6 - Wesley
Wesley
Harborlight Stadium is quiet except for the rhythmic thump of the ball against my cleats. Cold air bites at my cheeks, and my breath fogs in pale clouds, but I barely notice. I’m in the zone, my mind and body syncing in that rare place beyond fatigue.
Shot after shot, I fire with precision, replaying techniques in my head. The ball responds like it’s a living thing, obedient to my movements. This is why I love the sport. The control.
My muscles burn, but I feel sharper than I have in weeks. Another medical bill for my dad arrived this morning, and the weight of it pushes me harder.
If I make the National Team, it changes everything.
I love playing professionally, I really do, but women’s salaries are minuscule compared to men’s despite the same effort and travel.
I’m lucky to be paid as much as I am, but I can’t play soccer forever.
I have to think ahead to make sure I’m set for life.
But Dad’s medical bills and Emma’s tuition add up fast these days.
Men like Nathan Wilder don’t have this problem. His salary alone dwarfs mine, never mind the endorsement deals. He gets to live luxuriously and show up late to things with no repercussions.
My mind circles back to this field one week ago. Nathan had looked good in a suit, but in his teal Blades sweatshirt, dripping with sweat, he was completely distracting. I’d watched him far more than I was comfortable with. It was infuriating.
I ran them into the ground that day. To his credit, Nathan held up better than most. He was the first to score, even with his legs shaking. It was a decent shot too, not that I’d admit it. And that smile he wore afterward? Damn.
Then he had to open his mouth and ruin it. I mean, asking for my number was one thing, but implying that all he wanted was a hookup? It was confusing, then insulting, and maybe flattering?
A hookup with Boston’s most well-known and sexiest athlete would be a dream for most girls. It’s exactly why I refused to give him my number. He’s the kind of distraction that would be fun in the moment and a disaster afterward. I need focus, not flirtation.
The crunch of shoes on half-frozen turf catches my attention.
“Careful, Wesley. Don’t want the turf to miss you too much.”
I turn sharply to find Nathan Wilder with his sweatshirt half-zipped and his hockey bag slung over one shoulder. It’s as if my thoughts conjured him.
He’s interrupting my flow, but that does nothing to stop my insides from somersaulting. Especially not when he’s wearing one of his infuriatingly confident grins.
“Wilder,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Shouldn’t you be anywhere else?”
He shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite soccer captain. Make sure she’s still finding the back of the net.”
I raise a brow. “Only one of us seems to have that issue. And it’s not me.”
“You watched my game.”
“I like watching games with or without you in them.” I kick the ball back and forth between my feet. “Nice deflection from the fact that you missed an easy goal.”
I’m teasing, but a shadow passes over his face. Interesting. He’s still upset over it. I’d pegged him for the type of guy who skates by on minimal effort and raw talent.
“You got me.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “But you have to admit games are much better when I’m in them.”
“I’ll admit nothing.” I pop the ball up, juggling it back and forth between my feet in the air. “Except that you have an incredible ability to show up when I’m most focused and ruin it with your voice.”
“I call that good timing.”
“Or unrelenting arrogance?”
“Maybe both. Throw in a little delusion, too.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“I’m still not giving you my number.” I pop the ball in his direction, and he catches it.
“That’s not why I’m here.” He runs his palm down his jaw, suddenly serious. “Well, I guess I am, but not the way you think. It’s something else.”
“Spit it out.” I snag the ball out of his hands, careful not to touch him. The last time we touched, it was days before I stopped feeling it.
“Right. I was hoping that maybe you could help me with some cross-training? Stuff like we did last time?”
I pause before unrestrained laughter bursts free from my mouth. Except he doesn’t even crack a smile. In fact, he looks like he wants to crawl into the nearest hole and never show his face again.
“No one’s ever hit on me before by asking me to exercise with them,” I say, catching my breath.
At that, his lips tilt up. “Not hitting on you, promise. It’s a serious question.”
This guy makes millions. He has coaches, trainers, regimens, and a million other things at his disposal. Why would he need me?
“Why?”
He exhales slowly. “It’s a contract year, and my stats suck. I’m at risk of losing my contract altogether if I don’t turn it around.”
It seems like he is playing fine, by the way ESPN raves about him. You’d think he is God’s gift to earth the way they talk about him.
“What does that have to do with me?” I let my hair down before pulling it into a tighter ponytail.
“The first couple of practices and games after I worked out with you, I performed better.”
“That could be a fluke,” I argue, because surely he can’t actually think one practice with me is responsible for his hat trick the next day.
Yes, I know he had a hat trick. Professional interest. That’s all.
“Maybe, but it felt good. I haven’t been challenged that way without all the pressure in a long time. I’ve been doing the same drills and exercises for so long, but training with you was different. It helped.”
My pulse stutters at the implication that I inspired something in him. I tell myself he’s only referring to the workout, but my heart beats faster anyway.
“Will you help me out?” His voice drops, quieter now. “Just a couple of days a week. Nothing crazy.” Hope shines in his eyes as if I’m his only chance.
I feel for him. I know what burnout and complacency look like, even if you still love what you do. I’ve watched teammates struggle with those issues at every level. I want to help.
