4 - Nathan
Nathan
I’m never late.
Not for practice or games. And definitely not to a charity commitment that I threw a small fortune at in front of half the city.
But here I am, five minutes past seven, as I sprint across the parking lot toward Harborlight Stadium, home of the Boston Tempest. The icy morning wind rips through my sweatshirt, and my breath fogs in one long stream as I fly through the doors.
Hopefully, Coach Rylan won’t hear about this. He doesn’t need any other reason to be disappointed in me, and I don’t need any other reason to stress about my place on this team.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes again in my pocket. My sister, Delaney.
I should ignore it, but the message lights up the screen as I swing open the facility doors.
Delaney: Did you make it? Were you late?
Leaving her stranded with a dead battery on the side of the road wasn’t an option.
She refused to call Dad because ‘he’d be dramatic’ when he found out his nineteen-year-old daughter had been driving around with her maintenance light on for days.
I refused to call him because, well, talking to him would be worse than being late.
Instead, I’d tracked her down and given her a jump so she could take it to a shop, wasting precious time I didn’t have.
The moment I burst onto the turf, I know I’m screwed.
Wesley stands in the center of the field as if she owns it. Her hair is pulled back, with joggers hugging her strong and very distracting legs. She looks professional in her Tempest pullover with her clipboard in hand. But the look in her eyes?
Pure arctic frost.
My teammates are circled up, already stretching, but they quiet down as my footsteps echo across the turf.
“I’m sorry.” I drop my bag, making my way to the group.
Wesley steps toward me, and the air outside drops ten degrees.
“You’re late.” Her voice is deadly calm.
“Yeah, I know. Look, my sister…”
“Drop the excuse. You owe us a lap for every minute.”
“Eight laps?”
My insides twist as my hope for making a good impression vanishes. I spent over two hundred thousand dollars so that I could impress the woman in front of me, and not even ten minutes in, the money’s wasted.
A few of my teammates wince on my behalf.
Wesley lifts a brow. “Did I stutter?”
“Nope.” I swallow. Her tone has me terrified and turned on in ways that it shouldn’t. “Isn’t this supposed to be a fun charity day?”
“Actually,” she says, glancing toward her clipboard as if she’s reading the rules. “It’s supposed to be an authentic training day.”
“So, if you were eight minutes late…” I start.
She nods toward the path circling the turf. “I’d run.”
I could ask her to be reasonable, but something in her expression tells me it won’t matter. This isn’t the same woman who flirted with me in a cocktail dress; this is the woman who led her team to a championship, and damn if the authority doesn’t have me even more interested.
Does that bossiness carry over to the bedroom? My dick twitches at the prospect of Wesley in my bed on top of me. Apparently, I have a thing for women who are bossy. It just so happens that it’s the same woman who is now committed to not giving me the time of day.
Wyatt pretends to cough, snapping me out of it. Wesley’s glaring daggers at me, and considering the path my brain just traveled down, I deserve it.
I lower my head, tighten my shoelaces, and start my run.
The first four laps are a breeze. My cardio’s good, elite, even. I hit my stride, and my muscles loosen.
By lap eight, the burn has set in. The soccer field is a lot larger than the rink. As I finish, my lungs ache, and my calves are on fire. The obvious disadvantage of hockey? Our bursts are short. We specialize in explosive and controlled movements, not marathons.
The way she watches me the entire time tells me she knows it, too. She’s not smug exactly, but she is enjoying torturing me. The twinkle in her blue eyes gives her away.
I brace my hands on my hips and blow out a breath. Sweat is pouring down the back of my shirt, but Wesley doesn't give me a break.
“Since everyone is finally ready,” she says, her gaze cutting to mine, “we can begin.”
The team looks genuinely nervous, and for the first time in a long time, I empathize with our rookies on hell-day conditioning.
“We’ll run through our Tempest warm-up first,” she orders. “Two-mile run. Keep pace with me.”
Liam shoots me a glare that reads, “What the fuck have you gotten us into?”
I deserve whatever she throws my way. I know that. I mean, we insulted her to her face, acting like egotistical assholes. My jaw had hit the floor when she stood for the award. But the embarrassment was nothing compared to the overwhelming curiosity that had taken root over the past week.
