47 - Wesley
Wesley
By the time the whistle blows for halftime, my lungs are burning, and my legs feel like they’re humming. I’m balanced in the sweet spot where exhaustion and adrenaline overlap and everything sharpens instead of dulls.
We’re only up by a goal, but she was a beauty.
Avery put it in the top corner with my assist.
We jog toward the sideline as a unit, jerseys clinging to our bodies, which have long since forgotten the chill still in the air. The sweat is cooling fast against my skin.
Columbus came in swinging. It’s the cup game that kicks off the season. It sets the tone, and we’re the champions. They weren’t going to come with anything other than their best. Still, their best is struggling to keep up with us, which has me standing a little straighter on the sideline.
I take a long pull from my water bottle, hands on my head with my chest heaving as the noise of the crowd fades into a dull roar.
My head feels clear, and the excitement to be here, on the field, is thrumming through me.
Every touch tonight has felt intentional, like the ball is an extension of my foot instead of something I have to think about controlling.
I’m on fire.
It’s not arrogance, just a fact. I’ve been everywhere I need to be, dropping back when Columbus presses, creating space in the middle so that I can push the ball to the corners, right where my teammates are waiting.
We’re moving like a unit, and it makes the coming season seem like it’s ours to lose.
Avery bumps her shoulder into mine as we pace on the sideline. “Hell of an assist, Cap.”
I grin, breathless. “Hell of a finish.”
She shrugs like it was nothing, but her eyes are bright. It’s the first goal of the season, and it came off her foot. Sure, she might act like she couldn’t care less, but she wouldn’t be our best forward if that were true.
“See?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “You play better when you’re not spiraling.”
I snort. “Bold claim.”
She opens her mouth to say something else, probably something about how much better I’d be playing if a certain hockey player were in the stands, but Coach Bennett’s voice cuts through the noise before she can.
“Head to the locker room.”
We gather in a circle around her, the air thick with sweat, shin guards clacking against the floor as we pull them from our socks, giving our shins a second to breathe.
Coach Bennett stands in front of us, tablet tucked under her arm, eyes assessing like she’s cataloging every movement we made in the first forty-five minutes.
“Good half,” she says, and coming from her, that’s high praise. “You’re dictating pace, controlling possession, and making them chase.”
She looks directly at our back line. “Columbus is going to come out harder. They’ll press high. I want you to push the line. Let them be offside, trust each other to push them out or get the call.”
Then her gaze shifts to the midfield, and finally, it lands on me.
“All of you are seeing the field beautifully. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”
Something warm settles in my chest at the approval. Maybe I won’t get the call for the National Team, but I have a team here, and I won’t let them down.
She finishes the talk with a few tactical adjustments and reminders to stay disciplined, finish chances, and not let one goal make us complacent.
The team starts to disperse, some heading for the benches, others stretching or re-taping. I’m halfway to grabbing another bottle of water when Coach Bennett’s hand lifts slightly.
“Wesley. Hang back a second.”
My stomach flips, just a little.
I wait while the rest of the team filters out, the room quieter now, the hum of the stadium bleeding faintly through the walls.
Coach Bennett studies me for a beat, her expression unreadable. Then she nods.
“You’re more than making up for the missed scrimmage.” She adjusts the deep purple Tempest hat on her head.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Thank you.”
She tilts her head. “You look settled tonight. Confident.”
“I feel good,” I admit.
“Good. This is what leadership looks like. You set the tone, not with words, but with how you play.”
I nod.
“They’re here in the stands. Keep showing them what you’ve got.”
I thought I’d caught a glimpse of Coach Folley, but hadn’t been sure. I hadn’t let myself hope. Coach’s confirmation sends a jolt of excitement up my spine.
She claps her hands once, sharp and decisive. “Alright. Go warm up. There is still a lot of game left.”
She doesn’t wait for a response before turning away, already focused on something else. Her words stick with me as I head back out to the field.
I sink down onto the bench, towel draped around my neck, heart still racing as I replay the half in my mind. My pass to Avery had been damn near flawless despite the way Columbus’s midfield kept trying to close me down. Confidence is humming under my skin.
This is what I’ve worked for.
And yet.
My eyes flick, involuntarily, toward the stands.
It’s stupid. I know he’s not there. I knew he wouldn’t be. He’s injured, and we’re not anything. Not really. At least not yet.
The thought slips in anyway, uninvited.
What if he were?
I can almost see it, him somewhere in the lower bowl, one arm tucked awkwardly against his chest, his jaw set in that familiar way he gets when he’s trying to read the game. I imagine the way his eyes would follow me and how he’d lean forward every time I pushed into space.
Avery nudges my knee with her cleat. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, tearing my gaze away from the empty section of seats. “Just catching my breath.”
She gives me a knowing look. “You’re kind of kicking ass. It would be fun if your favorite hockey idiot were here to see it.”
I huff out a laugh. “Subtle.”
She grins. “I try.”
The thing is, she’s right. And we both know it.
I wish I’d let myself want that before I hurt him, before I convinced myself that wanting more than one thing meant failing at both. Because right now, in this moment, the only thing that would make tonight better is knowing he was somewhere in the stands, watching me do exactly what I love.
I tighten my grip on the water bottle, knuckles whitening briefly before I force myself to relax.
Focus.
This is my job. My responsibility. My dream.
And I’m playing the game of my life.
