Page 87 of With the Assist

I don't like her. I can’t. At least, not as anything more than a fling.

Reentering the living room, my heart slams against my ribs. I freeze.

Wesley is sitting on the couch, knees pulled up slightly, with my white cut-off hanging off one shoulder. Her hair is twisted up into a messy bun with loose strands framing her face.

The girl who always seems to have it all figured out looks vulnerable. Like the weight of what we did is settling in for her, too. As the heat dissipates, reality sinks back in.

I’m at a loss for words, part of me wanting to take my clothes back off her and repeat everything we’ve just done, while the other part is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“We, uh, ordered this earlier,” I say quietly, raising the pizza in front of me.

She nods, fingers worrying at the hem of my shirt. For the first time since she showed up tonight, neither of us seems to know exactly what to say.

“I like pizza.” A shy smile ghosts across her lips.

I smile, setting the stack of pizzas down and grabbing a box from the top. I make my way over to her and sit down, close enough that our legs brush.

The knocking is gone. The panic has faded. What’s left is the reality of us, half-dressed, sharing pizza, pretending this hasn’t changed everything.

23

Nathan

The gym is quiet in that early-morning way that always feels a little sacred. There’s no music yet, only the soft clank of plates and the low hum of the HVAC. It’s exactly how game days are supposed to start.

The lights are still dimmed to half power, casting long shadows across the rubber floors and the rows of racks. Chalk dust lingers faintly in the air, mixing with the familiar scent of metal and sweat. I’ve always liked this hour best. Before reporters. Before fans. Before the noise.

I’m halfway through my first set when I catch myself smiling at nothing.

It’s been two fucking weeks since I’ve seen Wesley, and we’re finally back in town.

There has to be some kind of cosmic joke behind the fact that our longest road trip of the year started the day after she showed up on my doorstep. Seven games, a ridiculous number of red-eye flights, and more hotel beds than I care to count later, and the trip is finally over.

My muscles buzz with restless energy as I move through my set. Some of it is the usual game-day adrenaline. Some of it is the reliefof playing on home ice again after weeks on the road. Most of it, though, is because Wesley’s coming tonight.

We texted almost every day while I was gone. Sometimes it was about the workouts she’s been putting together for me, and other times about my games. She actually knows hockey, which makes talking to her about it different from talking to most people. When I asked for her opinion, she gave real critiques. When I didn’t, she just listened.

My favorite moments were when I managed to coax a little flirting out of her. It didn’t happen often, and it took a hell of a lot of effort on my end, but damn if it wasn’t cute when she slipped and let it happen.

Flirting might be teetering on the boundaries we’ve set, but it’s far less concerning than the way she understands me so perfectly.

She somehow knows when I want to break down a shift or when I just need someone to remind me that I’m not playing like shit. Even when I’m hard on myself, she balances it out. It’s as if she believes in me in a way I haven’t believed in myself for a long time. Aside from my teammates, I haven’t had anyone support me this way in years.

It has alarm sirens ringing in my head.

But it still didn’t stop me from asking her to come to the game tonight.

After weeks on the road, I told her it would look good to have my supportive girlfriend in the stands on my first night back. Technically, that’s true.

But really, I just want to see her. Touch her. Taste her.

Since our night together, I’ve been surviving on my hand and the memory of her underneath me.

Hopefully, tonight I won’t have to settle for that.

I’m desperate for her. Call it benefits, or lust, or something a little more pathetic, but I can’t seem to shake it. Especially not when she mentioned wanting to hang out after the game. I have no idea what hanging out actually means. It could be exactly that: just hanging out.

My body has already decided it means something else entirely.