Page 164 of With the Assist

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Wesley finally looks at me again, eyes flicking over the sling, IV, and the monitors. Her expression softens, all that fire folding into vulnerability.

“You’re okay.” Wesley’s entire body relaxes as if she’s been strung up for hours worrying about me.

Her eyes hold nothing but relieved honesty, and yet, I’m more confused than ever.

“You’re dressed for a game.” I motion with my good arm to her uniform. “Did you guys win?”

She huffs out a breath, then shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I left before the scrimmage started, as soon as I saw what happened.”

I watch her as she glances down at the shin guards she’s still wearing. She’s shifting from one foot to another, her nervous energy looking for a way to escape.

“You left your game,” I repeat, still trying to wrap my head around it. Wesley doesn’t miss games or scrimmages. She puts soccer over everything.

Her eyes latch onto mine, as if she can see through me to all of the unasked questions underneath that one. “Yes, Nathan. I left my game. You were hurt, and I needed to be here.”

Something in me thaws. She needed to see me. It’s a small victory, knowing that I still mean something to her.

“Thank you for what you said to my parents.” It’s my turn to feel nervous.

She shrugs, but there’s a tremor underneath it. “Someone needed to say it. I meant every single word.” Her eyes bore into me with the kind of reassurance I expected her to shy away from.

Loving him. She’d said it. She meant it. But why now? Something bitter dampens the part of me thrilled to hear those words.

“Why are you here?” I ask, the words clipped.

“I just told you.” Her brows furrow at the change in my tone.

“Yeah, because I’m hurt.” I motion to the sling. “But Wes, I’ve been hurt for a month. Hell, you’re the one who hurt me. You didn’t care then. So, why now? Is it guilt? Really, what is this?”

I shift, wincing at the ache, but refusing to flinch fully.

It’s been a month, and she hasn’t shown an ounce of regret for her choice. I don’t want to win by consolation. I don’t want my broken collarbone to be what finally changes her mind. I want her to want me as much as I want her.

“No, it’s not like that.” She reaches out, grabbing my hand. “I’ve been miserable. I went to Future’s Camp and damn near killed myself exercising, trying to distract myself from how much I missed you.”

She laces her fingers through mine, and we both watch the motion.

“I panicked when I missed the one-on-one session. Soccer has been my only priority for so long, but then that night, I didn’t think about it once. It scared me.”

“I get it.” And I do. I know how terrifying it is to think you might lose the sport you love.

“Then I was at camp with everything I thought I ever wanted, and I couldn’t even bring myself to be happy. And today, for our scrimmage, I had National Team coaches in the stands, but when I saw you were hurt, it didn’t even seem like a choice. This is where I wanted to be.”

I meet her eyes. “National Team coaches in the stands?”

She arches an eyebrow. “You were unconscious on the ice.”

And just like that, I know.

Whatever this is between us, whatever we broke or ran from or pretended wasn’t real, it’s still here. Bruised and complicated, but here.

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