Page 174 of With the Assist

At first, I barely register them. The media is always around after a season opener, especially a cup game and a hometown win. This time, though, it seems louder and more frantic than usual. A staccato burst of flashes comes from one section instead of being spread evenly along the sideline.

I glance over.

There’s a cluster near the tunnel entrance, a mess of bodies and lenses. Security is trying and failing to keep a perimeter. Whoever is in the center of it is obscured by shoulders and microphones, but it’s clearly not one of us.

I watch for a beat, curiosity tugging, then shake it off and turn back toward my team. I start down the line, shaking hands with Columbus players, murmuring good game and nice effort to each and every one. My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory carrying me through.

Once we make it through the line, Becca grabs my arm.

“Wes,” she squeals, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and delight. “Wesley.”

I glance at her. “Becca, I’m in the middle of something.”

She ignores me and physically turns me, pointing so hard her finger nearly pokes my shoulder. “Look.”

I follow the line of her arm.

And my heart forgets how to beat.

The cluster breaks apart enough for me to see the back of him.

Nathan.

He’s pushing through with his good arm, his sling strapped tight across his chest. His hair is slightly damp as if he rushed to get here. That view alone stops me cold, but my breath leaves me in one sharp, stunned exhale when I take in what he’s wearing.

A Tempest jersey with the number ten across the back.

My jersey.

It’s white and teal with my number on the back and my name stitched clean and bold across the shoulders. It hangs a little awkwardly on him because of the sling, the fabric bunching at his side, but somehow that makes it better.

The cameras go insane when he finally breaks free of the crowd, but they hang back to swarm Nathan’s teammates, who are decked out in our gear.

Avery swears softly behind me.

“Oh my god,” Becca whispers. “Is that…”

“That’s the whole hockey team,” Haley says, already laughing. “Holy shit.”

My heart swoops so hard it feels like it drops straight into my stomach. He looks ridiculous and perfect and entirely too hot to be walking over to me.

I don’t even think.

My feet move on their own.

The noise fades as I cross the grass, like my focus narrows down to him and only him. Nathan meets me halfway, eyes bright and a little apologetic as the flashes explode around us.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his voice low so only I can hear. “I swear I didn’t plan the media thing. I don’t know how they found out I’d be here, and then the jersey sent them into a frenzy.”

I blink up at him, still trying to process the fact that he’s here.

“You’re here,” I say stupidly.

He scrunches his eyebrows, doubt disrupting his smile. “I can go. Shit. I, um…’

I grab his hand, letting the electricity of his contact flow through me. He lets out a relieved sigh. I laugh, breathless, my gaze flicking down to the jersey again. “You’re wearing my jersey.”

“I am,” he says, glancing down like he’s just noticing it, too. “You mentioned once that boyfriends don’t walk around wearing their girlfriends’ jerseys. I wanted to prove you wrong.”