Page 91 of With the Assist

“Seriously, why are we here? A fake boyfriend is one thing, but coming to his game feels real.”

“No.” I blurt out, cheeks flushing. “Not real, but an easy way to make it look real without actually having to put on much of an act. I like hockey. I watch it at home. I can watch it here while giving the reporters something to talk about.”

It’s the same reasoning that Nathan gave me for the two weeks he’s pestered me about coming. I couldn’t argue the logic, so here I sit, almost an hour before gametime, wondering what the rest of the night will entail.

We’re going out with his team after the game, knowing that pictures will be published to give our relationship more credibility. Who knew dating a famous athlete would be so easy to fake? We pose for a couple of viral photos and then can go our separate ways. Except tonight, I’m hoping we don’t go our separate ways at all.

It’s a bad idea, but one I’ve committed to. So with any luck, the plan for the night will include finishing what we started before the pizza interrupted us. I’ve been a ball of nerves thinking about it since he’s been gone. It felt so good, letting my guard down and letting him touch me the way I’ve been wanting but fighting.

But I haven’t been able to shake the nagging feeling that it felt too good. Too real.

I push those concerns down because, regardless of how dangerous this tension between us feels, I need to see it through. My friends are right, I deserve to have some noncommittal fun, and Nathan seems more than willing to help with that.

My mind flashes to his head between my legs, and my skin heats. The media has publicized so much of his romantic life, but even with the knowledge that he has an extensive dating background, I hadn’t expected him to be that good. Good enough that I’ve lain in bed every night thinking about it. It’s never been clearer how inadequate my vibrator really is.

I exhale slowly, letting my gaze wander to the rink to distract myself from the lack of control I have when I think about him.

The Blades’ colors gleam under the arena lights, the ice reflecting streaks of both shades of teal and gray like a frozen mirror. Players are starting to warm up, their skates scraping lightly against the icewhile their mascot, Razor the Raccoon, circles the outer edges, exciting the kids who run to the glass.

I catch a glimpse of Nathan exiting the tunnel wearing his number seventeen jersey. His hair is already wet with sweat, pushed out of his face, while he fidgets with something on his helmet. Something about seeing him here after being down there on the ice with him feels surreal.

My heart stops. What the hell am I doing here? Why can’t I get these feelings under control?

“Uh, Wes?” Harper eyes me carefully. “Are you okay?”

Her question breaks me out of my trance, but doesn't stop my anxiety spiraling faster by the second. I bolt out of my seat and make for the aisle. “Yeah. Just got to pee.”

It’s a lie. We all know it, but they don’t stop me. I fight the flow of traffic up the stairs and into the concourse, trying to calm my heart that's picking up speed.

My feet guide me in circles around the concourse, passing the same concessions three times before I’m calm enough to stop moving. Stress is no stranger to me. It constantly lingers right over my shoulder, waiting for me to feel too comfortable before making a reappearance. No matter how under control I might have things, the anxiety always finds a way to crash back into me at the most inconvenient times.

I talked to a doctor about it once, but she tried to get me to go to therapy. As if I needed someone to tell me what my issue is. I know my issue. I don’t allow myself to feel things. I block it all out until it sends my walls tumbling down and floods my nervous system. I know that.

Unless a therapist can pay the bills, lead a professional athletic team, or bring my mom back from the dead, there’s not much they can do about it. So, I cope. I run faster. I keep moving, pushing my walls back into place until my will is stronger than the anxiety trying to tear me down.

It usually works. But tonight, everything feels fragile, as if I’m balancing on the edge of a tightrope and falling is inevitable.

I watch the concourse flood with people before thinning back out as people make their way to their seats.

I should leave and take back my insane suggestion that we fool around for the duration of our fake fling. Clearly, it’s weighing on me enough to send me spiraling. It’s one of many signs that the whole thing is a bad idea.

I pull out my phone to cancel, scrolling to Nathan’s number.

“Wesley,” a voice calls out from behind me, and I turn to see Coach Bennett approaching.

Seeing her outside of soccer feels like seeing a teacher during summer break as a kid. Uncomfortable. She’s wearing Blades gear, and her husband trails behind her.

“Hey, Coach.” I fake an easy smile. “I didn’t know you were a Blades fan.”

It’s true. Other than knowing she’s one hell of a coach, I know next to nothing about her.

“Runs in the family,” She answers, gesturing to her husband, who might be more decked out than she is. “I would’ve thought you’d be in the family box, with the rest of the players' girlfriends.”

It’s not a question, but the skepticism written on her face is clear as day. I hate lying to her, but not enough to back down now.

“Nathan really wanted me to, but I love being in the thick of things. A part of the crowd. Avery’s down in the stands with me, too.” I nod generally toward my seat.

Her lips form a thin smile, one that says she thinks I’m full of shit. Anyone who has met me knows the last place I want to be is in the thick of things. Well, second to last place. The last place is in a box designed for very real, very significant wives and girlfriends.