Page 130 of With the Assist

Three.

Her eyes are soft and a little scared, but she smiles.

Two.

Fuck my freedom. Fuck the pressure. I just want her.

One.

The room detonates into cheers and horns and falling glitter. I kiss her like the noise doesn’t exist. I kiss her, trying to memorize the feeling of her against me. For after. For when I’m on my own again.

“Happy New Year,” I murmur against her mouth. It sounds like a plea and a goodbye at the same time.

35

Nathan

Iusually hate team events.

They’re loud, performative, and full of people who want something from me or want to be seen with me. Usually, there are cameras hovering outside the door or phones pointed directly at my face. I don’t enjoy them. Hell, most of the time, I’m on high alert with my every move monitored.

Tonight is different.

Wesley’s team party is tucked into a private room above a restaurant that smells like fresh bread and wood polish. There’s music playing, but it’s background noise, with the conversation buzzing in all corners of the room. The lighting is dim, not designed for photo ops, but for comfort. Most importantly, there are no cameras.

When we arrived, it took only a second to notice there was no media anywhere.

That should not feel as novel as it does.

It is bullshit, really. Wesley is as much an athlete as I am. She’s more disciplined than most people I know. Her training schedule makes mine look indulgent. Her body takes just as much punishment. Her career has just as much at stake.

And yet, because it's women’s soccer and not a men’s league that TV networks trip over themselves to televise, we get this one small mercy. A night where she can celebrate with her team without a swarm of paparazzi. A night where I can stand next to her without feeling like I am bracing for impact.

Selfishly, I love it.

Especially because it’s the last time. After tonight, my brief journey into Wesley’s world is over. We’ll let the gossip fade, and in a couple of weeks, we’ll release a statement saying it was mutual. It’ll all be chalked up to busy schedules or some other excuse that doesn’t make either of us look bad.

The thought presses in quietly, the way it has all week.

I’ve slept at her place almost every night. I like it more than mine. It has character and personality. It also smells like her.

Yesterday, I woke up alone and wandered the entire apartment looking for her until I remembered she had a meeting with her coach to discuss their lineup for the upcoming season.

When she had told me about it, I’d assumed she would wake me, so that I could leave when she did. But she hadn’t, and being in her space by myself was surreal. It made my mind run a little wild, picturing a world where that was the norm. A world where we both focused on our careers, making sure to give them our all, and then returned to each other's sides each night.

Then my fantasy blurred with reality when she really had come home with coffee for both of us. She ordered mine exactly how I would’ve ordered it myself. Then we spent the rest of the morning in bed together. The only reason we finally dragged ourselves out of the apartment was to squeeze in an actual workout because even though she’s let her guard down, she’s still Wesley fucking Miller. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

But underneath it all, tonight has been looming in the background, like a clock I can hear ticking even when no one else seems aware it exists.

I nurse a beer near the edge of the room while the team mills around talking to coaches, donors, and support staff. Avery islaughing loudly near the bar, and Haley is already halfway through a story that involves a referee and a missed call. Someone has pushed two tables together to make space for plates of food that are being steadily demolished.

For the first time, I realize it won’t only be Wesley that I miss, it’ll be all of this. Her friends and the comfortable way everyone interacts. A part of me wants to suggest that we all still hang out, but the thought of seeing her and not being able to hold her makes me nauseous.

A clean break. That’s what it needs to be. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get over it.

“You’re Nathan, right?”

I blink and look up to find a guy standing in front of me, holding a drink and wearing the slightly panicked expression of someone who is a fan.