5 - Nathan
Nathan
I rip the gloves off in sharp, angry tugs, thinking about the shot I sent sailing into the stratosphere. It was a perfect setup and an open net, and I still managed to lift it like I was aiming for the nosebleeds instead of the twine.
The second my stick touched the puck, I knew I fucked up, but it was already too late. The disappointment on everyone’s faces stung, but was expected. One thing about continuously playing like shit is that I’m becoming very used to letting people down.
The locker room buzzes with hissing showers and the clatter of sticks hitting the ground. The faint smell of sweat and disinfectant burns my nose. None of it cuts through the replay looping in my head. If I close my eyes, I swear I can still hear the crowd groan.
“Pretty sure that puck’s still orbiting Earth,” Liam calls from a few stalls down, voice dripping with sarcasm, a crooked grin cemented on his face. As my best friend, he’s legally obligated to roast me first.
“NASA wants tracking rights,” Grayson adds, a towel slung around his neck.
The guys laugh. It’s the kind of ribbing only teammates who’ve bled beside you on the ice can throw without drawing blood. I toss my balled-up tape in Liam’s direction, pretending to be unfazed.
He responds by squeezing his water bottle at me, a cold stream hitting me in the chest. If it were anyone else, I’d be annoyed, but Liam is like a brother to me.
We met at a hockey camp when we were ten, our friendship surviving living in different states and going to different colleges.
We both ended up with the same agent, Ryan Elliott, and eventually on the same professional team, a couple of years ago.
It was the first time we got to play together, and we clicked immediately, becoming the best duo in professional hockey. Until my slump, at least.
“Glad I could keep you all entertained,” I say, bitter edges impossible to hide.
“You’ll bury the next one.” Grayson leans back on the bench without a care in the world. “Everybody has off nights.”
Off night.
If only it were just one. Unfortunately, this was a pattern, not the exception.
Luckily, Wyatt crushed it between the pipes, so we managed to skate by with a slim victory.
I stare at my gear, the pads scuffed and battered. I’m not supposed to be this guy, the one who doubts every step. I’m a confident veteran with ten years of professional play and the skills to show for it. Except lately, those skills are nowhere to be found.
A week ago, after the training session with Wesley, I felt electric. Maybe it was her, or maybe it was training somewhere new, doing new things.
I’ve played hockey since I was five. I’ve been on skates even longer. That’s over twenty-three years of doing the same drills and sprints. I still love the sport without question, but I’d be lying if I said my heart was in it the same way it used to be.
It makes me feel like an asshole. Guys all over the country would kill to be in my position, and I’m wasting it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
All it took was a day of training in a new way for me to think I was finally clawing my way out of this slump. For the first game this week, I was faster and hungrier. I could see it on the crowd’s faces. The excitement for the Wilder they know and love.
Now? The spark burnt out as fast as it came, doubt flooding right back in.
“Hey,” Liam says, nudging my shoulder. “You’re not the first guy to choke on a gimme.”
I don’t have a chance to answer because a knock cuts through the room’s noise. One of the assistant coaches sticks his head in.
“Wilder, Coach Rylan wants to see you.”
There’s a chorus of groans and drawn-out “oohs.” Someone mutters, “Dead man walking.” I pretend to laugh, but my heart dips hard.
I peel off the last of my gear, shove it into my bag, and head down the hallway. Each step feels heavier, like gravity doubled. Coach Rylan’s office waits at the end, the door cracked open with fluorescent light spilling out.
I remind myself that nothing he says to me can be worse than the thoughts already running through my head. I’m not playing great, sure, but it isn’t bad enough to ship me off to a farm team. At least I fucking hope not.
I knock once.
“Come in.”
I step inside. Coach Rylan sits behind his desk, his face set in the kind of seriousness that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
“Sit.”
I do, pulse thudding in my ears.
“You know I believe in you,” he starts, voice even. “Always have. You’ve got the kind of talent guys dream of.”
For a moment, hope flickers. Then he crushes it.
“But talent and showing up aren’t translating into results.”
I swallow. “I know. I’m…”
He cuts me off. “Being here isn’t enough right now. Not with where we are in the standings. Not with your contract expiring at the end of the season.”
The words hit with the weight of a cross-check to the ribs.
“If you don’t turn this around, we’re going to have to make some tough decisions,” he says, firm but not cruel. “And as much as I like you, that includes your extension.”
My lungs seize up.
