Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ASHER
Alobotomy would suck less.
Anyone who knows Asher has, at some point in time, said that his head is gloriously empty, mostly running on vibes only. But it has never been like this before: a world of hurt to even cobble together a semi-coherent thought.
A rapid, grating beep drags him to the surface of consciousness. Opening his eyes is too effortful, but even then, the sliver of light eking through reduces his brain into a throbbing, pulpy mess.
Everything is fragmented, his memory thin and jagged like broken glass. He’d been . . . There was a match, right?
A shard comes back to him: the cheer of a crowd.
Another: a telltale soreness that has settled into his muscles.
And then . . . nothing.
“Where am I?” Did he say that? He blinks, trying and failing to take in his surroundings. He reaches for more words, but can’t seem to string any together.
“Ross?”
That’s not his voice. It sounds different. Fraught and unsteady. In the background, the beeping slows. There is a soft but insistent pressure on his wrist.
He tries to turn toward the voice, seeking it out, but it is too much. A black hole sucks everything into an abyss and time collapses in on itself.
The next thing Asher is aware of is that there are blobs gathered around him. Three blobs, to be specific. Good. That must mean his brain is somewhat intact.
One of the blobs grows larger and Bailey’s voice reaches through the fog. “Hey, humpty dumpty. You gave us a fright there.”
Asher closes his eyes. The words come eventually, like molasses, slowly forming around his tongue. “What happened?”
“Do you want the good news or bad news first?”
Dread skitters up Asher’s neck. “Bad.”
The room stills for a few awful seconds.
“Your head’s banged up, my guy. You’re in the hospital.” Thea’s usually powerful voice wavers. “Caleb really did a number on you. You took a bad bump and passed out for, like, a hot minute.”
The corner of Asher’s eyes prickle. “I think I’d like the good news now please.”
“You didn’t break your C1 or your C2,” Thea says. “Yay!”
“Bleeding all inside, where it should be.”
“What? Lex, shut up. He means there’s no internal bleeding.”
“Is my . . .” Asher’s throat feels like sandpaper.
He thinks of his knee, his ACL torn two years ago.
He thought that was it—a career-ending blow.
Luckily, with lots of physiotherapy, it had only taken him out for a little over eight months.
How many times can he dodge the one inevitability in this industry? He takes a breath. “Can I walk?”
“Yeah, you’re good,” Bailey says. “Motor functioning all intact.”
Asher feels Alexei nudge his toes and chokes on a tsunami of relief. He could cry. He thinks he does, actually, because a beat of silence later, there are hands patting his arms and legs and three different voices shushing him, telling him he’s going to be just fine.
“Mm-kay,” he mumbles when his feelings subside. “I’m gonna crash now.”
Asher wonders if his brain will heal faster if he puts it in rice.
Wrestlers live with an undercurrent of ache.
It’s practically written in their contract.
Tearing his ACL? No biggie. Diving off a twenty-foot ladder?
A mild inconvenience. But now? Asher can’t even get through a conversation without hot bile stinging the back of his throat, can’t look at anything that moves without feeling like he’s stuck on a Knott’s Berry Farm roller coaster. And, yes, he will whine about it.
His neurologist clears him for discharge on day two under the promise to call if things take a turn for the worse.
Alexei insists on carrying him into the Outlander and drives him to a nearby studio apartment that Thea and Bailey have rented for him to recuperate in for the next couple of weeks.
Knowing he can barely open his eyes when the sun is too bright without his brain turning to sludge, he doesn’t even bother protesting.
A rotating door of roster members drop by to help care for him.
With them, he’s never alone. There is always a reassuring hand resting on his arm or ankle as various groups of wrestlers talk among themselves while Asher does his very important job of floating on a cloud.
Asher must be awful company, spending most of his waking hours wallowing in self-pity or battling tides of nausea when he attempts to do remotely anything, but they never seem to mind. Soon, though, Ohio calls.
“All right.” Alexei bends to give Asher a gentle but loud smacking kiss on the top of his head. “Be good. Love love.”
“Remember to take your meds,” Bailey calls from the door. She fiddles with a series of buttons on the wall, and the curtains begin to draw shut. The darkness eases the death metal concert in Asher’s head. “Get Siri to call us if you need anything.”
“That means no screens or bright lights,” Thea tacks on. “If we see you online, I will personally drive back and put a child lock on everything.”
Asher makes a despairing noise.
“Don’t be a baby.”
“Yes, mom,” Asher monotones.
“What was that?”
“I said thank you and I love you.”