After the banquet, I’d done my research. Her accolades went pages deep on the internet, and I’d read every single one. At the time, I thought it might help me get into her bed, or at least her good graces. Seeing her now, I know it had been nothing more than a fool’s hope.
It’s obvious that she plans to teach me a lesson today. Unfortunately for her, all I’m learning is that I’ll gladly suffer through her barking if it means her eyes keep glancing in my direction.
She doesn’t just set the pace; she sets a blistering one.
Within the first half mile, the team is winded. By the second mile, some of the guys start complaining. Wesley runs like she doesn’t need oxygen. It’s like the ground moves for her, not the other way around.
I knew she was an award-winning athlete.
I didn’t know she was this.
When she notices my stare, her lips tilt up slightly as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Next up, bleachers.
Up. Down. Up. Down. By the tenth cycle, my thighs are screaming. Grayson looks like he might actually cry. Wyatt seems to be the only one okay, probably because he spends the whole game squatting in the net.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she says, her tone strict but playful as she lets us take a quick break. “I see Liam over there trying to convince his lungs that they matter more than I do.”
Liam coughs, waving a hand in mock surrender. “I’m never assuming someone’s gender for the rest of my life.”
“What was it you said again?” Wesley asks, patting his head. “Oh, yes, ‘some fucking nobody’ won the award. Today, that nobody is your worst nightmare. Time for soccer drills.”
The team groans, murmuring curses at Liam. But then she adds, “Don’t forget to thank Nathan for bidding everyone. He’s the reason you’re here.”
Then the curses are directed at me. I don’t hear them, too focused on the intimidating woman jogging back out onto the field, as if she’s just getting started.
My eyes trail her, watching the way her hips sway as she goes.
It isn’t until Liam smacks me in the back of the head, his face alight with humor, that I realize I’m the only one not standing. Shit. I have got to stop doing that.
I don’t fixate on women. Dating while traveling for most of the year is a gamble that I don’t often feel like making.
I am more of an occasional date with decent sex at the end kind of guy.
And I never stay up half the night researching one of the women I’m seeing.
So why the hell am I doing it with Wesley when I’m not even seeing her?
“Shooting drills!” She announces from outside the goalie box. “Wyatt, get in the goal. That's your position, right?”
“Uh, yeah, but it’s a much smaller goal,” Wyatt answers nervously.
He faces down terrifying men on the ice, but Wesley has him almost trembling.
She smiles and then points. He hangs his head and gets in the goal without argument.
“I’ll walk you through the basics, then everyone will try it out. We’ll go until everyone has scored a goal.”
I try to focus on her demonstration. She shows us the spot on our feet that should connect with the ball and how to swing our legs. I really do try to pay attention, but my eyes keep drifting up to her face.
She was stunning at the ceremony, but here, like this, is better. She’s in her element and completely at ease, even if she is being a hard-ass.
“Wilder,” she says, everyone turning toward me. “You might actually learn something if you focus on the ball and not the pretty brunette schooling you.”
The team bursts into laughter. I want to die. Then I notice the hint of amusement in her eyes, and it doesn’t sting quite so bad.
Five minutes later, she stands there, one hand on her hip, ponytail whipping as she fires pass after pass with perfect accuracy. I have to force my mind to focus on the task at hand.
Really, the only place my mind should be focused is on hockey.
We’re almost fifteen games into the season, and while the team is doing well overall, my stats are bad.
Like really fucking bad. I’ve spent almost all my free time stressing about it.
Come to think of it, today, with Wesley kicking my ass, is one of the few times that I haven’t been in my head about it.
Not a single person has scored yet, and the arrogance grows on Wyatt’s face as he gets comfortable in the net.
As if sensing it too, Wesley steps forward to take a turn.
She rolls the ball under her foot into placement, then takes a slight step away from it.
Her eyes stay focused on Wyatt as she pulls back, firing the ball into the top corner from twenty yards out.
Wyatt dives the complete wrong way, looking pissed once he realizes how easily she scored on him.
Determined to be the first hockey player to score, I try to mimic her action, running up and swinging hard, but the ball veers left and misses by a mile.
Wesley doesn’t make fun of me as I anticipated. “You rely on power because you’re used to it, but power without precision is wasted energy. Go again.”
I bite my tongue and nod, waiting for her next pass.