“You’ve got some time,” Coach continues. “Figure it out. Because the way you’re playing is not sustainable, and it’s not enough.”
The chair creaks as I push up. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I want to keep you here, but the league won’t wait for you to get your head right.”
I nod once and walk out, the door shutting behind me with a soft click that feels like a gunshot.
The locker room is quieter when I push the door open again. Most of the guys have cleared out, leaving behind the lingering smell of sweat. I don’t say a word, heading straight for the showers.
I’m not the captain, but the team still looks to me as a leader. That’s what happens when you play in one place longer than most. The Nathan Wilder they know is confident, if not a little cocky. He doesn’t feel lost. He doesn’t feel weak. So, I take ten minutes in the shower, shaking it all off.
Hot water pounds onto my skin, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to loosen the coil in my shoulders. Coach Rylan’s words replay, circling like vultures.
I brace my hand against the tile and let the steam blur everything. For a few minutes, I let myself feel the disappointment and fear that’s been building for months before cracking open tonight.
Then, I shut off the water, ready to plaster a fake-ass smile on my face. When I step out, only three guys remain.
Liam is sprawled on the bench, still shirtless, scrolling on his phone. Grayson is perched on top of a stall like some kind of gremlin because he has zero regard for normal etiquette. And Wyatt is leaning against his locker with his arms crossed.
All three look up when they hear me.
Liam whistles low. “Well? Are you dead? Do we need to plan a memorial?”
I toss my towel at him, sliding my suit back on. It smacks him in the face, and he pretends to gag.
Wyatt’s gaze is steady. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
I sit on the bench and drag a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”
“What’d he say?” Grayson asks, sliding down to sit properly for once.
“He likes me,” I mutter with a humorless laugh. “He thinks I’ve got talent, but if I don’t turn this around, my contract’s gone.”
Silence fills the room like smoke.
Liam’s joking expression falls completely, the reality setting in. “Damn. He actually said that?”
“Word for word.”
Wyatt curses under his breath. “Shit.”
I shrug even though every muscle in me is knotted. At least my friends agree that it’s bad news, because my parents would be thrilled.
“He’s not wrong.” I sigh, shoving stuff into my bag.
“You were getting it back,” Grayson says. “After that charity thing, you looked different for a couple of days. Like the old you.”
“You did play well against Tampa.” That’s Wyatt practically writing me a sonnet.
I laugh despite myself. “Thanks, man. Inspirational.”
Liam nods. “Whatever clicked for you with that soccer girl…”
“Wesley,” I correct.
He raises his eyebrows. “Right. Whatever clicked for you with Wesley seemed to work.”
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “It did.”
The workout was brutal. Humiliating. And the most alive I’ve felt in months.
“She challenged you,” Wyatt says.
It really was as simple as that. She didn’t care that I was Nathan Wilder.
She didn’t care that I played hockey. She only cared that I showed up and busted my ass to keep up with her.
Being pushed like that, without it being tied to the Blades, my teammates who count on me, or my contract, was freeing.
Grayson nods. “Maybe you should ask her to help you again. Like… privately. Extra training and conditioning.”
“Cross-training in a new sport helps people get their groove back all the time,” Liam adds.
I cringe. “She turned me down, and not gently. Like a very intense rejection.”
Liam finally pulls on the rest of his suit. “That girl scares the shit out of me. But I also saw the way she looked at you. Like she wanted to break you in half and then maybe ride you into the sunset.”
Wyatt groans. “Jesus, man.”
Grayson leans forward. “She doesn’t have to want to fuck you. Just help you. Athlete to athlete.”
“And if something else happens…” Liam waggles his brows.
Wyatt, ever the realist, says, “You need to fix your game. If she’s the spark, what choice do you have?”
I let their words settle.
The idea of spending more time with her ignites something in my chest. Not just desire, but drive and competition. The urge to be pushed and challenged in a new way. Maybe I could prove something to myself in the process.
“I don’t think she’ll go for it,” I admit.
“But you like the idea,” Liam says knowingly.
I meet his gaze. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then ask,” Wyatt orders. “The worst she can say is no.”
I remember the sting of her last rejection. There are definitely worse things she can say. But as I sit here, surrounded by three of the only people who still believe in me, one thing becomes clear: doing nothing is no longer an option.
And for the first time in far too long, a sliver of hope cuts through the doubt.
Maybe she won’t do it. Maybe she’ll laugh in my face.
But maybe, just maybe, she’ll say yes.