Page 96 of With the Assist

Sure, I started training with her because I thought mixing up my exercises would bring some excitement back into things, but that can’t be the only reason I’m performing better. Can it?

The thought worms its way in anyway, unwelcome and persistent.

My head feels clearer when she’s around, whether we’re doing ladder drills, ice skating in a dim rink, or eating pizza on my couch. It’s nice when there’s someone waiting for me outside of this place besides my empty apartment.

Is that because of Wesley, or my own self-doubt and loneliness? Do I really feel anything for her, or is my excitement for hockey blurring lines that are too crossed to decipher?

Silent curses ring out in my head, directed at my coach for planting seeds of doubt that I don’t want to face.

I think about her in the stands, about the way she looked when I scored, the way she ranted about soccer on my couch as if it mattered more than anything. The way she pushes me, challenges me, and has no expectations.

It doesn’t feel fake when she laughs with me. It doesn’t feel like a distraction when I’m thinking about her between shifts. If anything, it feels grounding.

And yet.

This will end. She’s made it abundantly clear. Even if she hadn’t, whatever this is doesn’t align with either of our lives.

I finish changing slowly, thoughts looping and doubts creeping in where confidence used to sit. I remind myself that I’ve worked for this. I earned this position through decades of effort. No one can take credit for my performance other than me.

Still, the questions linger.

I grab my bag and head toward the exit. The warm air of the hallway hits me as soon as the door swings open. Players gather around with their families. Normally, I rush through this space, knowing that my family is at home thirty minutes away and not here. Never here.

This time, my eyes scan the area until I find her.

Wesley is leaning against the wall in her painted-on jeans with her hair cascading down past her shoulders. She looks up when she sees me, nerves flickering across her face before she smiles.

All of my doubts go quiet.

For a moment, everything steadies. The contract. The game. The future. It’s all out of my control. I performed on the ice tonight. That’s what counts. Well, that and that she’s here, waiting for me.

Whether that’s good for my hockey game or not is something I can’t quite bring myself to care about, not when she’s walking toward me.

26

Wesley

I’ll never admit it out loud, but going out with Nathan’s team is fun. The Blue Line is loud with everyone celebrating the Blades’ win. Too many bodies are packed together, and the undercurrent of adrenaline hasn’t burned off yet.

The whole team is still buzzing from the shutout, and it shows. Jerseys have been traded for button-downs and hoodies, but it’s still obvious who the players are.

Nathan’s teammates have taken over two couches and a standing table near the back, beer bottles lining the edge like trophies. Someone is replaying highlights on a phone. Someone else is shouting about missed calls that don’t even matter because they won.

I’m wedged between Nathan and Avery on one of the couches. Harpers perched on the armrest, typing away on her phone, annoyance etched into every inch of her body.

Liam is sucking face with a girl I’ve never seen before on the couch across from us, her legs draped over his lap like she’s claimed territory. He hasn’t come up for air in ten minutes.

“Jesus,” Avery mutters. “Does he even know her name?”

Harper doesn’t look up from her phone. “Bold of you to assume he cares.”

“That’s just Liam,” Nathan says, as if that sums everything up.

It’s no wonder Nathan has earned a bit of a reputation for dating around when Liam is his best friend.

Nathan’s thigh is pressed against mine. Not aggressively, but not accidentally either. Just there. Every time he shifts, I feel it. Every time I breathe, I’m aware of him.

I tell myself it’s for show.