Page 19 of With the Assist

Liam nods. “Whatever clicked for you with that soccer girl…”

“Wesley,” I correct.

He raises his eyebrows. “Right. Whatever clicked for you with Wesley seemed to work.”

“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “It did.”

The workout was brutal. Humiliating. And the most alive I’ve felt in months.

“She challenged you,” Wyatt says.

It really was as simple as that. She didn’t care that I was Nathan Wilder. She didn’t care that I played hockey. She only cared that I showed up and busted my ass to keep up with her. Being pushed like that, without it being tied to the Blades, my teammates who count on me, or my contract, was freeing.

Grayson nods. “Maybe you should ask her to help you again. Like… privately. Extra training and conditioning.”

“Cross-training in a new sport helps people get their groove back all the time,” Liam adds.

I cringe. “She turned me down, and not gently. Like a very intense rejection.”

Liam finally pulls on the rest of his suit. “That girl scares the shit out of me. But I also saw the way she looked at you. Like she wanted to break you in half and then maybe ride you into the sunset.”

Wyatt groans. “Jesus, man.”

Grayson leans forward. “She doesn’t have to want to fuck you. Just help you. Athlete to athlete.”

“And if something else happens…” Liam waggles his brows.

Wyatt, ever the realist, says, “You need to fix your game. If she’s the spark, what choice do you have?”

I let their words settle.

The idea of spending more time with her ignites something in my chest. Not just desire, but drive and competition. The urge to be pushed and challenged in a new way. Maybe I could prove something to myself in the process.

“I don’t think she’ll go for it,” I admit.

“But you like the idea,” Liam says knowingly.

I meet his gaze. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then ask,” Wyatt orders. “The worst she can say is no.”

I remember the sting of her last rejection. There are definitely worse things she can say. But as I sit here, surrounded by three of the only people who still believe in me, one thing becomes clear: doing nothing is no longer an option.

And for the first time in far too long, a sliver of hope cuts through the doubt.

Maybe she won’t do it. Maybe she’ll laugh in my face.

But maybe, just maybe, she’ll say yes.

6

Wesley

Harborlight Stadium is quiet except for the rhythmic thump of the ball against my cleats. Cold air bites at my cheeks, and my breath fogs in pale clouds, but I barely notice. I’m in the zone, my mind and body syncing in that rare place beyond fatigue.

Shot after shot, I fire with precision, replaying techniques in my head. The ball responds like it’s a living thing, obedient to my movements. This is why I love the sport. The control.

My muscles burn, but I feel sharper than I have in weeks. Another medical bill for my dad arrived this morning, and the weight of it pushes me harder.