Page 69 of With the Assist

We unlace our skates in near silence.

She slings her bag over her shoulder and starts toward the tunnel without looking back. The distance she creates feels deliberate, as if putting us back where we belong.

I let her take three steps.

Then, “Hey,” I say.

She stops, turning halfway toward me.

“We should probably figure out when we need to be seen together again.” I try to meet her eyes, but she won’t let me. “You know, another public date.”

She hesitates. “Not this week.”

The answer shouldn’t sting, but it does.

“Okay,” I say, even though every part of me wants to argue. It hasn’t even been a week since our last one, but it already feels like too long. “That works.”

Fake dating is her domain. I’m only there to help her sell it when she needs to.

She nods, relief flashing across her face. “I know you have leave for an away trip Saturday, and since tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, we can plan to meet when you get back?”

“When we get back,” I confirm.

She gives me a small smile, then turns and walks away.

I watch her go, shoving my hands into my pockets. My head is spinning with everything I didn’t say and almost did.

But standing there alone, I know the truth. She’s said it from the beginning.

She might find me attractive, and there might be tension, but she doesn’t want me the way I’m starting to want her. I have to figure out how to stop wanting her anyway.

19

Wesley

You’re late,” Avery says, though the accusation lacks any real frustration.

She’s already claimed her seat when Harper and I arrive. Her leather jacket is draped over the back of the booth, and a half-empty basket of chips sits between two sweating margarita glasses. It’s clear evidence that she did not wait patiently.

“You said seven-ish.” I shrug out of my jacket. “This is still ish.”

Girls’ night is always a reminder of who I am when no one is watching my performance metrics or dissecting my choices, when the only expectations for me are the ones I place on myself. Tonight, tucked into a corner booth at a loud Mexican restaurant with chipped tile floors and walls painted in sun-faded reds and yellows, it feels especially necessary.

Harper laughs as she settles beside me. “Must be serious if you’re anxious, Ave.”

Avery wipes her hands on a napkin. “I have things to discuss.”

“That feels ominous.” I reach for a chip.

Avery takes another sip of her drink, sliding the second margarita to Harper. “Did you see the article about the friendly match in Lisbon?”

Harper groans.

I have seen it. The headline alone was enough to make my knee hurt. As soon as I saw the title, I closed the app and shoved my phone face down onto the counter, as if avoiding the details would protect me from the harsh reality that comes with being a professional athlete.

“It was her third ACL,” Avery continues, her voice lowering as if volume alone might soften the blow. “Same knee. Non-contact injury.”

The table goes quiet in that way only athletes can really understand. It’s the collective pause that comes when you realize how quickly the sport we love can be taken away.