Page 15 of With the Assist

Really, the only place my mind should be focused is on hockey. We’re almost fifteen games into the season, and while the team is doing well overall, my stats are bad. Like really fucking bad. I’ve spent almost all my free time stressing about it. Come to think of it, today,with Wesley kicking my ass, is one of the few times that I haven’t been in my head about it.

Not a single person has scored yet, and the arrogance grows on Wyatt’s face as he gets comfortable in the net.

As if sensing it too, Wesley steps forward to take a turn. She rolls the ball under her foot into placement, then takes a slight step away from it. Her eyes stay focused on Wyatt as she pulls back, firing the ball into the top corner from twenty yards out. Wyatt dives the complete wrong way, looking pissed once he realizes how easily she scored on him.

Determined to be the first hockey player to score, I try to mimic her action, running up and swinging hard, but the ball veers left and misses by a mile.

Wesley doesn’t make fun of me as I anticipated. “You rely on power because you’re used to it, but power without precision is wasted energy. Go again.”

I bite my tongue and nod, waiting for her next pass.

This time, I score. It’s fun. This whole workout is fun.

I can’t remember the last time I worked out or played a sport without hockey and my contract at the forefront of my mind. It’s almost like I’ve forgotten how enjoyable it is to test my body’s limits without it being make or break.

“Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” She teases before working her way through the rest of my team.

By the time she calls it, most of the Blades look like corpses. Someone is lying flat on the turf, whispering, “Tell my family I love them.”

I am exhausted.

She’s everything I fear I’m losing about myself: strong, confident, and focused. Maybe that’s why I decide to torture myself and stick around while the rest of my team files out.

She stands at the sideline checking her clipboard, mindlessly twirling her ponytail with one hand.

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

Her eyes rise slowly. The playfulness that crept in during training is gone, replaced by something more guarded.

“Wilder.”

“Good session,” I say. “Brutal, but good.”

“That was the point.”

“Yeah. We deserved it after accidentally shit-talking you to your face.” I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the sweat off my forehead. “Listen, about earlier. I wasn’t late because I overslept or anything. My sister…”

Her expression drops into impatience. “I said I didn’t want excuses.”

“It’s not an excuse,” I insist. “She was stranded, and I had to help.”

For a moment, something softens in her gaze. Then it’s gone.

“You still made the commitment. You still showed up late. Helping someone doesn’t erase responsibility.”

I blink. Ouch.

“Right,” I mutter. “Got it.”

Silence stretches. I can’t help myself.

“I was wondering if maybe I could get your number?” I swallow, suddenly unsure. She has shown no interest other than a few flirty comments. Maybe I’m a masochist.

“No.”

The blow hits harder than expected.

It shouldn’t. I barely know her, but rejection is new territory. Territory I don’t particularly like.