Page 88 of With the Assist

But even if it doesn’t, I’m more than okay with only hanging out.

It had been surprisingly fun to eat pizza and watch an international soccer match while Wesley ranted about the bad officiating. I hadn’t understood a damn thing, but watching Wesley get animated about it was more than enough.

I’ve spent the past two weeks watching every soccer game I could find on TV to hold me over until I’d see her again. By now, I’m even starting to understand it.

So yeah, whether tonight includes benefits or not doesn’t really matter to me, as long as it includes Wesley.

I shake my head and step back under the bar for my next set, grounding myself in routine. Lift. Breathe. Control the descent. Explode upward. This is what I should be focusing on.

“Hat trick hero.”

I glance up to find Liam grinning at me from the next rack over. He’s already sweating, towel draped over his shoulder and water in tow.

“Thursday night,” he continues. “Three goals against the defending conference champs. You’re playing the best hockey I’ve seen out of you in years.”

“Stats don’t lie,” Grayson adds, coming up behind him. “You’re on fire.”

I shrug, but can’t stop the smile. “Just doing my job.”

Wyatt snorts. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the Pope.”

I rack the bar and sit down, grabbing my water. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Liam lowers his voice, leaning closer like he’s about to share state secrets. “Means you’re getting laid.”

I shake my head and point at him. “You don’t know anything.”

“Oh, we know,” Liam says easily. “We all got kicked out of your apartment. That’s not exactly subtle.”

“That was unrelated,” I say flatly, even as heat creeps up the back of my neck. The mention of that night drags every sensation back to the surface. Her breath. Her hands. The way she sounded when she came with my name on her lips.

I step back under the bar before they can push further.

“Sure it was,” Wyatt mutters.

I don’t take the bait. I’ve learned better. Instead, I focus on my next set, jaw tight, refusing to give them anything. They can speculate all they want. Wesley is not up for group discussion.

Still, I can feel my grin creeping back in, uninvited.

“Who’ve we got tonight again?” Wyatt asks, loading plates onto his bar.

“Chicago,” Liam answers without looking up. “It’s the second half of their road swing.”

I grimace. “They’ve been chippy lately.”

“Chippy is generous,” Grayson says. “They’re pissed after losing three straight.”

Chicago plays heavy. Every shift against them feels like a tax you pay with your body, especially along the boards. They walk the line between physical and reckless. When they’re frustrated, their sticks get lazy, and they’ll be frustrated tonight.

Liam nods toward me. “You still on the left?”

“Yeah. Coach wants to keep the line intact.”

“And you’re killing it there,” Grayson adds. “Took you long enough to admit it fits.”

I roll my shoulders again, stretching out lingering tension. I fought the switch at first. Left wing isn’t where I’ve built my instincts, but after seven games, it feels natural with more time to read the play instead of forcing it.

“Feels good,” I admit. “Opens up the ice a bit.”