Page 13 of With the Assist

As if on cue, my phone buzzes again in my pocket. My sister, Delaney.

I should ignore it, but the message lights up the screen as I swing open the facility doors.

Delaney: Did you make it? Were you late?

Leaving her stranded with a dead battery on the side of the road wasn’t an option. She refused to call Dad because ‘he’d be dramatic’ when he found out his nineteen-year-old daughter had been drivingaround with her maintenance light on for days. I refused to call him because, well, talking to him would be worse than being late.

Instead, I’d tracked her down and given her a jump so she could take it to a shop, wasting precious time I didn’t have.

The moment I burst onto the turf, I know I’m screwed.

Wesley stands in the center of the field as if she owns it. Her hair is pulled back, with joggers hugging her strong and very distracting legs. She looks professional in her Tempest pullover with her clipboard in hand. But the look in her eyes?

Pure arctic frost.

My teammates are circled up, already stretching, but they quiet down as my footsteps echo across the turf.

“I’m sorry.” I drop my bag, making my way to the group.

Wesley steps toward me, and the air outside drops ten degrees.

“You’re late.” Her voice is deadly calm.

“Yeah, I know. Look, my sister…”

“Drop the excuse. You owe us a lap for every minute.”

“Eight laps?”

My insides twist as my hope for making a good impression vanishes. I spent over two hundred thousand dollars so that I could impress the woman in front of me, and not even ten minutes in, the money’s wasted.

A few of my teammates wince on my behalf.

Wesley lifts a brow. “Did I stutter?”

“Nope.” I swallow. Her tone has me terrified and turned on in ways that it shouldn’t. “Isn’t this supposed to be a fun charity day?”

“Actually,” she says, glancing toward her clipboard as if she’s reading the rules. “It’s supposed to be an authentic training day.”

“So, if you were eight minutes late…” I start.

She nods toward the path circling the turf. “I’d run.”

I could ask her to be reasonable, but something in her expression tells me it won’t matter. This isn’t the same woman who flirted with me in a cocktail dress; this is the woman who led her team to a championship, and damn if the authority doesn’t have me even more interested.

Does that bossiness carry over to the bedroom? My dick twitches at the prospect of Wesley in my bed on top of me. Apparently, I have a thing for women who are bossy. It just so happens that it’s the same woman who is now committed to not giving me the time of day.

Wyatt pretends to cough, snapping me out of it. Wesley’s glaring daggers at me, and considering the path my brain just traveled down, I deserve it.

I lower my head, tighten my shoelaces, and start my run.

The first four laps are a breeze. My cardio’s good, elite, even. I hit my stride, and my muscles loosen.

By lap eight, the burn has set in. The soccer field is a lot larger than the rink. As I finish, my lungs ache, and my calves are on fire. The obvious disadvantage of hockey? Our bursts are short. We specialize in explosive and controlled movements, not marathons.

The way she watches me the entire time tells me she knows it, too. She’s not smug exactly, but she is enjoying torturing me. The twinkle in her blue eyes gives her away.

I brace my hands on my hips and blow out a breath. Sweat is pouring down the back of my shirt, but Wesley doesn't give me a break.