But…
The last time I let myself be talked into something, back in college, I almost lost my scholarship.
My family needs me to concentrate on one thing, and it’s not him. If I say yes, it might help him, but it could hurt me. Besides, spending too much time with him feels dangerous in a way I can’t afford.
“I can’t,” I say finally.
He deflates. “It was probably a stupid idea.”
“It’s not stupid. I just don’t have time to commit to that. I’m chasing the National Team, and I can’t risk messing up my own progress.”
He nods, but his jaw twitches.
I know he gets it. Athletes understand sacrifice better than most. His own commitment to his sport is the only reason he’d swallow his pride and ask for my help in the first place.
“In case you change your mind.” He pulls out a piece of paper with his number on it.
“I won’t.” I don’t toss it aside, instead tucking it into my pocket. The lone butterfly in my stomach is impossible to ignore.
His crooked grin appears, but this time it’s layered with a resignation that cuts into me. “You’re brutal, you know that?”
“I don’t have a choice but to be.” It’s not snappy, just honest.
In my life, there’s only one thing that gets me where I need to go: unwavering dedication to soccer. Anything else is wasted energy.
His head tilts, smugness blending with earnest curiosity. “What if you did have a choice?”
I swallow, refusing to answer. I don’t consider it for more than a second because it’s hypothetical anyway.
“Anyway,” He motions to the pocket I’ve slipped his number into. “Give me a call when you change your mind.”
Then, he turns and walks away.
“I told you I don’t have time to train with you.” My voice echoes across the field.
“That time, Miller,” he calls without turning back, “I wasn’t talking about training.”
My cheeks flush as I watch him walk away with a confident swagger that screams of a man who’s used to getting what he wants.
I’m about to force myself back into drills when a voice drifts down from the bleachers.
“Interesting visitor you had.”
I stiffen.
Coach Bennett stands halfway down the bleachers. Her blond hair is pulled back in a tight braid. She looks like she came straight from a meeting, but could start into a sprint without warning. Most people assume she’s a player heading to drills, not the coach who spends the afternoon in meetings.
I drag my bag over and meet her halfway up. There’s no point in pretending my session isn’t over now.
“He seemed friendly,” she says, her eyebrows raised while she watches me carefully. “Nathan Wilder, right?”
“We met at the award gala,” I say quickly. “Nothing to talk about.”
Her brows lift. “Nothing? He looked very interested, and you didn’t exactly chase him off the field with a broom.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Shame.”
I blink. “Shame?”
“A little distraction would be good for you.”
My frown deepens.
She softens her stance, voice gentle but firm. “Wesley, you’re twenty-five. You have more talent than most of this league, but you’re going to burn yourself out.”
“I’m not…”
“You’re here six days a week. Sometimes seven. We aren’t even in season. You train harder than my entire roster combined. That dedication is admirable, but it’s not sustainable.” She looks me dead in the eye. “Frankly, it’s putting your captaincy at risk.”
I toy with the sleeves of the jacket in my lap.
“Being captain is about more than stats. It’s leadership and relationships.
It’s about balance. Your teammates respect you, but they don’t know you.
They barely see you outside practice. You avoid team dinners and bonding nights.
I asked you to go to Paige’s birthday, and you skipped it to watch game tape. ”
I flinch. She isn’t wrong, but the team doesn’t need me to be their friend. They need me to win us games.
“I’m trying to make the National Team.”
“And I want you to, but if you want to be at that level, you need more than talent. You need balance. You need a life. Off the pitch.”
I stare at the turf, resisting the urge to argue. She doesn’t get it. Every day not spent training is a day someone else gets better.
“I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Coach says. “If this doesn’t change, I’m going to be reconsidering who wears the captain’s band next season.”
The words hit like a sucker punch.
Captain isn’t a title. It’s a purpose. It’s proof I deserve to be here. It’s also my financial security.
Panic surges.
The lie leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
“I’ve thought the same thing. That's why Nathan was here a little while ago. He’s been begging me to spend more time with him. He’s actually my boyfriend. We were making plans.”
Silence falls. Holy shit. I really said that.
Coach blinks. “Your boyfriend is Nathan Wilder.”
“Yes.” Shit. I said it again.
She studies me for a long moment. I hold my breath, praying she can’t see the tremor in my hands.
Then, she smiles. “That’s wonderful to hear.”
Guilt knots in my throat, but I nod stiffly, having no idea how to walk back the lie.
“You’ve been so isolated,” she continues. “It’s good to see you letting someone in. I want you to bring him to the team party in January.”
My eyes widen. “The team party…”
“Yes. It’ll be good for the team to see you with someone. They can see that their captain has the work-life balance everyone deserves.”
It was nearly two months away.
Fucking perfect.
Enough time for this lie to explode spectacularly in my face.
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Of course. I’ll… tell him.”
Coach squeezes my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Wesley. Truly. You deserve to have something outside this sport.”
Then she walks off, leaving me alone in the stands. My fingers brush the slip of paper in my pocket.
My captaincy is on the line. My National Team dream is at risk. And now I have a fake boyfriend I absolutely didn’t ask for.
So much for no distractions.