Page 108 of With the Assist

I picture Wesley standing in her apartment, composed and careful, even when everything between us felt anything but. Her words had been restrained, but her eyes had been filled with emotion. In my gut, I knew she shut it down not because she didn’t feel it, but because she felt too much.

“If I want her at all, I have to,” I say finally. “That’s all she wants.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Then take it,” my sister says. “But don’t ask for more than that. Let her come to you if she’s going to.”

“And if she doesn’t?” An ache tugs at my chest.

“Then you find someone who wants you more than they want anything else,” she says. “You deserve that. You can find that.”

I’m not so sure I can, but I don’t say that. Every single person I’ve dated always wants something more than me. My money. My fame. Hell, most people in my life always want something more than just me, too.

Even Wesley wanted nothing to do with me until she needed help. It makes my feelings for her more pathetic. I run my hand through my hair and rub the back of my neck. I need to get over this little crush. So what if she’s attractive and athletic and driven? We’re fooling around. I can do that without letting myself get carried away.

“I still think you should come home for the holiday,” Delaney’s voice rings through the phone, jolting me back to the present. “Mom’s already planning something passive-aggressive, so you might as well be there to absorb it.”

I huff out a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s the best you’re getting.” Going home for Christmas sounds awful, but I can’t avoid my parents forever.

“Fine,” she says. “But I’m holding you to it.”

We hang up a minute later. I don’t move, tossing around Delaney’s advice in my head.

Take whatever Wesley gives and don’t ask for more.

If she wants me, she’ll prove it.

It sounds so simple. Except not asking for more is getting harder, and Wesley doesn’t allow herself to want anything outside of soccer.

She belongs only to herself and soccer. The problem is that even though she’s made it clear she’s not mine, I’m starting to think I might already be hers.

29

Wesley

By the time we hit mile one, my lungs are burning, and I’m entirely in my head. My calves ache in a familiar, almost comforting way. The burn that usually quiets my mind sharpens every thought I’m trying not to have.

We’re jogging along the harbor path outside the stadium. It’s cold, but warmer than it has been, thawing the last remaining frost on the ground, at least for now. The trees around us make me feel claustrophobic.

I’m running ahead of Nathan, close enough that I can feel him there without looking. Every instinct in my body is aware of his stride, his breath, and the way he matches his steps to mine. It’s as if he can anticipate every step I take.

He’s acting normal. He walked right in today with his usual coffee for both of us and jumped straight to business, asking for a longer jog in anticipation of the shorter endurance drills he’d be running at practice this week.

For the past three days, I’ve thought about how this morning would go. It would be awkward and embarrassing. There’d be a conversation to address what happened in my apartment, on my bed. We’d both chalk it up to a one-time thing, and I’d carefully step back inside the boundaries we should’ve stayed within in the first place.

Instead, he’s all business as if nothing happened at all. It’s what I wanted. At least, what I thought I wanted.

Except, after having the kind of sex that rewired something fundamental in my brain, I’m not sure it’s what I want at all.

I’m confused.

At two miles in, we make the turn, crossing over the bridge that will circle us back around to the stadium. The path narrows, and his arm brushes against mine accidentally, but it makes my pulse trip anyway.

I hate that I notice. I hate that my skin burns long after he’s moved in front of me. Normally, I lead, pushing us at a pace that I decide, but today, I let him stay in front. Instead, I let myself watch him, lingering on his hair that’s damp with sweat and the side of his face, chiseled and covered in the kind of stubble that happens after a day or two without shaving.