Page 100 of With the Assist

I’m not sure I’ve ever said those thoughts out loud. I know Avery and Harper have an idea, but that’s after years of bits and pieces.

“That’s a lot of pressure on you.”

I swallow, nodding. “Yeah. Sometimes it feels like if I stop moving, everything will fall apart.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You’re allowed to be more than just the glue. Even the people who sacrifice the most sometimes have to pick themselves.”

“I don’t really have that choice.”

He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide something. “Or you just don’t let yourself.”

My breath catches.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “Why shouldn’t you want something for yourself?”

“Taking risks is a luxury. Wanting things is a luxury. I won’t let the people I love down over things like that.”

“But what about you? When do you get what you want?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Just thinking about it almost undoes me, but I focus on the sidewalk until the tears that I refuse to let fall go back to wherever the hell they tried to escape from.

We shouldn’t be talking like this. We should be keeping things light. Yet, somehow, I always find myself opening up to him. I know better, but it happens again and again anyway.

Nathan doesn’t acknowledge it, instead keeping his hand firm in mine, grounding me back to the night.

By the time we reach my building, the silence has washed away the existential crisis in my head. Now, my head spins for new reasons.

I’ve never had a guy in my place. I’ve never wanted to.

As if sensing my hesitation, Nathan speaks up, “Did you get my note?”

I smile, warmth blooming low in my stomach, squashing my uncertainty entirely. “Yeah.”

“And?”

I pull him up the stairs behind me, unlocking my door and stepping inside.

I meet his eyes. “Come in.”

27

Wesley

The door clicks shut behind us, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of my apartment. For a second, I stand there, keys still in my hand, hyperaware of the scuffed hardwood and the homemade throw blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

Nathan doesn’t say anything. Instead, he moves slowly through the space while his eyes take everything in.

My apartment is clean, but not polished. The couch is a hand-me-down with cushions soft from years of love. The bookshelf is crammed with a mix of textbooks, old mail, and paperbacks with cracked spines. It’s cluttered, but it’s my clutter.

I’ve never brought a guy here before.

He stops in front of the framed photos lining the wall of the hall. His shoulders shift as he leans in, close enough that I can see the way his eyes track across the frames. They pause on a shot from my first professional game. My jersey was too big, and my hair was cropped short. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“This is not like your place.” I try to get ahead of whatever he might be thinking.

He doesn’t answer, instead reaching out to brush his fingers along the edge of the frame.

“I like it,” he says quietly.