Page 27 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“Quid pro quo, Clarice,” he says, his tone teasing as his hands flick back across the silverware, making sure everything is still in place.
I snort, despite myself. “This isn’tThe Silence of the Lambs.”
He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. “Maybe not, but it kind of feels like I’m sitting across from someone who has the power to kill my career if they wanted to.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, a real one this time. “Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “For every three questions you answer for me, I’ll answer one for you.”
His smile is dazzling, and suddenly, I’m convinced the temperature in the room just climbed a few degrees. The sweater I threw on over my long-sleeve tee suddenly feels like a sauna.
“Deal,” he says, and my lips twitch despite myself. Sunshine types like him are dangerous for grumps like me—and not just because they’re annoyingly charming.
“First question,” I begin. I’m not here for pleasure, so let’s get this over with. “What’s it been like essentially skipping the whole AHL experience? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of another player who’s been signed late in the season, played a few times, and then been called up to the NHL.”
“It’s overwhelming in its own way, but also I know it wouldn’t have happened unless the people in charge had faith in my skills.” He winks. “Next question?”
Oh, he is good. I can tell he’s been coached by a public relations team. I sit back and fold my arms across my chest. “With the upheaval, and literally moving coast to coast, how are you settling into Maple Falls?”
“I wouldn’t call my move across the country to this beautiful town ‘upheaval.’ The people here are very interesting,” he murmurs as the server drops off a basket of fresh baked bread in front of us. “Some I’m definitely finding more intriguing than others.”
There’s something in the way he’s answering that makes me question his sincerity. “Feels like you’ve been rehearsing for this.”
He shrugs. “I’ve had the PR team prep me for interviews this season. I’m just doing what I’m told.”
“I thought so,” I say with satisfaction, but I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or not. Maybe he’s being coy because he thinks it’s flirty? I stare across the table, watching as he unravels his napkin, once more, folding it back up and then rearranging his silverware yet again. I think this is the third time he’s done it since we sat down.
I tap the table and point to his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Ah ha! That’s your third question.”
“Stop deflecting.” I point to his hands again. “What was that?”
“What do you mean?” Asher freezes, his face flushing.
“Since we’ve been here, I’ve watched you organize your silverware multiple times.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “You know, I’ve seen this behavior before.”
“Behavior?” Asher’s hand flies to his mouth in faux surprise. He thinks he’s being cute, however I can tell when someone is trying to get me off a subject.
“Yes, your behavior is familiar to me. There was this baseball player, Nomar Garciaparra. Hear of him?”
“Played for the Red Sox and the Dodgers. Married to Mia Hamm. Did you know that Nomar is Ramon spelled backward?” Asher tips his glass of water in my direction. “In honor of his father.”
“Thank you, Encyclopedia Asher, but what you left out is that”—I keep my gaze level with his—“he famously has OCD. He had routines for every pitch, for getting out of the batter’s box, as well as the hand tapping he’d do before he swung the bat.” I narrow my eyes. “I can name a few other high-performance athletes who had the same thing, but I think you know where I’m going with it.”
Asher sets the glass down carefully, aligning it perfectly with the edge of his coaster. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his gaze briefly darting away before returning to mine. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—fear, maybe, or the beginning of trust. I really hope it’s the latter.
“I know where you’re going,” he says quietly, the weight in his voice matching the tension in his shoulders. “It’s not something I talk about.”
“Why not?” I soften my tone, leaning forward now. “If it’s part of who you are, then?—”
“Because people hear ‘OCD’ and think it’s cute,” he interrupts, his words sharp but not unkind. “They think it’s aboutkeeping things tidy or lining up pencils. They don’t get that it’s loud. Constant. Like having a second brain that won’t shut up, telling you something bad will happen if you don’t fix everythingjust right. Some days you may get tripped up over routines, the next it’s how organized you need the kitchen to be. It’s not one-size-fits-all, it’s internal and external, and it can be all encompassing if I don’t keep it in check.”
I sit back, his words settling over me like a weighted blanket. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen his smiley self disappear, and I’m feeling a bit of a chill in the shadows.
“For me, it’s more than organizing silverware.” He gestures vaguely, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his napkin. “It’s double-checking the locks three times before I leave the house. It’s running over my stats in my head until they feel perfect, even though I know they won’t change. It’s…” He exhales, a soft, bitter laugh escaping. “It’s knowing my routines help me feel in control, but also knowing they’re controlling me.”
The vulnerability in his voice is raw, like an unguarded net in a high-stakes game.
“That’s why I don’t talk about it,” he continues, his gaze flicking up to meet mine again. “People don’t see the downside, only the quirks. They think it’s funny or fascinating, not exhausting.”
