Page 5 of With the Assist

He fucking winks.

I force my eyes back to my feet, refusing to acknowledge him. Besides, I will not let myself trip in these stupid heels because I’m ogling someone I have no business ogling.

The flashes are blinding, and while the yelling may not be directed at me, it's loud enough to be distracting. When I finally make it through the crowd and onto the carpet, the Blades players are gone.

Nathan ‘sin-in-a-suit’ Wilder included.

Good.

2

Nathan

Awards shows are ninety percent small talk and ten percent pretending to enjoy it. I’d rather be at the bar, but our PR director insisted the Blades ‘show face’ tonight. That’s code for smiling, shaking hands, and not starting a brawl on the dance floor.

Normally, I’d push back, but with my contract up at the end of the season, it’s best to do what’s asked of me.

It doesn’t matter that I was drafted to the Blades at eighteen as their youngest player ever. It doesn’t matter that after my two-year rookie deal ended, I’d snagged one of the best eight-year contracts in the league. It doesn’t even matter that I want to start and end my career with the Blades. What matters is stats, and mine are shit.

After two years of decreasing goals and assists, it’s hardly surprising that there’s no talk of a contract extension. So, here I sit, ready to kiss the asses of the people who hold my future in their hands.

I fucking hate it.

The red carpet was brutal, full of reporters asking if the Blades are restructuring in the offseason. It was a nice way of asking if I’m going to be traded. I had smiled and given some bullshit responses that were sure to be painted in a bad light whenever they went public.

I’ve learned that it really doesn’t matter what I say; someone will always find a way to poke holes in it. Once I figured that out, talking to reporters became easy.

Liam adjusts his tie for the tenth time, staring at his reflection in the champagne bucket. “Tell me I don’t look like a GQ cover.”

“You look like you’re trying too hard,” Wyatt mutters, his arms crossed. He’s already drained his first drink, probably to numb the pain of being in public. Our goalie hates crowds and all things social.

Grayson pops a canapé into his mouth and grins at Liam. “You look great, man. Very tailored.”

“That’s not a compliment,” I say.

Grayson shrugs. “Still true.”

“So is the fact that I smoked you in our one-on-one drills this week.” Liam grunts and sets the champagne bucket back up.

“Hey, I was trying to be nice.” Grayson throws one of his mini pastries at Liam, who returns the favor.

“Fuck’s sake. We’re too old for a food fight. Grow up.” Wyatt leans away as if that will make it less obvious that he’s one of us.

I snort. At six-foot-five-inches with a permanent scowl etched onto his face, there is almost nothing Wyatt could do to make people forget he plays hockey.

I sip my champagne, letting the noise of the room fill my head. The banquet hall is packed with athletes, sponsors, reporters, and team staff. It’s everything I should be good at navigating.

The right persona was hard to create: charming, confident, and only borderline cocky. The respectable bachelor. Someone seen out on the town as much as he’s seen on the ice. It sells tickets and jerseys.

That persona is the only thing keeping me on the first line at the moment. It’s hard to bench a crowd favorite and hometown hero, even if he’s playing like trash.

Regardless, I’m dangerously close to getting pushed to the second line. Just the idea of playing on the wing with someone other than Liam at center pisses me off. It’s starting to feel completely out of my control, especially considering nothing I do seems to help.

“Stop brooding.” Liam claps a hand on my shoulder. “You look like someone told you the bar is closing.”

“That would actually be tragic,” Grayson adds, shoving a slider in his mouth. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you? You love these things.”

“That was before he pissed off Coach Rylan at practice by failing to score a single goal on me,” Wyatt deadpans.