Page 93 of With the Assist

My eyes shoot daggers at him, though I smile to keep up the act for anyone watching. And they are all watching. Instead of backing off, he smiles wider, acting innocent.

My skin is on fire with his sole attention on me mere minutes before he’s expected to play three periods of elite hockey. He holds up a puck, tossing it up and over the glass. I catch it, pushing it into my pocket, without looking at it, desperate to get out of the public eye. The cameras have zoomed in on us, putting us on the big screens above the ice.

I tilt my head to where his team is gliding to the bench, and he reluctantly skates backwards following them. He watches me the entire way across the ice, smirking. His eyes burn with a promise of later. My heart is beating uncontrollably.

No, I won’t be canceling on him at all.

When I get back to my seat, I pull the puck out and see a slip of paper taped to it. His messy handwriting is scribbled across it.

I’ve been waiting all day to see you.

I flip it over.

And even longer to get my hands on you.

I suck in a breath as heat crawls up my spine. He shouldn’t be saying things like this. And I shouldn’t be counting down the minutes until the game is over. But if I’m honest, I can’t wait to see him either. Two weeks is a long time for me to sit with my own thoughts about what we’re doing.

I like spending time with him.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Or the worst thing.

I tuck the paper back into my pocket, ignoring the questioning glances from my friends, and focus on the ice.

I’m the one in too deep, and I’m not sure how to get back out.

25

Nathan

The game is a blur of white ice and red Chicago jerseys. Even as the scoreboard glows 3-0 above center ice, no one is playing like the job is finished. Every player still has work to do, and every shift on the ice is a chance to ensure that we close this game as a shutout.

One of the three goals is mine. In the second period, Grayson slid the puck up my line. I pushed it deep, despite their defenseman trying to pin me along the boards. I rolled off the contact, my shoulder low, and slipped the puck back down the wall to Liam as he crashed the net.

His shot went wide, ricocheting hard off the end boards and popping out into chaos. I drove in, jammed my stick through the traffic, and finished it in the lower left corner before the goalie ever saw it coming.

It was my best play this season.

When it happened, I looked up without meaning to, scanning instinctively to find Wesley in the stands.

She’d been on her feet with her Blades cropped sweatshirt riding up, making me think about everything it still covered.

I should’ve looked away to get my head back in the game, but instead, my finger cut through the air, forming a straight line fromme to her. I’d barely noticed the crowd exploding around her, or my teammates crashing into me, smacking my helmet.

There are always people in the stands cheering for my performance on the ice as Nathan Wilder, but it’s different with her here. Wesley is just cheering for me. Nathan. I know better than to get used to it, but I’m reveling in it for the night.

Now late in the third, Chicago is desperate. You can feel it in the way their sticks start lingering a second too long. Their shoulders lean into contact that rides the line between aggressive and stupid.

My lungs burn as I hop the boards for another shift. The building is loud as the ice hums beneath my skates, the crowd feeding off every clean breakout and blocked shot. The Blades are rolling, lines tight, passes crisp, and legs fresh. We’re playing like a team that has a chance at something bigger this season. It helps that I’m actually contributing on the ice.

I circle back through the neutral zone, staying wide on the left, reading the play as it develops. This position still feels new sometimes, like wearing someone else’s gloves.

Tonight, though, it feels easy.

Things are getting uglier as they start tossing out late hits. One of their defensemen slams into me from behind.

He glances up at Wesley in the stands and smirks. “Your little girlfriend looks good cheering for you. I bet she’d be really good for me.”

Something sharp and hot snaps in my chest.