Page 105 of With the Assist

“Benefits, right. No strings.” My words are clipped. “We shouldn’t let the line get too blurry.”

“Absolutely.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

My chest tightens painfully, but I smile through it. I don’t break for things like this. I don’t break at all.

“See you Tuesday for training?” I ask, holding the front door open. I can’t quite meet his gaze.

“Sounds good.” He pauses as if to say something else, but nods his head instead, walking down my steps.

I walk back inside and look around. My apartment has always felt homey. Just me in the warmth and comfort I’ve created. I’ve never minded having this space all to myself.

But as I watch him walk down the sidewalk from the window, the space feels a bit empty.

28

Nathan

Lunch with my agent, Ryan Elliott, is supposed to be routine. It’s something that happens every few weeks, whether I need it or not. A standing appointment disguised as a meal. We always go to the same downtown spot with exposed brick and too much natural light. We sit at the same corner table where the noise dulls, giving the illusion of privacy while we have the same conversation that always starts with small talk and ends with business.

Ryan is mid-sentence, hands moving as he talks, fork abandoned on the edge of his plate as if his food is an afterthought compared to this discussion.

“Eight wins out of the last ten,” he says, checking his phone. “Second in the conference and first in the division. Nobody had you guys pegged for this back in October, but here we are. Everything is finally clicking, the defensive pairings are solid, and the fans are eating it up.”

I nod along, mechanically, lifting my fork and lowering it again without actually taking a bite. He’s right. The season is good. Better than good. The wins are stacking, the city is buzzing again, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like we’re building something instead of surviving week to week.

I should feel lighter.

Instead, my brain keeps dragging me backward to an apartment that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and coffee, to her familiar clutter, and to the moment her walls slipped back into place as she shut the door behind me.

You should probably go.

She wasn’t angry or dramatic. It was less emotional than that, just painfully careful. My stomach’s been in knots for the past two days, wondering if she regretted it.

I’d walked back to my car afterward, hands shoved into my jacket pockets while the cold did nothing to clear my head. No matter how many times I replayed the night, I couldn’t quite figure out where it all went sideways.

It was the best sex of my life. No hesitation or competition.

That thought alone should scare me more than it does. I’m starting to accept that she does it for me in a way no one else has.

But she sets the rules and boundaries, and I’m expected to follow them. I understand why, it’s just really starting to piss me off. That woman has gotten under my skin and planted roots, but she won’t even let me scratch the surface.

Now it’s Monday. Tomorrow I’ll see her again for our workout under fluorescent lights and professional expectations. Somehow, I’m supposed to pretend like nothing has shifted when everything has. I have no idea how to look at her. No idea how to speak to her without crossing the lines she drew for a reason.

Ryan clears his throat.

“Nathan.”

I blink, realizing I haven’t processed a single word he’s said in at least a minute. “Sorry,” I say. “What?”

He studies me for a moment, sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “You good?”

“Just tired,” I say automatically, even though exhaustion has nothing to do with it.

He lets it pass, but his tone changes, becoming more professional. The real conversation is starting.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “As good as the last couple of weeks have been, we need to stay realistic.”

My shoulders tense.