57
Nate
By Thursday afternoon, I have learned three things with absolute, bone-deep certainty.
One: Being Hannah Reed’s boyfriend is a catastrophic drain on my phone’s battery life.
Two: Carter is physically incapable of saying the word *girlfriend* without sounding like a man announcing a massive, impending weather event.
And three: I want Hannah at my game tomorrow so badly it’s starting to get genuinely embarrassing.
It’s not like she hasn’t come to games before.
She has. Technically. Once, it was part of the fake-dating performance, where the whole point was visibility, and I spent half the night trying to keep my head in the play while her presence in the stands made my brain want to quietly evacuate my skull.
Another time, Ella dragged her along, and Hannah spent the evening trying to act invisible while I checked the crowd every three seconds like a man with a severe personal problem and zero dignity.
But tomorrow is different. Tomorrow is Ridgemont.
It’s the rivalry of the season. The rink is going to be packed, alumni weekend is in full swing, and Coach has been mentioning "scouts in the building" with the same tone a priest uses to read an obituary.
The pressure is a tangible, heavy thing in the locker room, but for once, the scouts aren't the primary source of my anxiety.
I want her there. Not as a prop. Not for a plan. For *me*. It’s the kind of thought that would have sent me walking into oncoming traffic three weeks ago. Now, it just makes me stare at my phone like an idiot between classes.
Progress. I think.
Carter drops into the seat across from me in the student center, setting down a tray of fries like he’s making an offering to a god with high cholesterol.
“You look constipated,” he says, not even bothering with a greeting.
I glance up, my thumb hovering over the screen. “Great opener. Real poetic.”
“Emotionally constipated,” he clarifies, leaning over the table. He catches a glimpse of my phone—the contact screen open to Hannah’s name. No messages sent yet. Just... her name.
I flip the phone face-down immediately. “Private.”
Carter grins, and it’s the look of a man who has already won the argument. “You’re trying to ask her to the game, aren't you?”
“No.”
“Yes. You’re overthinking a six-word text. Just do it, Wilder. ‘Hey, girlfriend, want to come watch me be hot on skates?’”
“I would literally rather die,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
“Coward. Fine. Go with the respectful version. ‘Hey, girlfriend, please come witness my athletic prowess so I don't spend the second period brooding.’”
I grab one of his fries. He slaps my hand, but I take it anyway. “She has a life, Carter. I don’t want to be the guy who assumes she’s at my beck and call just because we’re official.”
Carter’s face shifts, the teasing edge smoothing out into something actually helpful. “Ask her to come to the game, Nate. Let her decide about the jersey.”
My fingers pause on the table. There it is. The jersey. The ultimate public declaration. Carter notices everything; he’s made a secondary career out of my emotional surveillance.
“I don't want to ask too much of her,” I say quietly.
“Because wearing your name is too much?” Carter studies me, his expression surprisingly serious. “Ask her. Stop doing the thing where you quietly panic until someone else does your emotional paperwork for you. Ella says you're being a ‘beige wall of respectability’ again.”
“You spend too much time with Ella.”
“She’s wise. Now text the girl.”
I pick up the phone. I miss her. It’s ridiculous because I saw her four hours ago. I walked her to class and kissed her outside Briar Hall until she laughed against my mouth and told me I was going to make her late. Still, I miss the sound of her voice.
**Nate:** *Do you want to come to my game tomorrow?*
I stare at the screen, heart-thudding, until it buzzes.
**Hannah:** *Obviously. Did you think I was going to miss my boyfriend’s big rivalry game?*
My chest goes warm—that deep, honeyed heat that I’m slowly getting used to. Carter leans over. “What’d she say? Is she coming?”
I angle the phone away. “Private.”
“You’re glowing, Nate. It’s disgusting. You look like a lighthouse with abs.”
My phone buzzes again.
**Hannah:** *Also... should I wear something specific?*
The student center noise—the scraping chairs, the distant shouting, the hum of the espresso machine—all of it fades. I go perfectly still. She knows exactly what she’s asking.
**Nate:** *Only if you want to. No pressure.*
I immediately hate the text. It sounds like a corporate liability waiver. Carter groans, having read my face. “You did the careful thing, didn't you? The ‘I am so respectful I have become a void’ thing?”
