Page 41 of With the Assist

I skate a slow lap, then another, keeping my breath steady as I fight the urge to pull my phone back out.

Liam appears right as I am about to climb off the ice.

“Waiting for an important call?” He asks, already wearing a shit-eating grin.

I flip him off without breaking stride.

Grayson follows close behind him, smiling like this is the best part of his day. His stick is slung over one shoulder, and he looks like a captain in every way that counts. Wyatt, of course, brings up the rear with his mask dangling from one hand and his expression permanently unimpressed.

“You’ve checked it twelve times.” Grayson points at my phone in my hand. “We counted.”

“I was stretching.” Had I really checked it that much?

Wyatt snorts. “Your thumbs don’t stretch.”

Liam peers at my screen like he might be able to see through it. “So,” he says, voice dripping with interest, “Wesley?”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s not a no.”

Grayson raises a brow. “You went on a date.”

“No,” I say, even though my palms sweat as I try to figure out if that’s a lie or not.

Liam’s grin widens. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re pretending you don’t care while caring a lot.”

I push past him toward the bench. “Mind your own fucking business.”

Sometimes it’s really annoying that Liam has known me for so long. He can see right through my bullshit.

“That’s a yes,” Grayson says, amused.

“You guys are worse than middle-aged women with your damn gossiping.”

“Call me Karen, I don’t care as long as you tell me what’s going on with the scary soccer captain.” Liam blocks my path, preventing me from fleeing, even though that’s exactly what I want to do.

Luckily, just as I’m about to try to make a break for it, a familiar face from our PR team appears at the tunnel entrance, tablet tucked under her arm.

“Nathan,” she calls. “We’re doing pregame media in five.”

“We’re not finished here,” Liam calls as I walk off.

The media corner is already crowded by the time I’m waved over, with cameras angled and microphones clustered like I’m talking about something groundbreaking instead of hockey. I pull my headphones down around my neck and school my face into the neutrality needed when facing the sharks.

This is familiar territory. Safe, even. Hockey questions are predictable. I answer cleanly, saying nothing interesting and giving them enough to chew on without causing problems.

The first few come exactly as expected.

A question about the upcoming matchup against Dallas. Another about line combinations. Someone asks about the pace of play we’re trying to establish early. I answer on autopilot, nodding where it’s appropriate, using the right phrases, and keeping my voice even while my mind drifts elsewhere.

Then one of them clears his throat.

“Nathan,” he says, tone casual but sharpened enough to put me on alert, “your numbers this season have been steady, but not exactly what people expect from you.”