Page 45 of With the Assist

“Fine. I’ll do my best to behave, but it’s not my fault if one of them hits on me.”

I whip my towel at him, “It’s never your fault when you wind up in someone’s bed.”

He quirks a brow. “What’s a man to do, really?”

Wyatt decides to jump on Liam’s train. “Yeah, Wilder, not everyone just stumbles into fake relationships.”

I flip them both off, turning toward the tunnel. As I file into the cluster of players waiting for our coach's speech, one thought loops relentlessly through my head.

My friends are crashing my second fake date tonight. The date with the woman who is now publicly mine.

I told the world she’s my girlfriend.

And the woman who likes control and planning is about to be blindsided.

12

Wesley

The locker room hums with post-scrimmage energy. Adrenaline crackles, and every voice sounds loud and bright, the way it only does after a win. The excitement is earned. It may have been a friendly match, but we kicked ass. It’s good to know that even though the season is over, we’re still sharp.

Sweat cools on my skin as I sit on the bench, sliding my shin guards free. My legs are heavy, and my muscles are buzzing with the satisfying ache of a night well played.

The final score was three to one, and I put up a goal and an assist. It was the kind of performance that lingers, quieting the part of my brain that always seems to race toward what's next.

Avery drops onto the bench beside me, tugging the braid from her fiery hair. Her eyes are lit with the adrenaline she thrives on. “You were on fire,” she says, nudging my shoulder. “That breakaway in the second half, straight through the center? I don’t think they even saw you until it was over.”

“It was the opening,” I say, bending to unlace my cleats. “They overcommitted.”

Becca laughs from two lockers down, a towel slung around her neck. “As if you didn’t absolutely cook their back line.”

“I did not cook anyone,” I argue, even as my mouth curves.

“You even smiled when you scored,” Haley adds from across the room, stuffing gear back into her locker. “That’s a celebration for you.”

The room erupts into overlapping voices.

I lean back against the cool metal, letting the noise wash over me, the weight of the week loosening its grip. I played well. I know I did. There’s comfort in that, especially after the last few days, which have felt anything but comfortable.

I had two training sessions with Nathan. He’d been early both times with two coffees in hand, focused in a way that made it clear he was taking this seriously. No flirting. No boundary testing. Just effort, attention, and a willingness to be corrected without ego.

I matched him step for step because I said I would, and because working out with someone stronger, faster, and as driven as I was felt electric. It pushed me to be better.

I refused to let him see me tired, even when I soaked in ice baths afterward to stop my legs from shaking. These workouts were helping me just as much, if not more than, they were helping him.

Still, no matter how hard I tried to stay focused, I couldn’t stop noticing things I shouldn't have. Like the way he locks in when I challenge him or how he absorbs feedback as if he actually wants it. Conditioning with him was feeling less like an obligation and more like something to look forward to.

And then there was last Sunday.

Lunch that slipped past polite and into friendly, in a way I hadn’t expected. The laughter surprised me. I didn’t check my watch once.

If Avery asked me right now, when I’d last had actual fun, I wouldn’t have to think, because the answer would be that day. Nathan might be the hockey player, but I’m the one skating on thin ice.

I shower, taking my time to rinse the sweat from my skin, my nerves buzzing with anticipation for the night ahead.

When I finally return to my locker, I catch Avery watching me from the corner of her eye, a knowing smile already forming. “Doesa certain hockey player have anything to do with why you’ve brushed your hair for five minutes?” She asks.

My eyes narrow, but Haley beats me to it.