Page 16 of With the Assist

“You don’t get to flirt with me at a gala, underestimate me in a conversation to my face, and then buy my time in some sort of grand gesture. I’m not interested in any games other than the one I play professionally.”

She takes a sip of her water. “You might be hot shit to the whole city, but I don’t date, and I don’t have time to pretend otherwise.”

Brutal and direct. After the past couple of hours of training with her, I know it’s only partially personal.

I nod, understanding and respecting the answer. “To be clear, I don’t date either, not seriously. We could still hang out.” I eye her suggestively, wondering if she’ll get the insinuation.

“Oh.” She looks confused, and then, “Oh. Oh god. No. Absolutely not. I’m not interested in that either.”

Her cheeks turn molten, and I can’t help but smirk. Of course, she’s not interested in hooking up. She doesn’t seem like the type, even if I wish she were. A few rounds in bed with her would surely cure the fixation I’ve developed over the past week.

“You sure?” I tease, enjoying the way she’s trying to act unbothered.

I can read her well enough to know that she’s at least somewhat attracted to me, but it’s not enough to act on. She takes soccer seriously in a way that I haven’t taken hockey in a long time.

Is that my issue? Complacency. I fought my whole life to be in the NHL, then I made it. Next was fighting for the Cup, then I won it. Maybe somewhere along the way, I’ve started settling for good enough, lost in the monotony that comes with playing a sport for nearly my whole life.

“Not every woman wants to sleep with you, Wilder.”

“I’m not propositioning every woman. I’m propositioning you.” It’s only after the words leave my mouth that I realize how bold they are.

I half expect Wesley to kick the ball at my head. Instead, she quirks an eyebrow like a disappointed teacher giving me a second chance to not be an idiot.

I grin wider, doubling down on what I said.

“Does that line actually work for you?”

She’s trying desperately to keep a straight face, but I can see the corner of her mouth tilting up just slightly.

“What? Too forward?” I chuckle.

Contrary to what’s published about me, I don’t sleep around or hook up that often at all. I really only brought it up to fluster her. I like seeing her cheeks turn pink when I catch her off guard.

“Nope.”

I pause, body thrumming with the possibility of her taking me up on my offer.

Then she adds, “Not too forward at all. Gives me the chance to make sure you know it’s never going to happen.”

I deflate.

“I need to get back to work. You should get going, Wilder.” She walks right back into the middle of the field, lining up more shots on goal.

How she has the energy to keep going, after the workout we’ve already done, is a mystery to me. A pang of jealousy stabs between my ribs because she knows exactly who she is. And I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.

5

Nathan

Irip the gloves off in sharp, angry tugs, thinking about the shot I sent sailing into the stratosphere. It was a perfect setup and an open net, and I still managed to lift it like I was aiming for the nosebleeds instead of the twine.

The second my stick touched the puck, I knew I fucked up, but it was already too late. The disappointment on everyone’s faces stung, but was expected. One thing about continuously playing like shit is that I’m becoming very used to letting people down.

The locker room buzzes with hissing showers and the clatter of sticks hitting the ground. The faint smell of sweat and disinfectant burns my nose. None of it cuts through the replay looping in my head. If I close my eyes, I swear I can still hear the crowd groan.

“Pretty sure that puck’s still orbiting Earth,” Liam calls from a few stalls down, voice dripping with sarcasm, a crooked grin cemented on his face. As my best friend, he’s legally obligated to roast me first.

“NASA wants tracking rights,” Grayson adds, a towel slung around his neck.