Page 4 of With the Assist

Harper grabs her glass of wine, finishing it in one gulp. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s good you’re going.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve to be celebrated,” she says. “Even if you hate the party.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. Harper has always been the soft one, human in a way Avery and I sometimes forget to be.

Avery claps her hands. “Okay. Final checks. Wesley, you look like sex in heels. In a good way. Harper, thank you for your emotional labor tonight. And me, I look incredible.”

I take one last look at myself. Award nominee and reluctant attendee.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go get this over with.”

“If either of you end up making out with a stranger, I want details,” Harper calls from the entryway, halfway out the door.

The chilly October air stings my skin as people push past us. My apartment is small, but it’s in the heart of the city. I like being in the thick of everything.

A limo waits at the curb.

“Avery. Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Think of it as a fancy bus.”

I scoff, refusing to step closer.

“There’s a red carpet,” she reminds me. “We cannot pull up in your Hyundai.”

I glare at her through the fake lashes that I already want to rip off. This was not the deal, and she knows it.

“You’d have refused or demanded to drive separately.” Avery steps forward as the limo driver opens the door for her.

She isn’t wrong. I groan inwardly at the amount of attention this is going to send our way.

“The winner of tonight's biggest award should arrive in style.” She pulls me in next to her.

I roll my eyes at the car, but grin at the award. Sue me, I do like being nominated for this kind of thing. It shows the sacrifices are worth it. And as useless as I think this ceremony is, the award itself is just another achievement that can help propel my career forward.

It’s only a fifteen-minute ride before the limo stops outside the event center. There is a red carpet leading to the doors, and the media crowd is huge.

The cameras click around us while the crowd leans forward to see who we are. The attention wanes once they realize I’m not someone they recognize.

My nomination does not equate to popularity. As is the case for most of the women athletes here tonight. Nobody really knows who we are. Occasionally, a couple of us might get some attention, but it always fades back out when the next story breaks.

It’s not like I’m one of the players for the Blades, our city's professional hockey team. The general public is obsessed with them.

To be fair, it’s not hard to see why. Every man on that team looks like he was built to be admired. You can’t make it through the week without seeing something about one of their games or infamous nights out. I’m fairly certain that if the paparazzi could follow them into the bathroom, there’d be entire articles online outlining their shitting schedules. Yes, it really is that ridiculous.

If I were into conceited men, which I’m not, maybe I’d get the hype. But honestly, who wants to be Nathan Wilder’s flavor of the week, just to be discarded when the novelty wears off? Not me.

I remind myself of that when my door opens, and I spot a cluster of Blades players by the entrance. I remind myself again when Nathan’s deep brown eyes catch mine, and my breath hitches.

If arrogance had a face, it would smirk like that. He stands comfortably in his own body, shoulders relaxed as if nothing could stand against him. His black suit is tailored to a frame earned only through professional-level conditioning.

It’s annoying and still, my eyes trail up his body anyway.

His dark hair falls messily over one eyebrow, and then…

He winks at me.