10 - Nathan
Nathan
By the time the food hits the table, I’ve already catalogued at least a dozen ways this could go sideways if I stop paying attention.
I’d asked Grayson if he knew of a good date place, considering he’s known for having long-term, stable relationships. Well, that and the man is literally always eating. Constantly. If there is a restaurant worth going to, he knows about it.
I’d kept things vague, telling Grayson I wanted to go somewhere new. He was suspicious, but luckily didn’t pry. His recommendation turned out great. Maybe even too great.
I haven’t told the guys about this whole fake-dating arrangement yet. Mostly because I don’t want to hear about it, but also because I know Wesley’s embarrassed.
A woman like her doesn’t ask for help often, and right now, she needs mine. The last thing I want to do is blast her panicked declaration to my entire hockey team and make this harder for her.
Wesley sits across from me with the sunlight catching in her hair. Her posture is relaxed in a way that still reads disciplined, like even her ease has been practiced.
When she’d answered the door in that dress, I practically had to pick my jaw up off the floor. I know for a fact that Avery probably dressed her, not because Wesley couldn’t pick something like this out herself, but because she wouldn’t.
Nothing about Wesley’s personality screams ‘I love to wear dresses on a Sunday afternoon’.
I thought about teasing her about it, but decided to let it slide. The last thing I want is to minimize how beautiful she looks today. And God, does she look gorgeous.
For the third time since we sat down, I remind myself that this is professional. I agreed to this because I need help trying some new workouts.
It has nothing to do with the way her mouth curves when she’s trying not to smile or how her eyes sharpen when she’s thinking three steps ahead of a question I’m still forming.
Her plate arrives first. She ordered salmon, probably operating off some sort of meal plan that she doesn’t need. I’d contemplated following suit, but the burger looked too damn good. Now that it’s in front of me, I have zero regrets.
“Okay,” she says, lifting her fork. “Now, we eat like normal people.”
I laugh under my breath. This lunch is somehow extremely awkward and comfortable at the same time. “I’m capable of that, you know.”
“I’ve seen how hockey players inhale food.”
“That’s fueling,” I counter, taking my first bite. “Very different.”
She hums, unconvinced, but smiles anyway.
We eat for a few minutes in silence, the kind that doesn’t feel like a test, just space to exist. It’s rare for me. Every interaction lately feels like a performance with someone expecting something, reading into how much I drink, who I leave with, and if it all might impact my game.
I can hardly escape a conversation without someone giving me their two cents about how I choose to live my life.
My parents. My coach. Everyone has an opinion that I’m supposed to hear out.
It’s exhausting. Here, no one is paying us any real attention, and if they are, it’s exactly what we want them to see.
And Wesley, she doesn’t seem to expect me to fit into some predetermined mold. It’s nice.
I wipe my hands on my napkin, keeping my tone light. “Baseline lunch assessment. How am I doing?”
Her eyes flick up, amused. “You haven’t said anything wildly incriminating yet.”
“Yet.”
“That’s promising.”
I notice her shoulders are more relaxed. “You seem less tense than earlier.”
“That’s because we’re not talking about contracts or captaincies or coaches right now.” She takes a sip of her sparkling water. “This feels easier.”
“You're saying there’s more to Wesley than soccer?”
The question hangs a beat longer than intended, and I shift in my chair, rolling my shoulders as if I can physically shake off the awareness of her watching me.
“Much more.” She tilts her head. “What about you? Other than hockey and apparently being tragically misunderstood by the media.”
I snort. “That’s my whole personality, actually.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Hockey, hiking, and exploring whatever city I’m in that week.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You hike.”
“I do.”
“Where?”
“Well, it’s more like I enjoy walking near nature.”
Her laugh comes quick and unguarded, and I file that sound away immediately. “Of course it is. Hiking and exploring? I figured you were a city boy.”
“I am,” I say, setting my fork down. “I grew up here and don’t ever want to leave. But we’re surrounded by a lot of sights, and I like seeing what else is out there.”
“But no scaling mountains?”
“Hell no. I use the word hiking loosely.”
She laughs again, and I catch myself wondering how often I can get her to do that.
“You have to be careful when saying ‘hiking’. The next thing you know, you're three miles into climbing Mount Monadnock, scrambling for your life.”
The memory flashes across her face.
“Speaking from experience?” I ask.
“Unfortunately.” Her cheeks flush. “There was no second date.”
“He sounds horrible. Who the hell takes someone on that kind of hike on a first date? You dodged a bullet.”
“A twenty-one-year-old guy trying to show off how cool he was, that’s who.”
“I’m definitely doing better than that guy.”
“If you say so.” She takes a sip of her water, wiggling her eyebrows.
“What about you? What does Wesley Miller do outside of soccer?”
She shifts uncomfortably as if I’d asked a hard question and not just about her other hobbies. Except…
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t seriously mean you have literally nothing you enjoy outside of soccer.”
There’s serious and then fixated. Clearly, she’s the latter.
“I don’t have time for much else. When there’s room in my schedule, I like to run in charity runs or try different local yoga classes.”
“That doesn’t count,” I argue, knowing that she only does those things to help with soccer.
“They count.” Her jaw works.
“I’ll give you half credit. Maybe.”
She scoffs. “I did not agree to be graded on my hobbies.”
I take a bite of my burger, eyeing her while she squirms under my gaze. “Too bad. Give me something else. Anything else.”
She toys with the straw in her water longer than she should have to. My heart tugs.
“Girls’ nights with Avery and my friend Harper.” Her smile is triumphant.