The whistle blows again, and we rise as one, stepping back onto the field. The noise of the crowd swells, anticipation crackling in the air as we take our positions for the second half.
I take my position, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet as Columbus lines up across from us, their body language more desperate now.
As the ball rolls back into play, everything else fades. There’s only the grass under my cleats and the weight of the captain’s armband on my bicep.
I lose track of time as plays bleed into one another without pause. Normally, Coach would sub me out, but tonight she lets me go as if she knows I need this more than I need a breather.
It’s not until the final whistle cuts through the night like a release valve that my fatigue sets in.
We win. The sound of it crashing over us, as the crowd gets to their feet. We don’t usually have a big crowd, but this game is packed with everyone wanting to see the first big game to kick off the new season. I bend at the waist for a second, hands on my knees as sweat drips down my spine.
Avery whoops somewhere behind me, Becca tackles Haley into a half hug, and I straighten, grinning as we jog toward the sideline. My legs feel heavy in the best way, like proof of work done right.
That’s when the cameras start going off.
At first, I barely register them. The media is always around after a season opener, especially a cup game and a hometown win. This time, though, it seems louder and more frantic than usual. A staccato burst of flashes comes from one section instead of being spread evenly along the sideline.
I glance over.
There’s a cluster near the tunnel entrance, a mess of bodies and lenses. Security is trying and failing to keep a perimeter. Whoever is in the center of it is obscured by shoulders and microphones, but it’s clearly not one of us.
I watch for a beat, curiosity tugging, then shake it off and turn back toward my team. I start down the line, shaking hands with Columbus players, murmuring good game and nice effort to each and every one. My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory carrying me through.
Once we make it through the line, Becca grabs my arm.
“Wes,” she squeals, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and delight. “Wesley.”
I glance at her. “Becca, I’m in the middle of something.”
She ignores me and physically turns me, pointing so hard her finger nearly pokes my shoulder. “Look.”
I follow the line of her arm.
And my heart forgets how to beat.
The cluster breaks apart enough for me to see the back of him.
Nathan.
He’s pushing through with his good arm, his sling strapped tight across his chest. His hair is slightly damp as if he rushed to get here. That view alone stops me cold, but my breath leaves me in one sharp, stunned exhale when I take in what he’s wearing.
A Tempest jersey with the number ten across the back.
My jersey.
It’s white and teal with my number on the back and my name stitched clean and bold across the shoulders. It hangs a little awkwardly on him because of the sling, the fabric bunching at his side, but somehow that makes it better.
The cameras go insane when he finally breaks free of the crowd, but they hang back to swarm Nathan’s teammates, who are decked out in our gear.
Avery swears softly behind me.
“Oh my god,” Becca whispers. “Is that…”
“That’s the whole hockey team,” Haley says, already laughing. “Holy shit.”
My heart swoops so hard it feels like it drops straight into my stomach. He looks ridiculous and perfect and entirely too hot to be walking over to me.
I don’t even think.
My feet move on their own.
The noise fades as I cross the grass, like my focus narrows down to him and only him. Nathan meets me halfway, eyes bright and a little apologetic as the flashes explode around us.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his voice low so only I can hear. “I swear I didn’t plan the media thing. I don’t know how they found out I’d be here, and then the jersey sent them into a frenzy.”
I blink up at him, still trying to process the fact that he’s here.
“You’re here,” I say stupidly.
He scrunches his eyebrows, doubt disrupting his smile. “I can go. Shit. I, um…’
I grab his hand, letting the electricity of his contact flow through me. He lets out a relieved sigh. I laugh, breathless, my gaze flicking down to the jersey again. “You’re wearing my jersey.”
“I am,” he says, glancing down like he’s just noticing it, too. “You mentioned once that boyfriends don’t walk around wearing their girlfriends’ jerseys. I wanted to prove you wrong.”
Boyfriend.
He says it casually, but it feels anything but.
The cameras are still going. Reporters are shouting questions I can’t make out, and security is looking wildly unprepared for whatever this has turned into. I barely register any of it.
“What does this mean?” I ask, quietly.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Let me be your boyfriend for real, Wes. I already love you. I have for a while now. I don’t want to pretend not to anymore.”
My chest tightens, emotion rushing up so fast I get dizzy with it. “You’re sure? I know I hurt you and…”
“You’ve spent so long proving you could do everything alone. But I don’t want you to do everything alone. I want you to do it all with me.”
The noise swells around us, the flashes relentless, but it doesn’t feel invasive. It feels like background. Like static.
I smile, wide and unguarded. “Kiss me.”
He looks startled for half a second, then reaches up with his good arm, cupping the side of my face. I grab the front of his jersey carefully, mindful of the sling, and pull him down to me. The second our lips meet, everything feels right in the world, like the last puzzle piece sliding into place.
It’s the kind of kiss that says ‘yes’ and ‘finally’ and ‘I’m here.’
His lips curve against mine as I push the kiss deeper, our tongues teasing each other.
We’re not pretending this isn’t real. We’re not pretending that we don’t love each other. Finally, we’re not pretending at all.
Eventually, I pull back, forehead resting against his, laughing softly. “I can’t believe we’re going to be splashed all over the tabloids.”
He laughs. “It comes with the territory.”
“Well, worth it.” I squeeze his hand, grounding myself in the solid truth of him standing here, choosing me in front of everyone. “I love you.”
Then he kisses me again.
For the first time in a long time, there’s no split or choice tearing me in two.
It’s just us, and it feels exactly right.