25 - Nathan
Nathan
One of the three goals is mine. In the second period, Grayson slid the puck up my line. I pushed it deep, despite their defenseman trying to pin me along the boards. I rolled off the contact, my shoulder low, and slipped the puck back down the wall to Liam as he crashed the net.
His shot went wide, ricocheting hard off the end boards and popping out into chaos. I drove in, jammed my stick through the traffic, and finished it in the lower left corner before the goalie ever saw it coming.
It was my best play this season.
When it happened, I looked up without meaning to, scanning instinctively to find Wesley in the stands.
She’d been on her feet with her Blades cropped sweatshirt riding up, making me think about everything it still covered.
I should’ve looked away to get my head back in the game, but instead, my finger cut through the air, forming a straight line from me to her. I’d barely noticed the crowd exploding around her, or my teammates crashing into me, smacking my helmet.
There are always people in the stands cheering for my performance on the ice as Nathan Wilder, but it’s different with her here. Wesley is just cheering for me. Nathan. I know better than to get used to it, but I’m reveling in it for the night.
Now late in the third, Chicago is desperate. You can feel it in the way their sticks start lingering a second too long. Their shoulders lean into contact that rides the line between aggressive and stupid.
My lungs burn as I hop the boards for another shift.
The building is loud as the ice hums beneath my skates, the crowd feeding off every clean breakout and blocked shot.
The Blades are rolling, lines tight, passes crisp, and legs fresh.
We’re playing like a team that has a chance at something bigger this season.
It helps that I’m actually contributing on the ice.
I circle back through the neutral zone, staying wide on the left, reading the play as it develops. This position still feels new sometimes, like wearing someone else’s gloves.
Tonight, though, it feels easy.
Things are getting uglier as they start tossing out late hits. One of their defensemen slams into me from behind.
He glances up at Wesley in the stands and smirks. “Your little girlfriend looks good cheering for you. I bet she’d be really good for me.”
Something sharp and hot snaps in my chest.
The whistle hasn’t blown yet. The puck is still live, but I don’t fucking care. I drop my shoulder and drive him into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. The impact thunders through my arms and skates.
He crumples, sliding down the wall with a grunt.
The ref’s arm goes up, but it’s worth it.
As I skate to the penalty box, he smirks at me, trying to play it off.
“Touchy,” he says.
I meet his eyes through the glass. “Keep your eyes off my fucking girlfriend.”
I spend my time in the sin bin, ignoring the jealousy coursing through me at the idea of anyone other than me eyeing up Wesley. She is gorgeous. Anyone with eyes notices, but I still didn’t like his tone.
Fuck.
I have no right to feel this way.
Luckily, we’re still leading when my time is up, Chicago failing to capitalize on my penalty.
The ice opens up in front of me right as the puck hits my stick. The crowd rises, and a familiar surge of adrenaline floods my veins. I angle in, pulling the puck out of reach of the trailing defender.
The goalie squares up, trying to read me, but he’s slow.
The puck hits the back of the net with a sound I’ll never get tired of.
4-0.
I don’t point this time, but I do look for her. She’s laughing, her head tilted back and eyes bright as Harper says something to her. Even in the midst of her conversation, her eyes lock on mine as if she felt me watching her.
Something settles in my chest that has nothing to do with the score.
Our coach taps shoulders with three minutes left, sending the third line and fourth line over the boards, letting the younger guys soak it in.
I lean forward on the bench, elbows on my knees, as sweat cools on my neck. The noise of the game fades enough for me to notice my breathing, the ache in my thighs, and the way my heart is still racing even though I’m done for the night.
Coach Rylan stops behind me, his voice low so only I can hear him.
“See me after.”
My chest feels too tight for a normal breath.
I nod, pretending it’s nothing, but my thoughts spiral immediately. Is it about the game? The position? The contract? I replay the last few weeks in my head. It’s been good. I’ve been good.
Better than I was a month ago.
The final horn sounds, and the crowd gives us a standing ovation. We line up for the handshake we don’t really want as Chicago players skate past with tight jaws and forced nods.
In the tunnel, it’s quieter. The adrenaline starts to ebb, replaced by a post-game buzz that makes everything feel a little exciting. As we peel off gear in the locker room, guys are still chirping, replaying goals and hits.
“Two tonight,” Liam says, clapping me on the back. “You’re unstoppable right now.”
I shrug, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
My phone buzzes in my locker, probably my sister, considering she’s the only one who watches my games.
Except for Wesley, she watches too, now.
Somehow, without even trying, she is working her way onto the list of people where that kind of thing matters.
Coach catches my eye from across the room and jerks his head toward his office.
Here we go.
I grab my towel and head for the door, ready for whatever comes next.
I knock once before stepping into his office, closing the door behind me.
It smells like stale coffee and dry-erase markers, the same as it always does.
It’s the same cramped space where careers get nudged forward or quietly stalled.
