Page 32 of With the Assist

“Until your team party, you're my girlfriend. At least in appearances, which means you’re getting treated as such.”

Either she thinks I’d be an awful boyfriend in real life, the kind who wouldn’t even pick her up for a date, or she hasn’t dated anyone in far too long. The way her foot is tapping a mile a minute leads me to believe the latter.

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m picking you up. End of story. Text me your address. Now, Wesley.”

“I can later.”

I wave my phone at her, and she sighs. “I’m not leaving until your address is in my phone.”

There is no way I’m letting her leave without it. Not when she could make up some excuse later to keep it from me. If we are doing this, we’re doing it right.

“Fine.” She sets her bag down in front of me, dropping to her knee to pull out her phone. “Here. See? Address sent,” she says while typing.

I should be paying attention to her words and the text dinging through my phone, but instead I’m acutely aware of her proximity, the way her scent is mixed with sweat, the taut line of muscle in her calves, and the curve of her neck. The realization hits me like a jolt: she’s on her knees in front of me, and I’m getting hard.

I take a sharp breath, forcing myself to step back and shake out my shoulders. My mind struggles to refocus, but the tension lingers, delicious and maddening. She doesn’t notice, or at least she doesn’t comment, and I shove my awareness into checking my phone.

Maybe I find her attractive. Okay, I definitely find her attractive, but that doesn't matter. Just like it doesn’t matter how much I enjoy teasing her, or how she taps her hands against her legs when she’s flustered. None of these things matter because I don’t want it to go anywhere, and neither does she.

It would complicate everything. Besides, just because we have physical chemistry doesn’t mean we should hop into bed, even if it would be so fucking good.

My sole priority is using these workout sessions to my advantage. Risking my contract over a girl would be next-level stupid. Two months of fake dating and working out together, then we go our separate ways.

Now, if I could get my body to remember that and keep my head in the game.

9

Wesley

Avery is the only person I know who treats getting ready like a competitive sport. In fact, she might take it more seriously than she takes soccer.

At the moment, she’s tearing through my closet like a natural disaster, sending clothes flying in every direction as she hums under her breath. Her perfectly manicured nails flick hangers aside with ruthless efficiency.

I sit on the edge of my bed in the outfit I’d selected earlier, picking my cuticles and watching the destruction unfold. It’s jeans and a t-shirt. After all, it’s lunch, not the Oscars.

“No. No. Absolutely not,” Avery declares, spinning toward me mid-rampage. “You’re not wearing black.”

Before I can protest, she’s already tugging my shirt over my head with a concerning amount of force, and I don’t bother resisting. I don’t have the mental bandwidth. My thoughts are spiraling too fast, looping back on themselves in a way that feels dangerously close to nerves. Instead, I let her manhandle me while I stare at the floor.

“I like black,” I mutter.

“Yes, and today you need to look like a woman going on a date,” she says, already reaching for another hanger, “with her very new and very hot boyfriend.”

“It’s not a real date,” I remind her, the words have a permanent place in my brain.

She pauses to level me with a look that could peel paint. “Fake or not, you’re going to a restaurant with a hot hockey player who agreed to spend his free time helping save your captaincy. Humor me and put in a bare minimum of effort.”

“This is business,” I insist, though even to my own ears it sounds thin, like I’m trying to convince myself as much as her. “We’re saving each other's asses with our coaches. Today is part of the strategy.”

Avery snorts, “And I only watch Love is Blind for sociological research.”

I bite down on the smile threatening to give me away.

She holds up a soft blue sweater dress. It’s cut simply, but flattering, with long sleeves and a hem that falls right above the knee. It’s feminine without trying too hard, which somehow makes my nerves pick up.

“No,” I say immediately, even as my stomach flips with pesky butterflies that won’t die no matter how hard I try to kill them.