35 - Nathan
Nathan
I usually hate team events.
They’re loud, performative, and full of people who want something from me or want to be seen with me. Usually, there are cameras hovering outside the door or phones pointed directly at my face. I don’t enjoy them. Hell, most of the time, I’m on high alert with my every move monitored.
Tonight is different.
Wesley’s team party is tucked into a private room above a restaurant that smells like fresh bread and wood polish.
There’s music playing, but it’s background noise, with the conversation buzzing in all corners of the room.
The lighting is dim, not designed for photo ops, but for comfort. Most importantly, there are no cameras.
When we arrived, it took only a second to notice there was no media anywhere.
That should not feel as novel as it does.
It is bullshit, really. Wesley is as much an athlete as I am. She’s more disciplined than most people I know. Her training schedule makes mine look indulgent. Her body takes just as much punishment. Her career has just as much at stake.
And yet, because it's women’s soccer and not a men’s league that TV networks trip over themselves to televise, we get this one small mercy. A night where she can celebrate with her team without a swarm of paparazzi. A night where I can stand next to her without feeling like I am bracing for impact.
Selfishly, I love it.
Especially because it’s the last time. After tonight, my brief journey into Wesley’s world is over.
We’ll let the gossip fade, and in a couple of weeks, we’ll release a statement saying it was mutual.
It’ll all be chalked up to busy schedules or some other excuse that doesn’t make either of us look bad.
The thought presses in quietly, the way it has all week.
I’ve slept at her place almost every night. I like it more than mine. It has character and personality. It also smells like her.
Yesterday, I woke up alone and wandered the entire apartment looking for her until I remembered she had a meeting with her coach to discuss their lineup for the upcoming season.
When she had told me about it, I’d assumed she would wake me, so that I could leave when she did.
But she hadn’t, and being in her space by myself was surreal.
It made my mind run a little wild, picturing a world where that was the norm.
A world where we both focused on our careers, making sure to give them our all, and then returned to each other's sides each night.
Then my fantasy blurred with reality when she really had come home with coffee for both of us.
She ordered mine exactly how I would’ve ordered it myself.
Then we spent the rest of the morning in bed together.
The only reason we finally dragged ourselves out of the apartment was to squeeze in an actual workout because even though she’s let her guard down, she’s still Wesley fucking Miller. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
But underneath it all, tonight has been looming in the background, like a clock I can hear ticking even when no one else seems aware it exists.
I nurse a beer near the edge of the room while the team mills around talking to coaches, donors, and support staff.
Avery is laughing loudly near the bar, and Haley is already halfway through a story that involves a referee and a missed call.
Someone has pushed two tables together to make space for plates of food that are being steadily demolished.
For the first time, I realize it won’t only be Wesley that I miss, it’ll be all of this. Her friends and the comfortable way everyone interacts. A part of me wants to suggest that we all still hang out, but the thought of seeing her and not being able to hold her makes me nauseous.
A clean break. That’s what it needs to be. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get over it.
“You’re Nathan, right?”
I blink and look up to find a guy standing in front of me, holding a drink and wearing the slightly panicked expression of someone who is a fan.
“Yeah,” I say easily.
“Trevor, Becca’s date.” He jerks his thumb vaguely across the room. “I wanted to say, uh, great season. You guys are killing it.”
“Thanks,” I reply, polite and automatic. “Appreciate it.”
He asks a couple more questions about our playoff chances and strategy. It’s all the usual script. I give the usual answers on autopilot, nodding in the right places and offering safe, practiced responses.
My attention drifts across the room.
It always does.
Wesley is there, pulled into a conversation with Coach Bennett and the Tempest team owner, Todd Sawyer. I notice her posture immediately. She’s standing a little taller, smiling brightly. She wants to impress him.
I don’t know how anyone could not be impressed by her. Aside from her dedication and success on the field, she looks like a dream tonight. I was speechless when she answered the door, and I’m not much better off now, hours later.
She’s wearing a dark purple dress that has a slit up to her mid-thigh. It’s elegant and tight against her toned stomach. Her hair cascades over her shoulders, brushing her collarbone when she laughs. The blush on her cheeks is barely there, and the rest of her makeup is natural.
At the gala, she’d seemed miserable, like she couldn’t wait to get away, but tonight, she doesn’t seem to mind the show. Her shoulders are relaxed, and her eyes gleam while listening to her coach tell a story that I’m too far away to hear.
My chest aches a little. She belongs here, in this room, with these people, on the verge of something bigger.
Coach Bennett says something that makes Wesley laugh, her head tipping back slightly. The owner nods along. I watch the exchange play out and feel something warm and complicated settle beneath my ribs.
She’s going to be extraordinary.
She already is.
The guy in front of me finishes his sentence and trails off, realizing he has lost me entirely. I offer a quick smile, clap him lightly on the shoulder, and excuse myself before he can restart the conversation.
I make the decision without thinking too hard about it.
If this is my last night with her, I’m not spending it standing across the room.
I weave through clusters of teammates and their dates. As I get closer, I catch snippets of their conversation about the Futures Camp and her thoughts on the upcoming season. Wesley answers his questions with confidence while still managing to sound humble.
She notices me as I reach her side.
Her expression softens immediately, something private flickering across her face before she reins it back in. She shifts slightly, creating space without looking, and I slide into it using muscle memory, my arm sliding around her waist out of habit.