“Do you talk about soccer at these girls’ nights?”
“Yes,” she says, holding up a finger to stop me from interrupting. “But we talk about other things more.”
Her cheeks turn scarlet. She’s probably thinking about their recent conversations. Whatever they were, she doesn’t want me to know. My grin widens because I’m about ninety percent sure my name was involved.
Knowing that she’s talking about me with her friends does something to me.
“Fine. I’ll accept it.”
Her eyes roll, but her grin stays in place.
She relaxes more after that, leaning forward onto the table as the conversation becomes a rhythm of shared stories.
She tells me about pregame rituals, insisting she’s not superstitious even though she dresses in the same order before every game.
I tell her about junior leagues and how a prank involving a puppy in the locker room turned into Wyatt owning a dog against his will.
“I’d never be able to handle the shit you guys throw at each other.” She shakes her head.
“I like the surprises.”
Surprises like how well the conversation is flowing with Wesley. Surprises like how much I want to keep talking to her.
“I like control. Knowing what’s coming. Planning for it.”
I watch her neatly align her cutlery when she finishes. “This whole thing must feel like chaos.”
“You have no idea.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m going to try to make things as easy as possible for you. I know we’re both walking a line.”
She meets my gaze and nods. Something unspoken settles between us, a tension neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
When we’re finished, I pay the bill before she can argue. She looks like she might, but then lets it go. I take it as a small victory.
Outside, winter bites at the air, and the pale sky stretches overhead. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets while we walk to the car.
As I pull out of the parking lot, I ask, “Do I get a second date?”
“And a third and a fourth,” she says easily. “If you behave.”
It’s a joke, but my body reacts to her bossiness anyway. Not now. Not now. Not now.
“I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”
It’s true. I haven’t pushed the boundaries, even though the longer lunch went on, the more I wanted to.
“You have.” She says slowly, as if it surprises her.
My grip tightens on the wheel. The fact that being a gentleman is a surprise shows how fake this all is. If it were real, she’d already know it’s the least she could expect from me.
Between the name misunderstanding and my being late, we had a rockier start than I’d like. I hope she is at least starting to believe better of me. Though I can’t quite figure out why her approval matters at all to me.
“We’ve already agreed on training twice a week when we’re not on an away series. In the mornings,” I add reluctantly, hating getting up before eight when I don’t have to.
“At seven.” She smiles as if my pain brings her joy.
“Yes, seven.” I glare at her. “What about on your end? How often do we need to be seen in public?”
“As often as we can spare until the party.” Then, as if realizing the implication, she adds, “without cramping your style, obviously. No formal statement or anything.”
“It doesn’t cramp my style.” I turn the heat down a little. Being this close to her is more than enough heat without the car warming me up further.
“We should probably go out a couple of nights with the girls on my team.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“I think about everything,” she says dryly.
“When’s the next night out?”
Her street comes into view, and I’m tempted to circle the block.
“Next weekend. We have a home scrimmage on Friday. Win or lose, the girls always go out after.” She fidgets in her seat, fingers tapping on the center console.
“Do you usually go?
“No. That’s why I’m in this mess.”
“Why not?” I know she’s dedicated, but it’s not like she doesn’t have friends.
She glances up at me, chewing on her lip while contemplating her answer.
“I try to keep it all as a job. My family needs me to succeed in this to support them. I don’t want to get involved with the team personally and offset the balance. It’s better to stay focused.”
I understand that weight instantly, even if our lives look different on paper, we both have something to prove. Before I think better of it, I take her hand, stopping its restless movement. Her head jolts up, eyes locking with mine.
“You can succeed in soccer and still let yourself live a little.” My voice is gentle as I pull up to her place.
“No. I can’t.”
There’s more to that answer, but her tone makes it clear that she doesn’t plan to tell me.
For a few aching seconds, I get caught up in the feel of her fingers against mine. I should let go. Hell, I should’ve never grabbed her in the first place. Instead, my fingers trail up her wrist. I drag them up her arm, relishing in the way her breath hitches.
She’s not looking at me. Instead, she’s watching my hand with determined focus.
“What about touching?” I force myself to pull back, returning my hand to my lap.
She coughs, my question catching her off guard like I hoped it would. “Huh?”
“Well, if we’re dating, then people will expect touching.” I tilt my head, forcing a professional expression onto my face even though my heart is beating out of my chest at the thought of getting my hands on her.
“Holding hands, arms around each other, and hugging. That’s all okay by me.” A red tint takes over her cheeks.
“And kissing?” I’m pushing the boundaries, and I know it.
She folds her arms as if she knows it too. So, I give her a second, rounding the car to open her door. Her eyes burn into my skin, watching me with curiosity.
As I open the door, I lean in using my arms to brace myself against it, caging her in. “Well?” I ask.
“If the moment calls for it.” Her eyes dart to my lips as she slowly climbs out, bringing us eye level.
“And now? Someone could be lurking, wondering if this is fake.”
I lean closer to her, feeling her breath against my lips.
We pause, lips only inches from each other. Then, right before I do something extremely stupid, she turns.
Her lips brush against my ear. “Then let them talk.”
And then she’s gone, pushing past me and smiling like she knows exactly what she’s done to me.
“Don’t be late Tuesday,” she calls.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I groan, watching her walk away and forcing myself not to chase after her.
Once she’s inside, I toss my head back against my car, letting out the breath I’d been holding. Fuck.
Friday.
Only a few days until I can pretend she’s mine again.
Spending two months with her platonically is going to be a test of my willpower. A test I’m not sure I’ll pass.