s lying about our plans or if he’s forgotten since it came up. I doubt that he spends as much time as I do agonizing about how badly I want him.
God, I need to get my shit together. And I’m planning to, until he shoots me a glance and winks at me. Asher Reynolds is winking at me like we have a secret between us, and it’s a problem how it sends a little thrill through me.
I’m saved from saying something stupid when everyone gets up and starts heading back to the ice. I follow the players, Asher following into step with me at the end of the line. “Heading back to the box?” I ask.
He nods. “Did you want to watch the game at my place or yours?”
I’m an idiot who’s made a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t let myself be alone with him. But I can’t seem to make myself turn this opportunity down. “Mine?” At least we’ll be on my own turf, where I can feign tiredness at any point and send him away.
He hits me with a dazzling smile that I feel in my whole body. “Text me when you get home?”
“Yep. Sounds good.” We’re at the split where he’ll head back to the seats, and I’ll follow the team to the bench.
I don’t spare him another glance. I don’t think it would be safe for me.
I’m telling myself as I head into the stadium that there’s still time for me to get out of this. I can make up an excuse once the game is over that I decided to pick up Lyla or that I feel like I’m coming down with something.
I shake my head. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s insane to be making up fake excuses because I’m afraid to be alone with Asher. Maybe a little exposure therapy will be helpful.
We’re just going to be watching hockey together, I think, psyching myself up.
It’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine.
I do, in fact, text Asher when I get home because I’m a weak, weak man. He appears at my door minutes later with a six-pack of the same beer that I usually keep in my own fridge.
That was twenty minutes ago, and so far, I haven’t done anything stupid.
Asher’s being completely normal–I think–but I’m still agonizing over every second. I barely know what’s going on in the game.
A commercial break starts and he looks over to me. “So, how did you know that you weren’t straight?”
I choke on the sip of beer that I’d been swallowing, trying not to look at him. “What?” I sputter to buy time, even though I know that I heard him correctly.
“I mean, we’re friends right? And it seems like a normal question to ask a friend?” He’s the picture of innocence with his curious stare and open posture, but now I’m on high alert.