Page 99 of With the Assist

There’s a pause before he speaks again, like he’s deciding something. “Coach Rylan pulled me into his office after.”

My heart jumps. “And?”

“Good things,” he says. “Nothing official yet, but positive. The front office is happy. He said if I keep playing like this, I’m in a strong spot.”

“What?” I turn toward him, excitement bursting through my chest before I can stop it. “Nathan, that’s huge.” He stops too, surprise flickering across his face as I launch into his arms without thinking. “That’s everything you’ve been working for.”

His ears go a little pink. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

“I’m proud of you,” I say, without hesitation.

My words hang between us, his face a flurry of emotions before settling on something heavier than I expect.

He ducks his head. “Thanks.”

We start walking again, hands still linked and our bodies closer than before.

“I appreciate you coming tonight,” he adds after a moment. “Would’ve been even better if you wore my jersey.”

I laugh. “Absolutely not. I won’t feed into that misogyny.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Harsh.”

“No, think about it,” I insist. “You don’t see guys wearing their girlfriends’ names. No one’s walking around with ‘Wesley Miller’ stitched across their shoulders.”

He hums thoughtfully.

The conversation drifts, the way it does when you’re distracting yourself from the elephant in the room. Our elephant is the sexual tension that seems to be burning my lungs the closer we get to my apartment.

“Your family wasn’t here tonight.” I’ve been wanting to ask about them more and more lately, always chickening out. Something about the night makes me brave enough to press. “Do they come to games much?”

“No,” he admits. “They’re local, but they’ve never been to a game. Hockey isn’t their thing.”

My brows furrow. My dad would love to be close enough to come to my games regularly. Even if he hated the sport, he’d be there to support me. It’s what parents should do.

“My sister, Delaney, comes occasionally, though,” he continues, a smile creeping in. “She’s in college. When she’s in the stands, she’s the loudest person in the building. You’d like her.”

“You say that like I’m meeting her.”

“I mean,” he shrugs. “You probably will. At some point.”

That feels like crossing a line into something more real than we’ve agreed on. There are only a few more weeks until we stage our fake breakup and move on.

“And your family?” he asks. “You must be close if you go back home often.”

“Yeah. My dad and sister are both really important to me.”

“What about your mom?” he asks, not realizing the landmines he detonated.

“She’s dead.” I chew on my lip.

He doesn’t flinch or rush to fill the silence, instead squeezing my hand gently.

“That sucks. That kind of loss doesn’t go away.”

Something in my chest loosens at the way he says it. There’s no pity in his words. No apology or promise that it gets better. Just understanding.

“It’s been a long time since it happened, but my family really relies on me to be the glue that she was.”