Her coach glances between us and smiles knowingly.
“We were telling Wesley how proud we are of her,” she says. “Her growth this year has been incredible.”
Wesley ducks her head, embarrassed but pleased. “Thank you.”
The owner nods. “She’s a cornerstone for us. On and off the field.”
I smile, pride filling my chest as I squeeze my arm a little tighter around her. This is what she’s been working toward.
“She is incredible,” I say, letting them continue with soccer while hoping she knows I meant far more than just on the field.
“The coach of this year’s camp, Brian Folley, happens to be in town tomorrow,” Coach Bennett says, pausing dramatically when Wesley’s eyes widen. “He’d love to meet you and maybe do a quick one-on-one session?”
Wesley’s surprise is written all over her face. “Really? Yes, I mean, of course. That would be great.”
“Plan for early around seven. He has to hit the road mid-morning.”
Wesley nods firmly. “I’ll be there.” She turns toward me and smiles brightly. Her body presses closer to mine in a silent conversation between the two of us.
I’ve never been a fan of soccer, not for any particular reason other than not having a lot of exposure to it, but I’ve started paying attention.
I know what teams will be a challenge for the Tempest this year and most of Wesley’s stats.
The bones of soccer aren’t too different from hockey, and I find myself turning it on during my free evenings.
It’s because of this newfound familiarity that I understand how big a deal it is that the coach running the Futures Camp is willing to set aside time to meet with her early.
Their conversation moves on to the upcoming season and other plans I’m not going to be part of.
I stand there anyway, memorizing the feel of her next to me.
Tomorrow, this ends.
Tomorrow, I’m supposed to go back to being who I was two months ago. Star athlete. In the limelight. Light-hearted bachelor. Alone.
My stomach hollows out.
The three of them keep talking. I nod in the right places and smile when expected.
Wesley listens with her whole body. Her chin is lifted, and she has one hand wrapped around her glass, the other gesturing while she talks.
It’s confident without being loud. Every once in a while, she glances at me, like she is checking that I’m still with her, and every time she does, something tight in my chest eases.
I don’t realize I’ve checked out completely until her elbow nudges into my side. It’s not a hard nudge, just enough to bring me back to the present. I look down at her, startled, and she’s grinning at me, eyes bright with amusement.
“You okay over there?” she murmurs.
Before I can answer, Todd Sawyer clears his throat.
“Nathan,” he says, smiling easily. “Sorry, I was asking you something.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Yeah. Sorry.”
He waves it off. “I was curious. You’re having one hell of a season. What do you think clicked for you this year?”
This is familiar territory, even if it sucks.
To everyone, I’m just hockey. Becca’s date, the owner of the team, my teammates, and even my own parents all look at me and see the hockey player.
The only person who hasn’t asked me some variation of this question is the woman currently pressed into my side.
I go with it anyway.
“It’s been a mix of things. Consistency, but I’ve also spent a lot of extra time working on my conditioning and decision making.”
Todd nods approvingly. “It shows on the wing.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
Then he tilts his head, expression shifting slightly. “And do you think any of that has to do with Wesley?”
The room does not go silent, but it might as well have.
My chest locks up. It’s not panic exactly, but something close. This is the train of thought I’ve been avoiding, knowing that it doesn't lead anywhere productive. Still, it’s been circling the edges of my thoughts for weeks.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because how do I answer that without confirming the fear that’s been eating at me? People only think I’m playing well again because of her, and when she walks away, whatever version of me they are praising goes with her.
My jaw tightens. I keep my expression neutral, but inside, everything is stalling out.
Wesley feels it immediately.
She shifts closer, hand lacing with mine easily, and speaks before the silence stretches too far.
“I don’t think that’s fair.” She looks the owner of her team directly in the eyes.
Todd looks surprised, then amused. “Oh?”
She smiles, but there’s steel under it.
“I mean, obviously I support him,” she continues. “But I’ve never met someone more dedicated to their team and their performance than Nathan. He puts in the work whether anyone is watching or not. It’s who he is, and that has nothing to do with me.”
Coach Bennett’s smile deepens.
“If anyone knows anything about dedication,” she joins in, motioning at Wesley, “it would be you.”
The tension loosens, the conversation shifting to Wesley’s suggestions for off-season training, but my thoughts circle.
My fear of the future strangles me quietly. Without her, I might slide back into the version of myself that was on his way to becoming a free agent at the end of the season.
Maybe it’s what I deserve.
Music swells suddenly, the tempo slowing, and the room adjusts as couples begin to move closer together. Conversations begin to trail off naturally as people drift toward the small open space that has become a dance floor.
Wesley turns to me, studying my face. “You’re somewhere else.”
I shake my head automatically. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t like that he implied that your success has something to do with me.” It’s not an accusation, just an observation.
“Would you like it if they said that about you?” I ask, tilting my head. It comes out icy, but I actually want to know.
She’s silent for a minute, as if thinking it through. “No, I wouldn’t.”
It doesn’t even matter anymore because she reaches for my hand.
“Dance with me.”
Out on the dance floor, the lights are lower, and the noise fades into the background. She loops her arms around my neck. I settle my hands at her waist, careful at first, then less so when she presses closer.
We sway. The two of us move slowly, her head tipping forward until her forehead rests against my collarbone.
I breathe her in.
For a few minutes, I let myself forget everything other than the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of the music, and the quiet hope that maybe this moment can exist without costing either of us something later.