Page 36 of With the Assist

“Will this,” I say, gesturing subtly between us, “mess anything up?”

“No,” he answers without hesitation as his food arrives. “But even if it did, I’d still do it.”

That shouldn’t cause a slow warmth to pool low in my stomach. But it absolutely does.

10

Nathan

By the time the food hits the table, I’ve already catalogued at least a dozen ways this could go sideways if I stop paying attention.

I’d asked Grayson if he knew of a good date place, considering he’s known for having long-term, stable relationships. Well, that and the man is literally always eating. Constantly. If there is a restaurant worth going to, he knows about it.

I’d kept things vague, telling Grayson I wanted to go somewhere new. He was suspicious, but luckily didn’t pry. His recommendation turned out great. Maybe even too great.

I haven’t told the guys about this whole fake-dating arrangement yet. Mostly because I don’t want to hear about it, but also because I know Wesley’s embarrassed.

A woman like her doesn’t ask for help often, and right now, she needs mine. The last thing I want to do is blast her panicked declaration to my entire hockey team and make this harder for her.

Wesley sits across from me with the sunlight catching in her hair. Her posture is relaxed in a way that still reads disciplined, like even her ease has been practiced.

When she’d answered the door in that dress, I practically had to pick my jaw up off the floor. I know for a fact that Avery probablydressed her, not because Wesley couldn’t pick something like this out herself, but because she wouldn’t.

Nothing about Wesley’s personality screams ‘I love to wear dresses on a Sunday afternoon’.

I thought about teasing her about it, but decided to let it slide. The last thing I want is to minimize how beautiful she looks today. And God, does she look gorgeous.

For the third time since we sat down, I remind myself that this is professional. I agreed to this because I need help trying some new workouts.

It has nothing to do with the way her mouth curves when she’s trying not to smile or how her eyes sharpen when she’s thinking three steps ahead of a question I’m still forming.

Her plate arrives first. She ordered salmon, probably operating off some sort of meal plan that she doesn’t need. I’d contemplated following suit, but the burger looked too damn good. Now that it’s in front of me, I have zero regrets.

“Okay,” she says, lifting her fork. “Now, we eat like normal people.”

I laugh under my breath. This lunch is somehow extremely awkward and comfortable at the same time. “I’m capable of that, you know.”

“I’ve seen how hockey players inhale food.”

“That’s fueling,” I counter, taking my first bite. “Very different.”

She hums, unconvinced, but smiles anyway.

We eat for a few minutes in silence, the kind that doesn’t feel like a test, just space to exist. It’s rare for me. Every interaction lately feels like a performance with someone expecting something, reading into how much I drink, who I leave with, and if it all might impact my game.

I can hardly escape a conversation without someone giving me their two cents about how I choose to live my life. My parents. My coach. Everyone has an opinion that I’m supposed to hear out. It’s exhausting. Here, no one is paying us any real attention, and if theyare, it’s exactly what we want them to see. And Wesley, she doesn’t seem to expect me to fit into some predetermined mold. It’s nice.

I wipe my hands on my napkin, keeping my tone light. “Baseline lunch assessment. How am I doing?”

Her eyes flick up, amused. “You haven’t said anything wildly incriminating yet.”

“Yet.”

“That’s promising.”

I notice her shoulders are more relaxed. “You seem less tense than earlier.”

“That’s because we’re not talking about contracts or captaincies or coaches right now.” She takes a sip of her sparkling water. “This feels easier.”