Page 27 of With the Assist

Nathan: I’ll be good. Promise. Winky face.

I drop my phone like it's on fire. Nathan always seems to know exactly what to say to fluster me.

My skin seems to have caught flame as my entire body heats up in response to his text. I need to set boundaries as soon as I see him. Whatever he’s thinking will happen, won’t.

Avery nearly levitates. “That’s basically second base.”

“It is not.”

Harper nudges me. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m in deep shit.”

Avery grins. “Correction: deep, sexy shit with brown, messy hair that begs to have your fingers running through it.”

I shake my head. “It’s only until the party. Then I can say we broke up and figure out other ways to show the balance coach wants.”

Harper studies me. “Are you trying to convince yourself or us?”

“I’m not trying to convince anyone.”

“There are worse things than fake dating the hottest man in this city,” Avery chimes in.

She’s right. There are worse things. Things like being too tired after training with Nathan, causing me to practice like shit with my team. Or straining a muscle while I work out with Nathan and having to sit out of a scrimmage. Or missing a meeting with Coach because Nathan won’t stop flirting with me while we pretend to date. Getting too caught up to remember who I am. Who I have to be.

Am I being dramatic? Probably. Knowing that does nothing to stop the anxiety swirling in my gut.

“I’m doomed.” I rub my forehead.

They laugh.

I try to reassure myself that I can do this. I can help him save his career and show up to some social events with him to save my captaincy. I am disciplined and focused. Someone like Nathan Wilder, who is seen with girls all the time, is not going to knock me off center.

Even if a whiff of his cedar soap sends my heart spiraling. Even if he’s made it clear that knocking me off center is his new favorite hobby. I’m the one in control.

8

Nathan

I’m half an hour early, which is ridiculous, even for me, but there’s no ignoring the pit in my stomach that formed when I pulled into the parking lot. The stadium lights are off, but the soft gray morning light spills over the turf, making the painted lines look bright.

Coffee in hand, I pace along the edge of the field, my shoes crunching against the frost that the sun hasn’t had a chance to melt. The crisp air bites at my cheeks, but sweat forms at my hairline regardless.

I keep my hands wrapped around the cup, a flimsy barrier between me and the chaos of my thoughts.

I replay her text over and over:I’ll do it, but on one condition.

My skin was buzzing with frantic energy. That one condition is still a question mark, but I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it is. I can’t afford not to.

Ever since Wesley texted me, I’ve been a wreck. Sure, hanging out with an attractive, confident woman is half of it. The other half is because I’m watching my future on the Blades slip away. I’m terrified that cross-training won’t do anything, and then it’ll be too little too late.

I check my watch again. Five minutes have passed. Only five.

My phone buzzes with texts from the group chat.

Grayson: First day of school vibes, man?

Wyatt: Don’t tell me you’re nervous about a soccer player.