Page 30 of With the Assist

“I’m in.”

“Really? Thank God.”

She launches herself at me. I wrap my arms around her way too eagerly without thinking. It’s like she’s made to fit right here, and it feels way too good. She pulls back when she realizes what she just did, smoothing her jacket back into place. She puts space between us. I let her. Because professionalism.

My body hates me for it.

“Strictly professional. I’ll help you cross-train, and you’ll help me prove I have a life outside of soccer.” Her eyes flash in a way that’s equal parts warning and challenge, and I wink.

“Of course. Professional,” I echo.

“Are you ready to work out, then?” She asks, shedding her anxiety and stepping into sport mode.

It’s the first time she’s been comfortable since getting here.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She rolls her shoulders, adjusts her stance, and we fall into the rhythm of exercise.

We stretch, mostly familiar ones with a couple that pull on muscles I’ve never thought of. Then, we run three miles instead of two like last time, but her pace is just as aggressive.

Our breaths fog the air in synchronized bursts. Muscles I never use for this length of time burn. She moves with relentless purpose, and I try to keep up.

If anyone thinks women aren’t as athletic as men, they need to meet Wesley. She’s an endless well of energy and effort. The fact that I didn’t know who she was until a couple of weeks ago is a damn shame. I make a mental note to watch more women’s sports.

An hour in, I’m less eager when we do agility drills. She says they’re soccer-specific, but they seem more like foreign torture tactics. I follow her through them anyway. More than once, I feel her eyes on me, but every time I glance, they’re focused on her feet.

I’d rather do the Gauntlet and let my team slam me into the boards repeatedly than do this multiple times every week, but I asked for this. I’m not a quitter, but I am a complainer. So even though Wesley’s quiet, I chirp away, coming up with different ways to describe the hell she’s putting me through.

After what feels like hours, she finally calls a pause, wiping her brow. “Alright. That’s enough for today.”

I shake my head, still buzzing with energy. “We can keep going.”

“You’ve been bitching the entire time.”

I gasp. “I don’t bitch.”

“Yes, you do. And whine. And moan. And groan.”

I smirk, sweat dripping down my cheek. “You’re right, I do do that.”

“Fuck off, Wilder.” She sighs, exasperated with my antics.

I shake my hair, sending a few stray drops of sweat in her direction.

Like she always does, she steers the conversation back within our boundaries. “Let’s not push it. You were dead on your feet last time.”

“I’m a little more motivated now.” I sigh, taking a sip of my water.

“Do you really think this is going to help with your game?”

“I have to think that,” I admit. “I’m out of ideas otherwise.”

She hauls her bag over her shoulder and nods for me to follow. “I hope it does.”

I can tell she means it. It’s nice to have someone new in my corner, rooting for me, even if it is only because of an arrangement.

“When’s our first date?”