26
Nate
By the time practice starts, I’ve already replayed the river conversation sixteen times.
Not that I’m counting. Counting would imply concern, and I am not concerned.
I am focused. Disciplined. Athletically prepared.
The kind of guy who ties his skates, tapes his stick, and does not spend half of warm-ups thinking about the way Hannah Reed looked at me under the streetlights when I told her I didn’t want her handing her confidence to someone who didn’t know what it cost her.
It was objectively a ridiculous thing to say. Too serious. Too honest. It wasn't at all what the fake boyfriend in a fake-dating arrangement should be saying to the girl who still likes Ethan Cross.
I am aware. And yet, I said it anyway. Because apparently, I’ve entered my emotionally reckless era.
“Wilder.”
Carter’s voice cuts through the locker room noise, and I look up from my laces. He’s standing in front of me wearing half his gear and the expression of a man who has found a loose thread and plans to pull until the entire sweater dies.
“No,” I say before he can breathe.
He blinks. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted tape.”
“You’re holding a protein shake, Carter. There is zero tape in your hand.”
He looks down at the bottle like it betrayed him. “Could be tape in liquid form.” He drops onto the bench beside me, his tone shifting. “Now that we’ve established trust, how was dinner?”
“Fine.”
“Favorite lie.”
My hands still. He grins. I hate that I've infected him with my own vocabulary.
“It was dinner,” I snap. “With Hannah. Public. That was the point. Cross saw, it worked, everyone got what they wanted.”
Carter’s head tilts. “Everyone?”
I don’t answer. I stand and grab my shoulder pads. The locker room is loud—Mason arguing about stolen tape, someone’s speaker thumping too much bass. The smell of sweat, rubber mats, and stale coffee should be enough to drag me back to reality.
It doesn’t. My mind is still by the river.
The deal was supposed to be simple. Hannah gets Ethan’s attention.
I get Coach off my back. We both benefit, shake hands metaphorically, and move on.
Except somewhere along the way, she asked me to teach her how not to be afraid of wanting.
And I said yes. And now Ethan Cross gets to walk into Bellamy’s and look at the girl whose confidence I’ve watched bloom piece by nervous piece, and I’m supposed to feel satisfied.
Instead, I felt like someone had their hand on my stick in the middle of a breakaway. Interference. Penalty.
Practice saves me, at least for a while. The second I hit the ice, the world narrows into steel, cold air, and puck movement. There are rules here. Clear ones. You’re either in position or you’re not. There’s no wondering whether a touch means strategy or memory.
Coach has us running transition drills. I’m sharp—too sharp. Every rep has an edge. I strip Brooks clean in a neutral-zone drill, making him swear loud enough for Coach to blow the whistle just to glare at him.
“Problem, Brooks?” Coach asks.
Brooks lifts his stick. “No, sir.”
“Good. Because if Wilder can pick your pocket that easily, Briarwick’s JV team might file a robbery report.”
The guys laugh. I skate the next rep even harder.
Coach eventually blows the final whistle and calls me over to the boards. He stands with his clipboard, his expression unreadable.
“You tired, Wilder?”
“No.”
“Distracted?”
“No.”
He stares. I stare back. Then he says, “That was a bad lie.”
I exhale through my nose. “A little distracted.”
“Your game has been better lately,” he says, surprising me. “Smarter. More controlled. And off the ice, I heard about Bellamy’s. Then the walk by the river.”
I shift my stick in my gloves. “Campus talks.”
“You’ve had a good run,” Coach says. “Better image. People are noticing that you’re capable of not being a disaster. I’m telling you this because when scouts ask about you, I want to talk about your game, not your judgment. Your game opens doors; your judgment decides if you trip over the threshold.
”
He leans in a little closer. “Don’t confuse looking better with being better, Nate.”
The words hit harder than a check to the boards. I swallow hard. “Yes, sir.”
Hannah is waiting near the tunnel when I step off the ice, guards on my skates, helmet tucked under one arm. She smiles when I approach—not big, not for an audience. Just a smile for me.
“Hey,” she says. “Good practice?”
“Yeah.” I lean one shoulder against the wall, trying to ignore how sweaty I am. “What are you doing here?”
“Study group in the athletic building. Tutors use the conference rooms.” She shifts her notebook against her chest. “Coach talked to you for a while. You looked serious.”
I rub the back of my neck. “He said the image stuff is working. That people think I'm less of a mess.”
Her eyes soften. “Nate, that’s the point, right?”
“Yeah. But I don’t want everyone thinking *you’re* the reason. You’re not my moral accessory, Hannah.”
Her mouth twitches. “Moral accessory? That’s a new one.”
“You know what I mean. I’m the one who screwed up my reputation. I don’t want people turning you into a leash for me.”
She steps a little closer, her voice dropping. “I don’t feel like that. You’re the one doing the work. I’m just... part of the plan.”
The pause before she says *part of the plan* is small, but it's there. I wonder if she feels the same shift I do—the way the lines of our deal are blurring until they're impossible to read.
“Text me when you get back to your dorm,” I say.
“It’s broad daylight, Nate.”
“Text me anyway. I’m being consistent.”
She smiles, rises on her toes, and kisses my cheek. Quick. Soft. Barely there. Exactly like last time.
She pulls back, cheeks pink. “Good practice, Nate.”
She turns and walks away. I stand there like an idiot, a sweaty, half-geared idiot with a cheek that has suddenly become the center of my nervous system.
Behind me, Carter says, “Oh, you are so doomed.”
I turn slowly. He’s leaning against the wall, grinning like a villain. “I thought you left.”
“I came back for my stick. Or to witness your downfall. Both are satisfying.” He claps my shoulder as he passes. “Be smart, Wilder.”
I follow him toward the locker room, trying not to touch my cheek. Looking better is easy when everyone thinks they know the story. Being better is the hard part, especially when the truth is sitting on your couch, learning how to want things, and trusting you not to break her.