**Hannah:** *Nate. I want to. Can I wear your jersey? For real this time?*
*For real this time.* No fake dating. No Ethan. No excuses. Just Hannah, choosing to stand in a rink of three thousand people with my name on her back.
**Nate:** *Yeah. You can wear it. I want you to.*
**Hannah:** *Good. Because I want everyone to know who I’m there for.*
I stare at the screen until the words blur. Carter’s voice is soft now. “Yeah? She’s wearing it?”
I put the phone face-down, my pulse finally evening out into a steady, rhythmic thrum of victory. “She wants the jersey.”
Carter smiles—a real, quiet one. “Good for you, buddy.”
Hannah comes over after dinner to pick it up.
"Picking up the jersey" somehow transitions into her staying on my couch, her feet tucked under my thigh for warmth, while she ruthlessly critiques my movie choices.
She’s curled against me, wearing a cream sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, her hair held up by the black hair tie I’d kept in my drawer like a holy relic.
The movie—some explosion-heavy action flick Mason recommended—plays unwatched on the TV. I’m too busy rubbing my thumb over the back of her hand.
“Your team is going to be unbearable tomorrow,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“They’re unbearable every day. Mason’s already drafted ‘Girlfriend Privilege’ bylaws.”
She lets out a soft, musical laugh. “I demand veto power over any and all locker room gossip.”
“Granted.” I look down at her, her face soft and glowing in the dim light of the living room. “You sure about tomorrow? The jersey is a lot of eyes, Hannah.”
She sits up slightly, turning to face me.
Her expression is thoughtful, devoid of the panic that used to define our public interactions.
“I’m not wearing it to prove something to the crowd, Nate. I’m wearing it because I want a new memory. The last time I wore it, everything was a lie. I want to sit there and know I’m not pretending.”
I stare at her, my heart doing a slow, heavy roll in my chest. “You’re very good at saying things that wreck me.”
“Sorry.” She blushes, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt. “I’m a little nervous. About people whispering. About Ethan hearing. Not because I’m unsure of us... just because it’s a big step.”
“I know,” I say, pulling her closer. “You don't have to hide me, and you definitely don't have to protect me. I want the world to know.”
She leans in, kissing me softly—a lingering, sweet contact that tastes like cinnamon and promise. “Then tomorrow, I’m wearing it.”
We move to the bedroom. I haven't worn the jersey since the last home game; it’s clean, hanging carefully in my closet between my suits and a winter coat. I pull it off the hanger, the fabric heavy in my hands.
WILDER. The white letters on the navy fabric look different now. They look like a commitment.
I hand it to her, and she reaches for it with a kind of reverence that makes my throat tight. She slips off her sweater, standing before me in a thin tank top, and pulls the jersey over her head.
It’s huge on her. It falls past her hips, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She looks small and soft and so incredibly *mine* that I forget how to speak. She turns toward the mirror on the closet door, smoothing the fabric over her hips.
“Well?” she asks, catching my eye in the reflection.
I cross the room in two steps, my hands settling on her waist. I pull her back against my chest, my chin resting on her shoulder. “You have no idea what this is doing to me, Hannah.”
“Yeah?” She smiles, leaning back into me.
“I’m going to see you in the stands, and I’m going to know you came for me. For real.”
“I am.” She turns in my arms, her fingers lacing behind my neck. “So you’d better score.”
“Demanding. Is this one of those girlfriend privileges?”
“Absolutely. One goal. Minimum.”
I kiss her then—not a careful kiss, but a hot, immediate one that tastes of want and victory.
My hands slide down the smooth fabric of the jersey, mapping out the curves of her body beneath it.
She moans into my mouth, her body arching into mine, and for a second, the game and the scouts and the rest of the world don't exist.
I pull back, breathing hard, looking at her in my name. The thought hits me then—clear and sharp and terrifying.
*I love her.*
The word is so loud in my head I’m afraid I’ve said it out loud. Hannah notices the shift; she always does. “What?”
I shake my head, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Nothing. Just a private thought.”
“Good thought?”
I nod, my heart hammered against my ribs. “The best.”
I drive her back to her dorm later, the jersey folded carefully in her lap like it’s made of glass. I wait until she’s safely inside before I pull away. Tomorrow, the crowd will see us. Tomorrow, the lie is officially dead.
And as I drive home, the word *Love* keeps pace with the rhythm of my heart, skating closer with every breath I take.