He’s already sitting, his glasses low on his nose, and his tablet open on the desk.
“Sit,” he orders.
I do, towel draped around my neck, catching the sweat still dripping from my hair. He studies me for a moment, the way he does when he’s deciding how much to say and how much to hold back.
“Hell of a night,” he starts. “You were everywhere. Smart reads and strong on the wall. You look comfortable on the left.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
He nods, then taps the tablet with his finger. “I talked to the front office this afternoon and again during the second intermission.”
My pulse jumps.
“They’re happy,” he continues. “Very happy. Your improvements are obvious, but it’s more than that. You’re driving the plays and elevating every teammate on your line. The switch is working.”
“That’s good to hear.” Relief douses the nervous flames that were burning in my chest.
“It is.” He leans back in his chair. “Nothing is signed yet, so don’t get ahead of yourself, but if you keep this up, you’re putting yourself in a very strong position.”
I nod slowly, absorbing it, letting myself feel the weight of his words. All the phrases my agent has been dancing around are confirmed by someone who actually has the power to sway the decision.
Then Coach sighs, and I know there’s more.
“There is something else,” he says.
Of course there is.
He folds his hands together on the desk. “I’m going to be straight with you. I noticed the timing of this turnaround.”
I stay quiet.
“You were pressing earlier in the season. Then suddenly, things click. Your excitement on the ice is back. And at the same time, you show up to a couple of events with a girlfriend.”
Something inside me sinks, and I shift in my seat. This is not something I want to be discussing with him.
“I don’t love that,” he says bluntly. “Historically, when guys in your position start dating seriously, it’s a distraction. Especially when contracts are on the line.”
“I hear you,” I say, even though my jaw tightens.
Had he seen me toss the puck to her during warm-ups? It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. I saw her in the stands and couldn’t wait until after the game to talk to her. It seemed harmless at the time, but if they’re worried about me getting distracted, it’s not a great look.
“I’m not saying she’s a problem,” he adds. “I’m saying perception matters. And so does focus.”
He looks at me hard now. “If you keep playing like this, your contract should take care of itself. But if that relationship starts affecting your game, or if it ends and you spiral, that’s on you. The office won’t be patient.”
The words sit heavy in the room.
“Understood,” I say.
“Good.” He softens slightly. “You’re playing the best hockey you’ve played in years. Don’t lose sight of what matters.”
I stand, nod once more, and leave before I say something I’ll regret, like how Wesley is absolutely none of his business. She’s not the office’s business either. For the hundredth time today, I’m reminded how watched I am at all times. Exhaustion settles heavily onto my shoulders.
The locker room feels different now. It’s quieter, even with the guys still changing and joking. The echo of the game fades into routine. I sit back down at my stall, staring at my skates without really seeing them.
Either everyone thinks Wesley is a distraction, or they think she’s the only reason I’m playing well.
I hate both of those theories.
Sure, I started training with her because I thought mixing up my exercises would bring some excitement back into things, but that can’t be the only reason I’m performing better. Can it?
The thought worms its way in anyway, unwelcome and persistent.
My head feels clearer when she’s around, whether we’re doing ladder drills, ice skating in a dim rink, or eating pizza on my couch. It’s nice when there’s someone waiting for me outside of this place besides my empty apartment.
Is that because of Wesley, or my own self-doubt and loneliness? Do I really feel anything for her, or is my excitement for hockey blurring lines that are too crossed to decipher?
Silent curses ring out in my head, directed at my coach for planting seeds of doubt that I don’t want to face.
I think about her in the stands, about the way she looked when I scored, the way she ranted about soccer on my couch as if it mattered more than anything. The way she pushes me, challenges me, and has no expectations.
It doesn’t feel fake when she laughs with me. It doesn’t feel like a distraction when I’m thinking about her between shifts. If anything, it feels grounding.
And yet.
This will end. She’s made it abundantly clear. Even if she hadn’t, whatever this is doesn’t align with either of our lives.
I finish changing slowly, thoughts looping and doubts creeping in where confidence used to sit. I remind myself that I’ve worked for this. I earned this position through decades of effort. No one can take credit for my performance other than me.
Still, the questions linger.
I grab my bag and head toward the exit. The warm air of the hallway hits me as soon as the door swings open. Players gather around with their families. Normally, I rush through this space, knowing that my family is at home thirty minutes away and not here. Never here.
This time, my eyes scan the area until I find her.
Wesley is leaning against the wall in her painted-on jeans with her hair cascading down past her shoulders. She looks up when she sees me, nerves flickering across her face before she smiles.
All of my doubts go quiet.
For a moment, everything steadies. The contract. The game. The future. It’s all out of my control. I performed on the ice tonight. That’s what counts. Well, that and that she’s here, waiting for me.
Whether that’s good for my hockey game or not is something I can’t quite bring myself to care about, not when she’s walking toward me.