10
Nate
By the time practice officially starts, the entire locker room knows Hannah Reed is coming to Friday’s game.
This is because Carter Grey has never met a piece of information he didn’t immediately want to turn into a public service announcement.
“She’s actually coming?” Mason asks from two stalls down. He’s halfway through taping his shin guards, his focus shifting entirely to me.
“No,” I say, reaching for my gloves.
“Yes,” Carter says at the same time.
I slowly turn my head toward him. He’s sitting beside me, looking like a picture of wide-eyed innocence, his damp blond hair sticking up in three different directions.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m going to start charging you every time you open your mouth.”
“You’d be rich.”
“I’d be peaceful.”
“Impossible. Peace doesn’t suit your brand.”
Mason leans around the wooden divider of his stall, grinning. “So, who’s Hannah?”
“Nobody,” I say.
“The girlfriend,” Carter says.
The locker room goes quiet for half a beat. Then, several heads turn. I feel the collective weight of ten years of collegiate testosterone shifting in my direction.
“I thought we were laying low, Wilder,” Brooks calls out from across the room, already wearing his jersey. “Since when do you do the 'girlfriend at the rink' thing? That’s for seniors and guys who have already given up on their social lives.”
“It’s not a thing,” I mutter, bending to tighten my skate laces.
“It’s a thing,” Carter corrects, unbothered by the death stare I’m currently aiming at his temple. “They had dinner at Bellamy’s last night. Candlelight. White tablecloths. The whole romantic spread.”
Someone behind me whistles low.
I close my eyes. Coach has me on a short leash, my future is dangling from the rafters, and step one of my image rehabilitation is apparently letting Carter narrate my life like a blond, athletic town crier.
“Mason, she’s cute, right?” Brooks asks.
“Dude, she’s gorgeous,” Mason agrees. “That photo on the *Northwood Tea* story? She looks like she’s too smart to be talking to Wilder.”
A strange, sharp irritation taps behind my ribs.
It’s not jealousy—that would be ridiculous—but there’s something grating about hearing her name tossed around in here, between the smell of stale sweat and the sound of tape tearing.
Hannah isn't a topic for locker room banter.
She’s the kind of girl who should be insulated from it.
“She’s not a topic,” I say.
The words land harder than I intended. The room goes still. Mason’s hands pause on his tape. Carter’s grin fades by a fraction.
I don't look up. I just finish lacing my skates, the silence stretching until Brooks, bless his complete lack of survival instincts, breaks it.
“Wilder’s protective now? That’s new.”
Carter makes a small choking sound. I stand up, grabbing my stick, the blades of my skates clicking against the rubber floor. “You want to do bag skates voluntarily, Brooks? Keep talking.”
Brooks shuts his mouth. Smart man.
Carter leans closer, dropping his voice as we head toward the tunnel. “Subtle, Nate. Extremely casual. No one suspects a thing.”
“I’m going to trip you into the crease,” I mutter.
“You’re evolving,” he chirps. “Admit it. Saint Nate of the Respectable Choice is born.”
I don't answer. I just want the ice.
The second I hit the rink, my body settles. The cold air fills my lungs, the steel bites into the fresh sheet, and the world makes sense again. On the ice, there are no gossip accounts. No complicated deals. No girls who blush when I call them sweetheart.
There is only the puck, the lane, and the finish.
I skate hard. Harder than I have in weeks.
I can feel Coach Rawlings’s eyes on me from the bench, his whistle resting against his chest.
I don't give him a reason to blow it. Every pass is crisp.
Every backcheck is aggressive. When Brooks takes a lazy angle on a breakout, I don't chirp him—I just cover the lane and take the puck myself.
“Good practice, Wilder,” Coach says as I glide toward the bench at the end of the session.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You were focused.” He taps his clipboard against the boards, his gaze boring into mine. “Keep it up. Off the ice, too.”
“I am.”
“I heard about dinner.” He pauses. “She’s a nice girl, Nate. Don’t make her one of your bad choices.”
The words hit me square in the chest. I stand there, breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes. *Don’t make her one of your bad ones.*
I skate off before I can think about why that sentence feels like a warning I’ve already failed.
I’m sitting in my truck ten minutes later, the heater blasting against the afternoon chill. I pull out my phone.
Our text thread is short. Mostly logistical. But I find myself staring at the last thing she sent: *Do fake girlfriends get snacks?*
I smile. Then I think of Carter’s voice in the locker room. *You should give her your jersey.*
It’s a strategic move. A jersey in the stands is a billboard. It says 'Wilder' in big, bold letters. It’s a claim. It’s exactly the kind of public proof Coach and Cross need to see.
I type: *Friday game. You’re coming.*
*Delete.* Too bossy.
*Still planning to come Friday?*
*Delete.* Too boring.
I settle on: *You still coming to the game Friday? I have a proposal.*
Her response comes three minutes later.
**Hannah:** *That sounds ominous. What kind of proposal?*
**Nate:** *Wear my jersey.*
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. I can practically see the little crease that forms between her brows when she’s contemplating how much she wants to kill me.
**Hannah:** *Absolutely not. That is way too much.*
**Nate:** *It’s strategic. My name on your back? People will stop asking questions. It seals the deal.*
**Hannah:** *It feels… very couple-y, Nate.*
**Nate:** *That’s the point. It’s business.*
A longer pause this time. I find myself holding my breath, staring at the little bubbles.
**Hannah:** *I don’t know. People will stare.*
**Nate:** *They’ll stare anyway. Might as well give them something to look at. Besides, you’ll look good in navy.*
**Hannah:** *You don’t know that.*
**Nate:** *I do. Wear the jersey and I’ll get you the best snacks in the arena.*
**Hannah:** *Fine. But if I get a rash from your hockey bacteria, the deal is over.*
I laugh, a real one that echoes in the quiet cab of the truck.
**Nate:** *I’ll wash it. See you tomorrow, Hannah Reed.*
**Hannah:** *Goodnight, Nate.*
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and pull out of the lot. It’s a good play. A smart move. I’m just being responsible.
But as I drive, I’m not thinking about Coach’s approval or Ethan’s jealousy. I’m thinking about the way Hannah will look in my jersey—drowning in the fabric, my name draped over her shoulders.
And for some reason, the thought of her wearing it feels less like a lie and more like a secret I’m not ready to tell.