Page 31 of With the Assist

She glares at me.

“Oh, come on. I’m not going to specify that it’s fake every single time.” I switch into my casual shoes and shoulder my bag.

“Maybe Saturday. We can grab lunch or something?” She doesn’t look at me.

“Can’t. We have an away game stretch, starting tonight, until then. What about Sunday?”

“Fine.”

“You do know that the fake-date part of this arrangement is to help you, right?”

“Yes.” She looks at me warily.

“So, I think you meant to say: Thank you, Nathan.”

She huffs a laugh, lips twitching up despite the annoyed look on her face. “Nope. Definitely didn’t mean to say that.”

We walk wordlessly through the hall, our footsteps the only sound. Eventually, we make it to the parking lot, where only two cars sit. My Range Rover and a Hyundai Santa Fe that looks almost ten years old. Why would a professional athlete be driving that?

“Is that your car?” I point to the grey clunker.

She clicks the button on her keys, unlocking the car. “Yes. What about it?”

“Why are you driving that?”

“Not everyone wants something flashy like you.”

My Range Rover is pretty tricked out, but compared to my teammates, like Liam, for example, it could be worse.

“No, but everyone wants something that can pass an inspection.”

She doesn’t answer, and I know that I’ve crossed one of her lines.Her privacy is clearly sacred to her, and I just keep pushing right through her boundaries anyway.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t get it. You’re a professional athlete.”

Her laugh is loud and condescending. “I’m a woman. My entire team makes a fraction of what you alone make in a year.”

Oh. Fuck. I didn’t think about that. It never even crossed my mind. She’s clearly an elite athlete. I figured she got paid somewhere in my ballpark. I should’ve known better.

“I didn’t know.” I rub the five o’clock shadow on my jaw.

“No worries,” she says, but I can tell she’s embarrassed.

My foot practically lives in my mouth around this girl.

“Text me your address.”

“Why?” Her brows furrow.

The hesitancy is rolling off her in waves, but I ignore it.

“Because we have a date on Sunday.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“My girlfriend would never meet me there,” I argue. This is not debatable.

“I’m not your…”