Page 35 of With the Assist

The restaurant parking lot comes up quickly, and I blink. It’s the kind of place with warm lighting and polished wood and no ambiguity about its purpose. A date place. Fake date, I internally reiterate. Chosen for appearances. Nothing else.

He’s already out of the car by the time I reach for my door, holding it open with an expression that suggests this is simply how things are done. I swallow my instinctive protest and let it go.

Inside, we’re guided to a booth by the window with sunlight spilling across the table. The low hum of conversation wraps around us.

Once our drinks arrive, his beer and my sparkling water, I lift my menu like a shield. “We should probably come up with our story.”

He arches a brow, still scanning the menu. “Story?”

“You know, how we met. How long. The basics.”

He pauses, then sets the menu down, thoughtful. “Probably best to keep it close to the truth. We met at the awards ceremony and started dating right after.”

“Where was our first date?” I ask, the word date catching in my throat despite myself. “And who asked who?”

“I asked you. No one would buy it the other way around.” His smile widens as I order the salmon and rice, like my entree proves his point. “And our first date was here.”

I choke on my water as logic and something softer collide beneath my ribs. It makes sense to stick close to the truth, but it also makes today feel more real than I expected.

He watches me with careful attention, amusement tucked beneath the surface.

“Aren’t you worried this will mess up your image?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

He leans back, crossing his arms. “No.”

“Ladies’ man Wilder. The city’s most eligible bachelor.” I gesture vaguely, quoting headlines I’ve read too many times. “A girlfriend doesn’t exactly fit the narrative.”

His shoulders drop. “I know what they say.”

“I’m just saying,” I add when the waiter passes, refilling glasses, “it doesn’t seem on brand.”

“I’m not a brand,” he cuts in, sharper now. “I’m a person. Even if everyone forgets that.”

The frustration in his voice makes my heart sink.

“Most of those photos are of Liam,” he continues, calmer but no less honest. “I play wingman more than anything. Most nights end with me calling someone an Uber and going home alone.”

“I didn’t mean to assume.”

He exhales. “I know.”

But it still sits wrong, the ease with which I let someone else define him.

“So,” I ask after a moment, “you don’t actually hook up with that many women?”

He shakes his head. “Not even close. Occasionally, I date, sure, but nothing serious. My travel schedule scares most people off, and the ones who aren’t scared usually want something other than just me.”

“Oh.”

It sounds kind of sad. I might not open myself up to relationships, but if I wanted to, I’d never have to wonder if they were in it for the right reasons. Never quite knowing if someone wants you or just your fame or money would be exhausting.

Nathan leans back in his chair, arms resting on the table casually. Anyone walking by would think it’s normal, but I can see the hint of sadness behind the glint in his eyes. I can see the way his jaw twitchesas he thinks about the women who have walked into his life only to use him and then walk back out.

Am I doing the same thing? I might be honest about my intentions with this charade, but that doesn’t mean I’m not just another person using him.

“I always thought it was bullshit that I work as hard as other professional athletes only to get a fraction of the recognition,” I explain, smiling despite myself. “But that kind of attention actually sounds awful.”

He grins, the tension easing. “It is. There’s this version of me everyone expects all the time. My team. The media. My parents. No one’s ever happy.”