This time, I score. It’s fun. This whole workout is fun.
I can’t remember the last time I worked out or played a sport without hockey and my contract at the forefront of my mind. It’s almost like I’ve forgotten how enjoyable it is to test my body’s limits without it being make or break.
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” She teases before working her way through the rest of my team.
By the time she calls it, most of the Blades look like corpses. Someone is lying flat on the turf, whispering, “Tell my family I love them.”
I am exhausted.
She’s everything I fear I’m losing about myself: strong, confident, and focused. Maybe that’s why I decide to torture myself and stick around while the rest of my team files out.
She stands at the sideline checking her clipboard, mindlessly twirling her ponytail with one hand.
I clear my throat. “Hey.”
Her eyes rise slowly. The playfulness that crept in during training is gone, replaced by something more guarded.
“Wilder.”
“Good session,” I say. “Brutal, but good.”
“That was the point.”
“Yeah. We deserved it after accidentally shit-talking you to your face.” I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the sweat off my forehead. “Listen, about earlier. I wasn’t late because I overslept or anything. My sister…”
Her expression drops into impatience. “I said I didn’t want excuses.”
“It’s not an excuse,” I insist. “She was stranded, and I had to help.”
For a moment, something softens in her gaze. Then it’s gone.
“You still made the commitment. You still showed up late. Helping someone doesn’t erase responsibility.”
I blink. Ouch.
“Right,” I mutter. “Got it.”
Silence stretches. I can’t help myself.
“I was wondering if maybe I could get your number?” I swallow, suddenly unsure. She has shown no interest other than a few flirty comments. Maybe I’m a masochist.
“No.”
The blow hits harder than expected.
It shouldn’t. I barely know her, but rejection is new territory. Territory I don’t particularly like.
“You don’t get to flirt with me at a gala, underestimate me in a conversation to my face, and then buy my time in some sort of grand gesture. I’m not interested in any games other than the one I play professionally.”
She takes a sip of her water. “You might be hot shit to the whole city, but I don’t date, and I don’t have time to pretend otherwise.”
Brutal and direct. After the past couple of hours of training with her, I know it’s only partially personal.
I nod, understanding and respecting the answer. “To be clear, I don’t date either, not seriously. We could still hang out.” I eye her suggestively, wondering if she’ll get the insinuation.
“Oh.” She looks confused, and then, “Oh. Oh god. No. Absolutely not. I’m not interested in that either.”
Her cheeks turn molten, and I can’t help but smirk. Of course, she’s not interested in hooking up. She doesn’t seem like the type, even if I wish she were. A few rounds in bed with her would surely cure the fixation I’ve developed over the past week.
“You sure?” I tease, enjoying the way she’s trying to act unbothered.
I can read her well enough to know that she’s at least somewhat attracted to me, but it’s not enough to act on. She takes soccer seriously in a way that I haven’t taken hockey in a long time.
Is that my issue? Complacency. I fought my whole life to be in the NHL, then I made it. Next was fighting for the Cup, then I won it. Maybe somewhere along the way, I’ve started settling for good enough, lost in the monotony that comes with playing a sport for nearly my whole life.
“Not every woman wants to sleep with you, Wilder.”
“I’m not propositioning every woman. I’m propositioning you.” It’s only after the words leave my mouth that I realize how bold they are.
I half expect Wesley to kick the ball at my head. Instead, she quirks an eyebrow like a disappointed teacher giving me a second chance to not be an idiot.
I grin wider, doubling down on what I said.
“Does that line actually work for you?”
She’s trying desperately to keep a straight face, but I can see the corner of her mouth tilting up just slightly.
“What? Too forward?” I chuckle.
Contrary to what’s published about me, I don’t sleep around or hook up that often at all. I really only brought it up to fluster her. I like seeing her cheeks turn pink when I catch her off guard.
“Nope.”
I pause, body thrumming with the possibility of her taking me up on my offer.
Then she adds, “Not too forward at all. Gives me the chance to make sure you know it’s never going to happen.”
I deflate.
“I need to get back to work. You should get going, Wilder.” She walks right back into the middle of the field, lining up more shots on goal.
How she has the energy to keep going, after the workout we’ve already done, is a mystery to me. A pang of jealousy stabs between my ribs because she knows exactly who she is. And I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.