Page 49 of With the Assist

We pull onto my street, which is quieter and darker than the rest of downtown. The familiarity settles me further. My unit comes into view, the porch light glowing softly in the night.

“And you? Did you play better?” I ask, knot forming as the question leaves my lips. He only agreed to this ridiculous arrangement to improve his game and rediscover his love for the sport. I’ve been trying to challenge him in new ways during our sessions, but the workouts aren’t groundbreaking. He could easily decide to do them alone without having to play into this charade.

“Yes. I did. I have been all week.” He pulls into the space outside my apartment. “Can I explain?”

I know he wants to talk about what happened. We should talk about it, but I don’t know what to say. So, instead of doing what’s reasonable, I burst out of the car and into my apartment. I’m a coward.

Inside, I pull on the outfit I’d laid out this morning when I was excited for tonight and not hesitant. Dark jeans and a black crop top. I’m ready in two minutes, but I hesitate in my bedroom.

My phone buzzes with a text from my sister.

Emma: Streamed your scrimmage tonight. Nice win! Are you coming home for Thanksgiving next week?

Me: Thanks, but I’m not sure I can make it.

Emma: Why?

Because going home hurts. Because I’m teetering on the line between responsibility and recklessness, and going home might push me over the edge. All things I wish I could say, but can’t.

Me: A lot of team responsibilities. Sorry.

Emma: So, it has nothing to do with THE Nathan Wilder telling everyone you’re his girlfriend.

Emma: I’m your sister! ESPN is not the place for me to find this out!!!

Fuck. The last thing I need is to explain this arrangement to my little sister.

Me: It’s not what it looks like. Please don’t tell Dad. And pretend you never saw that.

Three dots show up, but I’ve already been inside too long. I click my phone shut and slide it into my jeans. Emma’s guilt-trip can wait until I know what the hell to say.

As I head down the steps to the car, I realize I still don’t know how to act around him.

I didn’t want this kind of publicity. Maybe I should’ve expected it considering who he is, but I didn’t. I didn’t anticipate it at all, but none of it is his fault. I’m the one who came up with this whole story. He’s the one playing along.

A bubble of nerves rises in my chest when he’s in the same spot waiting for me.

“I’m sorry.” He says as I climb in. Then, his eyes focus on me, darkening. “Wow, you look great. Like really great.”

“Jaw off the floor, Wilder.” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. “And you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who lied about us dating in the first place.”

The car pulls away from the curb as he plugs in the address for The Blue Line, the bar my team frequents. I notice that it’s only a twenty-minute walk from my apartment. For years, I’ve been sitting at home while my team hangs out only a mile and a half from my apartment. Coach Bennett really is right.

“Yeah, but going on a couple of fake dates is different from announcing publicly that you’re my girlfriend.”

“It is.” I turn toward him, raising my eyebrows. “You could’ve said it wasn’t what it looked like.”

“I know.”

“You could have said it was just a date.”

“I know.”

“You could have said nothing at all.”

“I know,” he repeats, softer now. “But none of those answers make this believable or help you.”

The car slows as we hit a red light. For a second, the city feels suspended around us. I study his profile, noticing the faint bruise along his cheekbone from a rough hit last night. My heart jumped into my throat when I watched it happen.