Page 34 of With the Assist

“That has got to be tough.”

“Yeah, especially because it seems like hockey may be one of the few things he’s serious about.”

A knock sounds at the door.

My entire body freezes while my pulse picks up to a frantic pace.

Avery steps behind me and physically shoves me down the hall before disappearing entirely. I take a breath and pull the door open, finding Nathan on the other side with his hands tucked into his coat pockets.

He’s dressed simply in dark jeans and a black Henley, somehow still oozing sex appeal. Everything about him, from his perfectly messy hair and confident stance, screams effortless.

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering a fraction of a second, something shifting there before he schools it away.

“You look nice,” he says easily. “Really nice.”

“Thanks.” I’m carefully neutral, ignoring the warmth flickering low in my gut.

The car smells faintly of clean laundry from an air freshener, the windows fogging from the heater to blur the city as we pull away. Fora few quiet seconds, neither of us tries to fill the space. The silence stretches, more curious than uncomfortable.

“This is weird.” He’s drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while we sit at a red light.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Very.”

“I don’t know how to act on a date that isn’t a date.”

I watch the traffic crawl past us, headlights reflecting off damp pavement. “Friends get lunch all the time.” The word friend settles oddly in my mouth.

His eyes search my face. “Is that what we are?”

“Yes,” I answer, then tease, “Just out of order.”

The sound of his laugh eases something in the car and in me. “Friends works for me.”

I can be friends with Nathan. Honestly, he isn’t as bad as I’d thought he’d be. His jokes are even sort of funny, not that I’d ever let him know that. So yes, we can be friends. Just friends.

We merge onto the highway with the skyline rising ahead. The glass and steel catch the pale winter sun, making the city look tired and busy in a way that steadies me.

“So,” I say after a moment, mostly to break the silence, “rough game last night?”

He shrugs, eyes focused on the road. “Lost in overtime, which sucks. Houston’s fans are pretty brutal when we play there, too. But this time the loss wasn’t fully on me, so I’m calling it a personal win.”

“Your stats aren’t that bad.”

He smiles, brief but real. “They pay me too much for me to have average stats.” His thumb taps along to the music, then stills. “How would you know my stats?”

“I told you I watch games.” I smooth the hem of my dress, my hair sliding over my shoulder and falling into my face, giving me a convenient excuse not to look at him.

“That’s a little more than just watching.”

My heart kicks up, betraying me. I told myself it was necessary research, but we both know that no one is going to quiz me on his scoring average.

“Hey,” he says, gentle enough that I look up despite myself. His hand lifts without urgency, brushing my hair behind my ear so he can see me, his fingers linger long enough to feel intentional. “It’s okay. I looked you up, too.”

“Really?” My hands go still in my lap as something in my chest loosens, then tightens again when his hand drops away.

“Yeah. I needed to know how badass my girlfriend is. Turns out, very.”

I laugh, a little breathless, my gaze staying on him a beat while he focuses on the road. Every time I think I have a grasp on him, I realize I’m only scratching the surface.