Page 61 of With the Assist

Me: Wouldn’t you like to know…

Nathan: Yes, actually. I really fucking would.

Me: Not a chance, Wilder.

There is another pause, and I can picture him contemplating whether he wants to push my boundaries further. My stomach sinks just a little when he doesn’t.

Nathan: See you tomorrow at seven.

Me: I’ll be there.

I had come home to clear my head, but it’s more jumbled than ever. I can’t hide here forever, though. Besides, we have another friendly match coming up, and I need to be there for my team.

Who cares if staying professional with Nathan is harder than expected? Difficulty has never stopped me before, and it won’t now.

I make it through the rest of the day without thinking about him. Sure, it’s only because I decided to kill myself, scrubbing the house from top to bottom. The floorboards won’t clean themselves.

By the time Emma drives me to the airport, I’m exhausted. My joints ache from being hunched over and scrubbing so badly that I decide to count it as my workout for the day.

It’s only once I get on my flight home that I let myself think about him. Thirty seconds to let my reckless thoughts run wild before I pack them up for good.

My mind flashes to the way he had looked at me across the bar like he was seeing something he didn’t want to look away from. His kiss had felt like an answer to a question I’ve avoided asking.

Thirty more seconds, I promise myself. Thirty seconds to get it together. Thirty seconds to remember who I am and what’s important.

But those thirty seconds end, and I can’t shut it down the way I usually do.

16

Nathan

I’ve counted the days. Five. Five days since the bar and the night that was supposed to be ‘fake’, but somehow wasn’t. Five days since I kissed her, her lips pressing into mine, making my brain go entirely offline. And five days since she retreated into the kind of silence that makes me wonder if she’s going to call it all off.

Her trip home seemed conveniently scheduled, but maybe that’s my high hopes talking. She’s good at boundaries and compartmentalizing, so it’s probably a coincidence. There’s no way she’s affected the way I am.

It shouldn’t have affected me at all. I’ve been kissed plenty. Yet, here I am, pacing in front of the stadium before seven in the morning, the frost biting at my nose and my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.

I hadn’t planned to come here yesterday by myself, but when I woke up before my alarm, staying away seemed useless. Our workouts over the past couple of weeks are some of the only times my mind quiets. And so, without Wesley, I ran through the drills she’s had me practicing.

It wasn’t the same, and I didn’t enjoy it nearly enough, but it was better than nothing. Plus, it distracted me from the endless calls from my parents.

I’m avoiding them, especially considering they’re only reaching out because they think I have a girlfriend. It grates on my nerves that they have the audacity to call me nonstop about this, when they haven’t reached out once since the season started. They live twenty minutes away and haven’t once come to a game. So yeah, explaining my nonrelationship with Wesley to them isn’t going to happen. Ever.

If they aren’t willing to hear about hockey, then they don’t need to hear about anything else as far as I’m concerned.

Unfortunately for them, I kicked ass on Monday night. It was like I was my old self on the ice, making all the right moves at exactly the right times.

Actually, I’ve played well in all my recent games. They’d been fun. I wasn’t feeling the pressure or the same going-through-the-motion pangs I’d been battling for a while. Instead, I was feeling alive, like every push of my blades was new and exciting.

The same way I feel here with her.

My feet create an obvious path in the wet turf as I start getting anxious for her to show up. Every part of my body screams that I’m in too deep. When she finally appears, moving through the gate with slow, measured steps, I know that it’s not just my body that’s in too deep.

Still, I can’t help noticing every detail. The braided ponytail that swings with each step, the tightness of her sweatshirt clinging to her shape, and her eyes flicking to me while pretending to scan the field.

I take a couple of steps in her direction before forcing my feet to stop. What the hell am I doing? Five days of absence, and I’m unraveling as if I can’t function without seeing her. I am Nathan Wilder. I am not desperate. Especially not after a single kiss.

A fake kiss. It was fake.