Page 20 of With the Assist

If I make the National Team, it changes everything.

I love playing professionally, I really do, but women’s salaries are minuscule compared to men’s despite the same effort and travel. I’m lucky to be paid as much as I am, but I can’t play soccer forever. I have to think ahead to make sure I’m set for life. But Dad’s medical bills and Emma’s tuition add up fast these days.

Men like Nathan Wilder don’t have this problem. His salary alone dwarfs mine, never mind the endorsement deals. He gets to live luxuriously and show up late to things with no repercussions.

My mind circles back to this field one week ago. Nathan had looked good in a suit, but in his teal Blades sweatshirt, dripping withsweat, he was completely distracting. I’d watched him far more than I was comfortable with. It was infuriating.

I ran them into the ground that day. To his credit, Nathan held up better than most. He was the first to score, even with his legs shaking. It was a decent shot too, not that I’d admit it. And that smile he wore afterward? Damn.

Then he had to open his mouth and ruin it. I mean, asking for my number was one thing, but implying that all he wanted was a hookup? It was confusing, then insulting, and maybe flattering?

A hookup with Boston’s most well-known and sexiest athlete would be a dream for most girls. It’s exactly why I refused to give him my number. He’s the kind of distraction that would be fun in the moment and a disaster afterward. I need focus, not flirtation.

The crunch of shoes on half-frozen turf catches my attention.

“Careful, Wesley. Don’t want the turf to miss you too much.”

I turn sharply to find Nathan Wilder with his sweatshirt half-zipped and his hockey bag slung over one shoulder. It’s as if my thoughts conjured him.

He’s interrupting my flow, but that does nothing to stop my insides from somersaulting. Especially not when he’s wearing one of his infuriatingly confident grins.

“Wilder,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Shouldn’t you be anywhere else?”

He shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite soccer captain. Make sure she’s still finding the back of the net.”

I raise a brow. “Only one of us seems to have that issue. And it’s not me.”

“You watched my game.”

“I like watching games with or without you in them.” I kick the ball back and forth between my feet. “Nice deflection from the fact that you missed an easy goal.”

I’m teasing, but a shadow passes over his face. Interesting. He’s still upset over it. I’d pegged him for the type of guy who skates by on minimal effort and raw talent.

“You got me.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “But you have to admit games are much better when I’m in them.”

“I’ll admit nothing.” I pop the ball up, juggling it back and forth between my feet in the air. “Except that you have an incredible ability to show up when I’m most focused and ruin it with your voice.”

“I call that good timing.”

“Or unrelenting arrogance?”

“Maybe both. Throw in a little delusion, too.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it.

“I’m still not giving you my number.” I pop the ball in his direction, and he catches it.

“That’s not why I’m here.” He runs his palm down his jaw, suddenly serious. “Well, I guess I am, but not the way you think. It’s something else.”

“Spit it out.” I snag the ball out of his hands, careful not to touch him. The last time we touched, it was days before I stopped feeling it.

“Right. I was hoping that maybe you could help me with some cross-training? Stuff like we did last time?”

I pause before unrestrained laughter bursts free from my mouth. Except he doesn’t even crack a smile. In fact, he looks like he wants to crawl into the nearest hole and never show his face again.

“No one’s ever hit on me before by asking me to exercise with them,” I say, catching my breath.

At that, his lips tilt up. “Not hitting on you, promise. It’s a serious question.”