Page 125 of With the Assist

For a second, the world goes oddly quiet, like someone turned the volume down on everything except her voice. My chest feels tight, not in a bad way, just full.

“They’ve got a spot for you,” she says finally. “If you still want it.”

I suck in a breath, then another, trying to keep my voice steady. “If I want it? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Thank you.”

I see flashes of every early morning alarm, every extra sprint, every night I sat alone rewatching game film while everyone else went out. The sacrifices never feel dramatic while you’re making them. They feel normal, like part of the job. Hearing this now turns them into proof and direction. A door that was theoretical yesterday is suddenly wide open today.

She nods. “You’ve made huge strides this year, not just technically. You’re seeing the field better, communicating more, pulling people up instead of carrying everything yourself. That matters.”

The last eight weeks of team bonding have allowed me to understand my teammates in ways I never have before. Leadership has started to feel less like pressure and more natural.

“I’m proud of you,” she says, meeting my eyes. “You’re becoming a true leader on this team, Wesley. It’s nice to see you making the changes I asked for.”

Something warm blooms behind my ribs.

“I won’t waste it.” I know she can hear how much I mean it.

“Good. Because if you perform well at camp, you’ll be on a very real path toward the National Team. This isn’t a courtesy invite. This is an opportunity knocking.”

When I was nine, I used to fall asleep in my National Team jersey even when it needed to be washed, convinced that proximity counted for something. I memorized roster lists like other kids memorized song lyrics.

Back then, the dream felt huge, like something that belonged to a future version of me who was braver and faster. Standing here now, hearing her say it out loud, I realize that the future version has been quietly building herself for years.

My pulse is racing. The end of January suddenly feels impossibly close and thrilling all at once.

“And,” she adds, shifting her weight like she’s about to pivot topics, “I’m looking forward to meeting Nathan properly at the team party next week.”

I laugh, caught off guard. “He’s great. You’ll like him.”

“I’m sure, but I want you to hear this clearly. Even without him, the work you’re doing is obvious. You’re not improving because of who you’re with, you’re improving because you’ve decided to.”

Her words confirm that we don’t need to keep pretending. I’m back in her good graces even without our arrangement. There is no need for Nathan to be my fake boyfriend. I hate it.

“I need you focused at camp,” she finishes. “Play like you know you can. The rest will take care of itself.”

“I will.” I nod quickly.

She squeezes my shoulder once before turning back toward the field, leaving me standing there with cold fingers and a buzzing heart.

The Future’s camp. The next step is to the National Team and eventually, the World Cup.

I should call my dad or Emma to tell them the news. Or maybe run to catch up with Avery. But the only person I’m dying to tell is the one whose name is lighting up my phone.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, smiling at Nathan’s text.

Nathan: You left early this morning, and now, the bed’s too cold.

His name on my screen has started to feel like exhaling after holding my breath. I don’t overthink it when my finger hovers over the call button. Or when it rings twice before he answers. Or when the excitement of the camp spills out of my lips as I explain it all at a neck-breaking pace.

I only start to overthink it when we hang up, and I’m already wishing I could call him back.

34

Nathan

The bar is packed to the brim, but it’s New Year’s Eve, so no one seems to mind. Bodies press shoulder to shoulder, laughter stacking on top of music that is already too loud. The air smells like citrus peels, spilled champagne, and overheated speakers.

Someone has dragged in cheap metallic decorations that catch the rotating lights and throw them across the ceiling like restless stars. Every few seconds, another cork pops somewhere in the room, and people cheer.