Page 47 of With the Assist

“Because you’re Wesley fucking Miller. There is literally nothing you can’t pull off when you want to.” She takes my phone from me, shoving it into my jacket pocket. “You slide on your shoes, go to the bar, and lie flawlessly to the whole city.”

I snort, but nod furiously to everything she says. I only get thirty more seconds of panic. Then, I shove the lump of anxiety down, slipmy bag over my shoulder, and force myself into action. This is just performing, nothing emotional about it. I can do that.

Except the moment I step outside, I know that everything has changed.

Lights flare, popping in rapid succession. For half a second, I think I’ve wandered out of the wrong exit or into someone else’s event. Then voices start layering over one another, and I realize, with a sickening drop in my stomach, that they’re saying my name.

“Wesley, over here.”

“Wesley, is it true?”

“Can you confirm the relationship?”

I slow, drawing my jacket tighter around myself, scanning the lot for Avery or anyone familiar, but there’s no space. They’re already closing into a semicircle that’s tightening with every step I don’t take.

“How long have you and Nathan been together?”

“How does it feel to land the most eligible bachelor in the city?”

“Did this start before or after his massive donation?”

Cameras are raised. Microphones appear in my peripheral vision. Someone’s shoulder bumps my arm, and I flinch, heart slamming so hard it feels like it might bruise.

I stop walking, and they close the gap instantly.

My breath comes in short bursts, anxiety spiraling out of control. On the field, chaos is expected. Here, it’s invasive and unpredictable, crawling under my skin.

“Are you worried about how dating Nathan could affect his focus?”

My mouth opens to answer, but then the questions collide, words blurring into noise. Their faces are indistinct behind lenses and flashes. My pulse roars in my ears.

This isn’t about me at all. It’s about him. A shiver runs up my spine as I realize that he lives this way all the time.

I take a step back, trying to get back inside, but the crowd moves with me, tightening until I smell cologne and hot camera equipment.

My hands curl into fists as I try to stop them from sweating.

I don’t know how long it lasts. Thirty seconds. A minute. Long enough for panic to sink its claws in.

Finally, cutting cleanly through the noise like a blade through ice, his voice echoes around me.

“That’s enough.”

The words are sharp, carrying with them a command that turns heads before I even see him.

“Back up,” Nathan says, louder now, already pushing into the space between me and the nearest camera. “Give her some room.”

The crowd hesitates, surprise rippling through them, but it gives him room to get to me. His hand slides around my waist, pulling me to his side and grounding me back in the parking lot. A tendril of wet hair is stuck to his forehead, but he somehow makes it work for him. He’s wearing his gameday suit, but the top of the shirt is unbuttoned, making it look more casual.

“I’ve got you,” he says, low, meant only for me, before raising his voice again. “She played ninety minutes of incredible soccer. If you are going to show up at her game, maybe try asking her about that.”

He doesn’t slow, just keeps moving, guiding me through the bodies. His presence is a shield I didn’t realize I needed until it was here, solid and unyielding.

“She had a goal and an assist tonight,” he continues, eyes flashing as he glares at the nearest reporter. “Though it doesn’t seem like any of you bothered to watch the game you showed up to.”

Flashes go off again, faster now. Frantic.

“Nathan, is this serious?”