Page 40 of With the Assist

“And now? Someone could be lurking, wondering if this is fake.”

I lean closer to her, feeling her breath against my lips.

We pause, lips only inches from each other. Then, right before I do something extremely stupid, she turns.

Her lips brush against my ear. “Then let them talk.”

And then she’s gone, pushing past me and smiling like she knows exactly what she’s done to me.

“Don’t be late Tuesday,” she calls.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I groan, watching her walk away and forcing myself not to chase after her.

Once she’s inside, I toss my head back against my car, letting out the breath I’d been holding. Fuck.

Friday.

Only a few days until I can pretend she’s mine again.

Spending two months with her platonically is going to be a test of my willpower. A test I’m not sure I’ll pass.

11

Nathan

The rink is quieter than it will be in an hour. It’s the kind of quiet that only exists before a game, when blades have yet to cut the ice, and the air still feels clean. Last night we managed a win, so hopefully, we'll pull through again tonight. But for now, everything is still untouched by expectation.

I like this part best.

My headphones are in, and the music is low enough that I can still hear the scrape of my skates and the echo of voices somewhere down the tunnel. I move through my warmup more out of habit than intention, stretching muscles that already know what’s coming and loosening joints that don’t need the reminder. My body’s locked into routine while my mind refuses to stay where it belongs.

Because it keeps drifting back to her.

Wesley.

At lunch, we’d been casual and familiar, but our workout sessions were different.

We’d convened at seven a.m. sharp on Tuesday and Thursday. She’d been exactly what she promised. Professional and focused. There were no lingering touches or teasing glances, just quietinstruction delivered with the same calm authority she brings to everything else. It was as if Sunday’s lunch never happened.

I matched her energy because I said I would, because I told her I’d make this easy, and because I don’t want to be the guy who proves her caution right.

Still, it wasn’t easy at all.

Not when I caught myself noticing how she shifts her weight when she demonstrates a drill, or how her voice changes slightly when she pushes me harder. I left each session feeling wrung out in ways that have nothing to do with the muscles I don’t normally use.

She never once let her gaze linger anywhere it shouldn’t. It’s like there are infinite Wesleys and every single one is tempting in a different way. I’m hooked on trying to figure out which version I have in front of me every time we’re together.

It’s becoming a problem. I don’t do this. I don’t like women who are completely uninterested in me. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I really liked a woman at all. At least not enough to be thinking about them when my mind should be focused on my game in a couple of hours.

I check my phone again, even though I already know there won’t be anything new.

Our text thread is short and painfully well-behaved.

I tried flirting, lightly at first, then bolder, but backed off when she responded with scheduling confirmations and eventually nothing at all. Rationally, I know that she ignored me today because she has her own scrimmage tonight that she’s warming up for. Focus, for her, is sacred, and she doesn’t break it lightly.

Even with the less-than-promising text chain, I’m looking forward to tonight.

We’re going out with her team. We’re supposed to be seen together as a couple. I get to be less careful and pretend she’s mine. That thought alone sends a restless spark through me that I can’t quite shake.