13 - Wesley
Wesley
Can you please take me home now?” I ask, desperate to get away from the crowd lingering around the car.
Nathan’s hands are tight on the steering wheel.
I notice that first, before anything else. Not the speed, not the way the city blurs past the windows, but the tension in his grip. His knuckles are pale, and his jaw is set like he’s bracing for impact.
I stare out the passenger-side window, trying to process what the hell just happened.
“How are you doing?” He asks, breaking the silence.
I shrug, because I don’t know how I’m doing. “Fine.”
The word sounds small even to me.
He nods as if he believes me, but it looks more like he knows better and is letting it go for now. The city lights reflect off the windshield, streaking gold and white across his face. He looks different like this. An ordinary guy who looks like he might be regretting a dozen choices at once.
“We can reschedule.” His fingers tap on the wheel.
I realize then that he’s nervous. How many relationships of his have broken down under the type of scrutiny that just ambushed me outside the stadium? Is that what he’s worried about? That I’ll call the whole thing off.
Lucky for him, I don’t scare easily. I also don’t back out of promises. We both need this to keep going. Cameras be damned.
“We’re going,” I clarify. “But I need to change.”
Another nod. A beat of silence.
Finally, I glance over at him. “Why were you at the stadium?”
His eyes flick to mine, then back to the road. “Our game ended an hour ago. I was going to try to warn you.”
I blink. “Did you win?”
He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you want to ask me? If we won?”
“Yeah.” It’s a start at least.
“Yes, Wesley, we won.” The corner of his lip tilts up in a smirk.
We pull onto my street, which is quieter and darker than the rest of downtown. The familiarity settles me further. My unit comes into view, the porch light glowing softly in the night.
“And you? Did you play better?” I ask, knot forming as the question leaves my lips.
He only agreed to this ridiculous arrangement to improve his game and rediscover his love for the sport.
I’ve been trying to challenge him in new ways during our sessions, but the workouts aren’t groundbreaking.
He could easily decide to do them alone without having to play into this charade.
“Yes. I did. I have been all week.” He pulls into the space outside my apartment. “Can I explain?”
I know he wants to talk about what happened. We should talk about it, but I don’t know what to say. So, instead of doing what’s reasonable, I burst out of the car and into my apartment. I’m a coward.
Inside, I pull on the outfit I’d laid out this morning when I was excited for tonight and not hesitant. Dark jeans and a black crop top. I’m ready in two minutes, but I hesitate in my bedroom.
My phone buzzes with a text from my sister.
Emma: Streamed your scrimmage tonight. Nice win! Are you coming home for Thanksgiving next week?
Me: Thanks, but I’m not sure I can make it.
Emma: Why?
Because going home hurts. Because I’m teetering on the line between responsibility and recklessness, and going home might push me over the edge. All things I wish I could say, but can’t.
Me: A lot of team responsibilities. Sorry.
Emma: So, it has nothing to do with THE Nathan Wilder telling everyone you’re his girlfriend.
Emma: I’m your sister! ESPN is not the place for me to find this out!!!
Fuck. The last thing I need is to explain this arrangement to my little sister.
Me: It’s not what it looks like. Please don’t tell Dad. And pretend you never saw that.
Three dots show up, but I’ve already been inside too long. I click my phone shut and slide it into my jeans. Emma’s guilt-trip can wait until I know what the hell to say.
As I head down the steps to the car, I realize I still don’t know how to act around him.
I didn’t want this kind of publicity. Maybe I should’ve expected it considering who he is, but I didn’t. I didn’t anticipate it at all, but none of it is his fault. I’m the one who came up with this whole story. He’s the one playing along.
A bubble of nerves rises in my chest when he’s in the same spot waiting for me.
“I’m sorry.” He says as I climb in. Then, his eyes focus on me, darkening. “Wow, you look great. Like really great.”
“Jaw off the floor, Wilder.” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. “And you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who lied about us dating in the first place.”
The car pulls away from the curb as he plugs in the address for The Blue Line, the bar my team frequents.
I notice that it’s only a twenty-minute walk from my apartment.
For years, I’ve been sitting at home while my team hangs out only a mile and a half from my apartment. Coach Bennett really is right.
“Yeah, but going on a couple of fake dates is different from announcing publicly that you’re my girlfriend.”
“It is.” I turn toward him, raising my eyebrows. “You could’ve said it wasn’t what it looked like.”
“I know.”
“You could have said it was just a date.”
“I know.”
“You could have said nothing at all.”
“I know,” he repeats, softer now. “But none of those answers make this believable or help you.”
The car slows as we hit a red light. For a second, the city feels suspended around us. I study his profile, noticing the faint bruise along his cheekbone from a rough hit last night. My heart jumped into my throat when I watched it happen.
He looks like he’s waiting for me to end our agreement.
“I’m not mad.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true. I’m not mad at him, at least.
His shoulders loosen a fraction. “Okay.”
“I’m just overwhelmed.”
“That’s fair.”
The light turns green, and he eases forward. He seems so steady; meanwhile, I’m anything but.
“I didn’t mean for it to get like that,” he says. “The attention tonight. All of it.”
“I know.” And I do. That attention is unavoidable for him. It’s his life. This was always part of the deal, even if I pretended it wouldn’t be. “I can’t believe they’re that concerned with your life. It’s kind of awful.”
“Yeah, my parents think the same thing. It’s not ideal, but hockey is worth it.”
I don’t like the way his eyes drop when he mentions his parents, but I know my place, and it’s not in his business.
He parks at the curb and cuts the engine.
Neither of us moves.
