Page 81 of With the Assist

“What do you mean?” He leans against the back of the couch, one leg crossed in front of the other.

“I mean.” I motion around the room. “This is not good for your mental game, Wilder. No wonder you’re playing off. You’re living in an impersonal, personally created jail cell that reminds you that your contract’s up, constantly. It’s a mind fuck.”

I walk past him and around the couch.

He’s silent for a minute, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. I’m pushy. I know it. But I want to help, and that means pointing out that this place sucks. If he can’t convince himself that he’s going to get his contract renewed, there’s no way he’s going to convince management of it.

After making my way around the room again, sufficiently convinced that there’s not an ounce of Nathan in this place, I stop my pacing in front of him.

When I do, his stoic expression breaks into a full-on belly laugh. He throws his head back laughing so loud, it practically echoes in this makeshift mausoleum. It goes on for minutes, and I’m too confused to join in.

“I’ve brought girls here. I’ve brought my teammates here. No one has ever said a fucking thing about it,” he finally says between gasps.

“I’m sorry.” And I am.

“Don’t apologize.” He stands upright, uncrossing his legs. “I just mean, you’re right. I hate this place, and it does make me feel like every day is a day closer to me leaving. No one has ever noticed before, though.”

He finishes, eyes shifting from amused to something more earnest.

It makes my mouth dry.

“Wesley, why are you here?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. “I don’t know.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Yes, you do.”

The air shifts, the weight of his attention sharpening.

“You were going to kiss me on Wednesday.”

I swallow. I don’t know why I say it. Maybe I just need to hear him confirm it before I make a fool out of myself.

He heads to the kitchen, grabs his drink, and then takes a long pull, never breaking eye contact with me. The pause feels intentional, like he’s choosing his honesty instead of defaulting to charm.

“Yes,” he says simply.

Well, shit. I knew in my gut what he’d been doing, but hearing him say it out loud is different. Heat pools low in my belly because hearing him own it without trying to minimize it is so damn attractive.

“Why?”

“It should be obvious.”

I cross my arms, more to give my hands something to do than out of defensiveness. “Well, it’s not. There are a lot of attractive girls in Boston you could kiss.”

“I know,” he says easily. “That’s not the point.”

He sets the cup down on the counter and leans back, still watching me.

“There aren’t many who insult my apartment,” he continues. “Not many take being an athlete as seriously as I do. Not many remind me what it feels like to love the grind instead of surviving it.”

My heart stumbles for a second as he goes on.

“You remind me not to take this for granted,” he says. “You remind me why I play.” He pauses, then adds, “You said it yourself. We earn every moment we get to do this.”

“That’s the second time you’ve quoted my speech back to me.” My lips curve into a smile before I can stop them. “Do you have it memorized?”

He shrugs. “Most of it.”