Page 126 of With the Assist

The best part?

Wesley is tucked into my side. Her hip fits against mine, her arm sliding around me when someone bumps into us. Every time she laughs, she turns slightly toward me, as if I’m the anchor point that she checks in with before she floats away again.

I catch myself watching her more than I should, wondering if things have changed for her the way they have for me. She doesn’t seem to realize that she smiles differently now or that she laughs louder and more carefree. I like to pretend it’s because of me.

Both teams are here again, hers and mine mixing comfortably. A month ago, it would have been weird. Now, it feels normal. Becca is already halfway onto the dance floor, dragging Avery and one of ourrookies with her. Wyatt is arguing with one of Wesley’s defenders about which sport requires more conditioning and is losing badly. Someone from our second line is teaching Haley a terrible chant that is definitely going to get us fined if it ever makes it near a microphone.

I should feel watched, the way I usually do when I’m out in public. People have their phones out, sneaking pictures of us, and paparazzi linger outside waiting for us to leave. We’re on display. Except I can’t bring myself to care, not when Wesley’s thumb keeps brushing the inside of my wrist.

It’s a distracted habit of hers. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it. I do. I notice everything about her. The small habits and unconscious touches. The difference between her public smile and the one she reserves for me.

The last week runs through my head in snapshots instead of a timeline.

Memories of her laughing against my throat when we forgot the pasta boiling over or her body pinned between me and the door after our workout, while she’s grinning as if she scored a game-winner, haunt me at all times. My personal favorites are the quiet moments after, when she goes soft and traces circles on my arm as if charting new territory on a map.

We’ve told our friends it’s chemistry and convenience, but I stopped believing that after the third morning of waking up in each other's arms.

Avery steals Wesley away, but she looks back once and points at me like a warning to behave. I salute her with my drink. She laughs and disappears into the lights.

“You’re gone,” Grayson says beside me.

I glance over. “I’m right here.”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re physically present. Mentally, you’re writing poetry about your fake girlfriend.”

“I don’t write poetry.”

“Thank fuck” Wyatt says, clapping my shoulder. “It’d be awful. But you do have that look.”

“What look?” I take a long pull from my beer.

“The one when your eyes track her even when you think you aren’t.”

I shove him lightly. “You’re drunk.”

“Working on it,” he says proudly, then points toward the dance floor. “She’s got moves, by the way. You’re going to have to fight off half this bar at midnight.”

The thought stops me cold. A knot coiling tighter in my chest as I watch a man work up the nerve to approach her on the dance floor. My feet start to move before I can stop myself, but I only make it two steps before Wesley shakes her head and turns back to Avery. He gets the message and walks back to the edge of the dance floor, scoping out someone else to hit on.

Good.

I notice Liam smirk, but thankfully, he doesn’t say a word about it, instead letting the conversation shift to hockey.

We’re on a hot streak, having won every game in the past three weeks. I’ve been playing better, sure, but it’s not only me. Grayson has been steady on defense, and Liam has been on fire at center. Wyatt’s also heading towards the team record for most shutouts in a single season. If we keep it up, we’ll be a shoo-in to win the Cup.

The conversation is comforting, as we gossip about the other teams in our conference and the trades that will or won’t happen. It’s the first time all season that we can talk about trades without me feeling like I’ll be one. The relief has the weight lifting off my shoulders a bit.

With my contract looking better and her team’s party next week, I have no excuse to continue things with Wesley. Except that I just want to.

I lose track of the conversation, eyes scanning the bar until Wesley’s dark top and bright smile come into view.

“She’s good for you,” Liam says suddenly, voice quiet enough that only I can hear.

I look at him, setting my beer down on the table. “You base that on what?”

“You’re happy. Not in the bullshit way you’ve been the past couple of years, but actually.”

I don’t respond at first, trying to come up with a way to talk around it. I come up empty, and honestly, I really don’t want to talk my way out of it. Liam’s my oldest friend. If he can see it, maybe I should let myself be honest.