“My teammates are excited to meet you,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“About that,” He starts, reaching across me to pull my door closed again. He climbs out and walks around to reopen my door for me. He did the same thing last Sunday, and it still makes my heart beat faster.
“In the spirit of not blindsiding you again, some of the guys invited themselves tonight. They know this isn’t real.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But they know how to keep their mouths shut.”
“Fuck,” I say, climbing out. “Okay, Avery and Harper know too, so I get it.”
He laces his fingers through mine, grip tightening when I go to pull away.
I don’t like the way his hand feels in mine. Well, I do like it, but that’s the problem.
“Ready, girlfriend?” He asks, his grin widening.
“As I’ll ever be.” I can’t help but smile back.
Luckily, there is no press outside the bar, and they’re banned inside. We make our way through the doors without any other confrontations.
The noise hits us immediately. The music is low enough to talk over but loud enough to feel the speakers vibrate. The Blue Line looks exactly as I expected, with dark wood and exposed brick. TVs are lining the walls, replaying highlights from earlier games.
Nathan’s hand stays in mine as we move through the clusters of people. His thumb brushes the side of my knuckle once, absentmindedly, and I tell myself not to read into it.
My teammates are easy to spot. Becca is perched on a barstool as if she owns it, and Haley is leaning against the high-top beside her, mid-laugh. Avery notices me first, her eyes immediately dropping to our joined hands.
“Oh,” she says, winking at me. “This is happening.”
I laugh, nerves loosening a fraction as we weave through the crowd. “You’re acting like he’s a party trick.”
Avery’s grin widens.
Becca chimes in, “Actually, she’s acting like our captain, who has never come out with us before, showed up with the entire hockey team in tow.”
I glance behind us to see Nathan’s friends pushing their way inside. The idea of them mingling with my team makes me jittery, but it’s too late to do anything about it.
I turn to Nathan, motioning to my friends. “You’ve already met Avery.”
“Right around the time, you trash-talked my girl to her face,” Avery says, eyes gleaming and hand extended. “Nice to meet you again.”
“Ouch,” Nathan replies, chuckling.
“We’ve already paid our penance for that.” Liam strolls over, saddling up next to us. “In the form of hours of cardio torture.”
The rest of Nathan’s friends follow behind.
We take turns introducing everyone while I try to ignore his hand sliding from mine and shifting to my lower back.
His palm is flush against me, but the contact is casual.
Normal for anyone dating. Except, it sparks under my skin in a way that’s anything but casual.
Grayson’s eyes flick to Avery, who has gone completely still beside me. His smile sharpens, like he’s been handed an unexpected puzzle.
“Well,” he says, resting an elbow against the table. “If this isn’t fate.”
Avery doesn’t miss a beat. “If by fate you mean you’ve stalked me on social media before, then sure.”
“I never stalked.”
“The picture was from a year ago.”
Grayson’s lips tilt up as he leans forward, eyes laser-focused on Avery. “Well, you looked good.”
There’s a beat of silence that hums with something unfinished. I glance between them, curiosity sparking. Avery has always been friendly, flirtatious even, but there’s a wall there now that I’ve never seen before. Unlike most men, Grayson doesn’t seem put off by it.
Nathan clears his throat. “Okay, drinks.”
We turn toward the bar, catching the eye of one of the waiters.
“Finally,” Liam says. “What’re you having, Wilder?”
Nathan looks down at me, his thumb tracing a lazy circle against my back. “What do you want?”
“Water,” I say without thinking. It’s my default. The smart athlete choice.
He nods immediately. “Water for Miller and me.”
I stare at him, knowing he’s only getting water because I am. The confused expression that passes across Wyatt’s face says as much.
His willingness to follow my lead causes something warm to spread throughout my body. So much so that when the waiter arrives, I change my order.
“I’ll take a beer.”
Nathan’s head turns toward me, eyes searching my face. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I want one.” I can’t remember the last time I had a drink, but with tonight being one big performance, now seems as good a time as any to break the dry spell.
His lips twitch, and he squints his eyes, trying to read my face. “Then I’ll have one too.”
The bartender slides them over. I take a sip, the cold bitterness washing away the spark tingling beneath my skin. Nathan lifts his bottle a second later, our eyes meeting over the rims. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds my hip again, resting there as if he’s done it forever.
Conversation loosens after that. Liam tells a story about getting lost downtown after a road game. Haley chimes in with one about Becca nearly missing a flight because she refused to leave a coffee shop. Laughter weaves between us, and I order another beer.
Then Harper appears, sliding in beside me.
“You made it.” I lean over to hug her.
She grins. “Wouldn’t miss this.”
Nathan turns, eyes lighting up. “You must be Harper.”
“That obvious?” She asks.
He laughs. “You’re exactly how she described you.”
I’d only mentioned Harper briefly last Sunday on our date. I was telling him about a time when Avery, Harper, and I missed the bus home from our game because we got lost. Our coach warned everyone she wouldn’t wait, and left us to Uber the two hours back to campus.
He’d not only remembered her name, but how I described her. I beam, leaning into his side without thinking. His arm tightens slightly around me, subtle but deliberate, and my heart does something stupid.
Whether his hand settles on my back, his fingers brush mine, or his knee presses lightly against mine when we sit, his touch never seems to leave me entirely.
I’m aware of all of it.
When I look up at him, catching his gaze as the room buzzes around us, he smiles like he is exactly where he wants to be. God, he’s good at this. At pretending.
I pinch my arm as if to wake me from the dream I feel like I’m in. This isn’t my life. But pretend or not, I find myself wanting the night to drag on. For the second time in a week, I’m having the kind of fun that I haven’t allowed myself in years. And again, it’s because of him.