Asher is sprawled on the couch, his bored brain evaporating, slipping in and out of a thick fog when the shrill ringing of the doorbell yanks him back to the present.
A vice-like grip clamps down on his skull. He inhales sharply, hands shooting up to cover his ears. “Go away,” he mutters.
A beat. Then another ring.
Eyes squeezed shut, Asher stumbles toward the entrance, pushing past another wave of nausea.
“Can I not even suffer in peace?” he demands as he cracks open the door. “My head hurts.”
“Jesus. I thought you died,” a rough, panicked voice says.
Asher rears back. He’s supposed to inform his neurologist if he experiences hallucinations. “Knight?”
Silence drags on before the same voice admits, “Yeah. I called you, like, a dozen times.”
Asher must not have responded, because Caleb continues, “I just needed to see—are you . . . ?”
“I’m alive,” Asher says, startled to find his voice comes out almost shyly. Maybe he should indeed give his neurologist a call. “Sorry to disappoint. Did you want something?”
“Can I come in?”
“What?”
“I brought some food for you.”
Food? He shouldn’t. This is a bad idea. Everything is happening too quickly. But it is at this moment that Asher’s stomach decides to rumble. Food sounds amazing right about now. Asher has no self-preservation; natural selection should have weeded him out.
Shielding his eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight, Asher nudges the door all the way open with his foot.
There’s a crinkle of plastic and some shuffling before the door closes with a soft click.
“Hey,” Caleb says, much more quietly now that there isn’t anything between them. A light breeze from the balcony carries a familiar scent over, and a tightly wound coil in Asher’s chest relaxes. “Can . . . can I help?”
When Asher nods, one of Caleb’s hands finds the small of his back. It is warm and steady while the other circles his wrist. Without even thinking, Asher leans against Caleb, letting Caleb take his weight, content to get herded back to the couch.
Heart going a million miles per hour, Asher finally cracks open his eyes when Caleb tucks a throw pillow comfortably under his head.
He half expects to be met with an empty room, like Caleb’s just a figment of his imagination.
But there he is, staring uncomfortably down at Asher in set of pullover and shorts.
“Hi,” Asher says smartly.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. Thea made me have a bite of toast for breakfast.”
“Ross, it’s a quarter past five.”
“Oh.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Caleb exhales. “Stay here. Don’t overexert yourself. I'll be back in a sec.”
Asher watches Caleb retreat into the kitchen. Okay?
Eventually, Caleb returns with a massive bowl wobbling atop a tray. The lines of him waver in the steam. He sets it down on the table before helping Asher sit upright.
“Can you manage, or do you need me to . . . ?”
“I got it,” Asher replies hurriedly, feeling a warmth that mirrors the flush coloring Caleb’s cheeks. Averting his gaze, he turns his attention to the bowl. Steam hits him in the face, together with a sharp, distinctly medicinal scent. He glances back at Caleb. “Ginseng?”
“Sure.”
Asher narrows his eyes. “You trying to poison me or something?”
Caleb’s shoulders curl into a hunch, and he looks away. “Or something,” he mumbles. “I would never forgive myself if I . . .”
He trails off, but Asher understands what is woven through the words left unsaid. Please don’t think I did this to you on purpose.
Asher would love nothing more than to hold a grudge, but finds himself, at this moment, too tired to care. Having company is nice. Comforting even. Plus he brought ginseng soup. Asher is a simple creature. He is willing to call a temporary truce in the name of food.
“It was just a freak accident,” Asher says softly. The corner of his mouth tugs upward when Caleb joins him on the couch, shoulders relaxing fractionally. “I’m fine.”
“That was really scary,” Caleb admits.
“Yeah. I was terrified too. But the doctor says I’ll be ready to kick your ass soon.”
At this, Caleb barks out a laugh, equal parts relief and something Asher almost puts a finger on when a burst of pain rattles through his head. He winces, grunting.
“Shit, sorry.” Caleb claps a hand over his mouth. “I’ll shut up.” He jabs a finger at the bowl. “Eat.”
Asher often forgets to feed himself when his usual routine gets all messed up, but he doesn’t realize how hungry he truly is until the first drop of ginseng soup hits his tongue.
It’s hot enough to burn away some of the haze; familiar enough for a wave of nostalgia to wash over.
For a moment, he can touch the glass. He can glance at his youth, back in time when he used to spend sick days tucked in bed while his mom steeped an assortment of herbs to get his fever to break.
It is only when he finishes every last drop that he realizes Caleb isn’t beside him anymore.