Page 157 of With the Assist

I glide toward the boards for warmups, the puck snapping off my stick, drowning out everything else. I catch a pass and wind up for a shot. I lift the stick, aim, and miss. The puck slides way too wide, clattering against the boards.

“Get in the fucking game, Wilder,” Grayson shouts, his eyes cutting into me like lasers. His patience for me has run out, and I don’t blame him. None of my bullshit has a place here.

I skate back to position, muscles coming to life the more I move. Warmups blur together as a sequence of passes, slap shots, and defensive drills, each one pushing me deeper into the zone. My head might be pounding, my stomach queasy, but my body knows what to do.

Next is the flashy team introductions. The crowd is loud. The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, each player’s name drawing cheers from the stands. I skate to center ice, stick in hand, feeling the weight of the pads and the familiarity of the jersey against my skin. The lights glare down. This is where I belong.

Right before the whistle blows, I let my mind wander one last time, before I lock in completely. My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the one person I know I won’t find.

Wesley’s the invisible constant in the background. She’s the silent motivator and complication all at once. Every decision, every push, and every extra drill started with her. And now? My contract’s renewing, the team has decided to take another chance on me, and she won’t even know.

I’d like to think she’d be happy for me. If anyone understands how much hockey means to me, it’s her. She gets it because soccer means just as much to her.

That’s why I can’t blame her for her choice. I can be mad. I can be hurt. I wish things were different constantly, but I can’t blame her. Because the commitment and drive she has to ensure she reaches her goals is what drew me to her from the get-go. She wouldn’t be Wesley without it. I just wish she could be that Wesley with me.

I skate to the circle, my legs coiled and ready. When the puck drops, we win it clean. I pass to the center and immediately start tracking back on defense. The game breathes around me, the rush of the crowd and the slap of sticks setting every nerve ending on fire.

I move like I always do when I’m locked in, reading the play before it unfolds and anticipating passes. There’s a streak of adrenaline that runs from my shoulders down my legs. It’s a brutal joy that nothing else compares to. I make a give-and-go at the blue line, backhand a rebound to the slot, and see Liam slam it in. The bench erupts. I smile, just for a second, because the satisfaction is immediate.

The opposing team’s center comes in fast. I square up, anticipating a pass, and force him wide. My skates carve arcs in the ice. Every hit I take, every puck I block, fuels me further. The pounding in my head from last night recedes into the background.

Fifteen minutes in, we’re trading chances with the other team, neither side giving ground. I’ve already logged more minutes than usual, pushing to show Coach I’m deserving of the chance he’s giving me.

I get the puck in neutral ice, see a gap, and surge forward. There’s an opening near the slot. I rush forward with speed, ice flying beneath my blades. My heart races in a satisfying rhythm. I lift my stick, ready to snap it toward the net, but from the corner of my eye, a shoulder comes in too hard. And too damn fast.

The collision hits me like a freight train. Air leaves my lungs in a sharp, punishing exhale I can’t control. The world tilts violently. My knees buckle, my stick slams against the ice, useless. Pain flashes across my shoulder, exploding into my skull. I try to brace or push myself upright, but gravity has other plans.

The lights above blur, the crowd noise distorts, and a high-pitched ringing takes over everything. My vision narrows and then fades. The cold ice bites at me through my pads. My helmet digs into the surface.

I’m aware of the whistle, players yelling, and skates skidding to a halt nearby. A voice shouts something, maybe Grayson or maybe the ref, but it’s distant.

Then it all goes black.

43

Wesley

The locker room is loud, a combination of anticipation for our last scrimmage before the season starts and excitement over the warmer weather. I’m perched on the edge of the bench with a towel draped across my shoulders. Avery’s voice cuts through the room like it always does, impossible to ignore.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I swear.”

Becca snorts. “You? The queen of debriefing us on your sexual exploits, suddenly has none?”

Haley laughs, leaning against the lockers with arms crossed. “Suspicious. What are you hiding, Avery?”

“I’m not hiding anything.” Avery protests, flopping back onto the bench. “It’s not my fault that there are no guys in all of Boston that can keep me entertained.”

Haley and Becca laugh, but there is a glint of something in Avery’s eyes. There is a twitch in her voice that masks something she doesn’t want to say.

I want to say something, push her the way Harper would if she were here, but I keep my mouth shut. Pushing her will prompt her to push me right back, pulling on the thread that is still too painful to address.

So, I nod along politely listening. My fingers fidget with the wrap that I use to keep my shin guards on, wrapping it tightly around my leg.

They all wonder what happened outside the bar during Becca’s birthday, but I can’t bring myself to say a word about it.

I’d spent the entire night pretending to be unaffected by Nathan’s presence. It wasn’t until I was faced with the reality that he could be with someone else that I broke. Nothing about the night was as painful as the look on his face.

He said he fell in love with me, and then, he said it was a mistake. I deserved it. He should never forgive me. Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d ever forgive myself.