Page 1 of With the Assist

1

Wesley

I’m fighting with a dress.

It’s black, expensive, and currently winning.

“You look hot,” Avery says from my bathroom doorway, her mouth tilted into a smug grin as she admires her handiwork. Also known as me. “Headline-worthy hot. If the Boston City Athlete Awards had a Most Likely to Get Hit On category, you’d win.”

“I look like I can’t breathe.” I tug at the fabric that’s digging into my ribs. “And I don’t need to get hit on. I need to survive three hours of forced mingling and get eight hours of sleep before training tomorrow.”

Harper snorts from the edge of my bed, scrolling through her phone and eating the last of the Oreos. “Most people don’t schedule early morning training after an awards banquet. Especially not after just winning the championship.”

I don’t have the luxury of being like most people.

“Most people aren’t trying to get picked up for the U.S. Women’s National Team.”

Our season ended this week, but I have no plans to slow down. My off-season training starts tomorrow morning with cardio andweightlifting, followed by yoga in the afternoon, then ice baths and massages in the evening to help with recovery.

Not tonight. Tonight I have this stupid ceremony that probably won’t even serve anything within my diet plan. It’s not my figure I’m worried about. My grueling exercise regimen takes care of that, leaving me toned in all the right places. My concern is ensuring optimal performance. Everything in my life, down to what I eat, is centered around guaranteeing my excellence on the field.

This year, the National Team is within my reach, and I can almost feel that jersey on my skin. I want it more than I want to breathe. Events like tonight’s are distractions I don’t need.

In theory, one night off shouldn’t matter. Except the last time I let myself forget my priorities, I’d almost blown everything. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

Avery pushes off the doorway and saunters across the room. Her confidence is the perfect accessory for her backless emerald dress. She looks like she stepped out of a magazine, not off the same field as me, with her bright red hair pulled into a slicked-back bun. She’s showstopping and knows it.

“Coach Bennett would be so proud of you,” she says. “Captain of the team. Face of the franchise. Hates dresses.”

Next to her, I feel like a troll. A well-dressed troll, but still a troll. She claims confidence will make my dress work. I claim confidence is impossible while wearing five-inch heels and a dress this tight.

“I don’t hate dresses,” I say. “I hate clothes designed to be uncomfortable while serving no real purpose.”

“This dress serves a purpose,” Harper mumbles around her mouthful of cookies. “It makes men forget how to think with their heads. At least the one on their shoulders.”

Avery howls and high-fives her. They get sick enjoyment out of my misery. I need new friends.

“That’s exactly what I want to avoid.” I latch a bracelet around my pale wrist. “A room full of male athletes boasting about how big and strong they are.”

Avery grins, sliding on her heels that are somehow even taller than mine. “You think that’s all they talk about?”

“I think they’ll take one look at us.” I motion between Avery and me. “And think we’re just girls, not professional athletes.”

“I like being both.” Avery turns to the mirror, fixing her cleavage as if it wasn’t already impressive.

We’re opposites in every sense of the word. She might be small, but her personality is huge, and she knows it. The girl takes outgoing to another level. We have a running joke, that it’s why we work so well. When I go anywhere with her, I don’t have to say a word.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and grimace. My brown hair is curled into large waves that end midway down my back, and my makeup is dark. Since I prefer my hair up and my face bare, it feels like I’m pretending to be someone else.

It’s fitting considering that’s exactly what I’ll have to do to get through the night. Be someone friendlier. Be someone who enjoys the attention. Be someone less intimidating.

“I don’t understand why I have to go. I already thanked them for the nomination. That should be enough.”

“You’re the team captain,” Harper says, offering me the last Oreo. “You can’t send a fruit basket and call it leadership.”

“I could,” I argue, taking it from her. “I should.”

I crawl up onto my bed and rest my head on her shoulder, the way I have since we became friends. The Oreo crumbles as I take a bite, scattering crumbs across my dress. I don’t care enough to swipe them away. Screw the diet plan, Oreos are delicious. Besides, tonight is shot to hell anyway. Now, at least I’m enjoying one thing about this day.