Page 77 of With the Assist

I don’t respond.

“Why is this a problem?” He asks.

“I don’t want to complicate things,” I say. “My game’s finally clicking. Coach is talking contract stuff after the holidays, and this whole fake relationship ends then.”

I think about her and the way she carries pressure as if it’s second nature. Then I think about how she looks at me when she forgets to guard herself.

“She has shit too,” I add. “Her own reasons for staying focused, for not letting anyone get too close.”

“You’re inventing problems.”

I hate that he’s not entirely wrong.

“Spending time with her, training and stuff, it’s all platonic, and it’s helping my game. If we cross the line from fake to real, we both have a lot to lose. Also, I don’t think she’s interested in anything more, considering she literally ran away.”

A knock sounds at the door. Loud enough to cut through the noise of the game and the low murmur of the game tape still playing behind us.

Wyatt pauses the controller. “That’s got to be the pizza.”

“It’s too soon,” Liam yells back, pushing off the counter.

Wyatt’s already on his feet. “I’ll get it. If it’s cold, I’m complaining.”

I take another sip of water, trying to refocus on literally anything else.

Grayson rewinds the tape again, mumbling something about neutral zone pressure, but my attention’s split now, stretched thin between the knock and the conversation I was having with Liam. Between contracts and lines and Wesley’s lips.

It’s one and a half more months. I can ignore my desire for that long, especially with our long away stretch coming up. Easy. Then, I can move on.

Liam glances back at me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I say.

Another knock, but slower this time.

Wyatt groans. “Jesus, relax. I’m coming.”

“So,” Liam says, judgment bleeding into his tone. “You’re going to make yourself miserable until you guys call it?”

Yes.

Wyatt’s voice cuts in, louder now. “Uh. It’s not the pizza!”

Liam shakes his head disapprovingly and heads for the door.

“It’s…" Liam trails off. “Dude. Wilder. It’s for you.”

I turn the corner and stop.

Wesley is standing in my doorway.

For half a second, my brain refuses to catch up to what my eyes are seeing. It’s like she’s a trick of the light, or I’ve somehow carried her with me from the earlier texts and delivered her to my doorstep.

She’s wearing jeans, sneakers, and a sweater that clings in a way that feels unfair. Her hair is pulled back, but loose strands have escaped, framing her face in a way that is a little messy and a lot sexy. Her cheeks are pink, not from cold alone, and she looks nervous.

Really nervous.

Attraction crashes in, curling low in my gut as I take her in slowly, helplessly.