8 - Nathan
Nathan
I’m half an hour early, which is ridiculous, even for me, but there’s no ignoring the pit in my stomach that formed when I pulled into the parking lot. The stadium lights are off, but the soft gray morning light spills over the turf, making the painted lines look bright.
Coffee in hand, I pace along the edge of the field, my shoes crunching against the frost that the sun hasn’t had a chance to melt. The crisp air bites at my cheeks, but sweat forms at my hairline regardless.
I keep my hands wrapped around the cup, a flimsy barrier between me and the chaos of my thoughts.
I replay her text over and over: I’ll do it, but on one condition.
My skin was buzzing with frantic energy. That one condition is still a question mark, but I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it is. I can’t afford not to.
Ever since Wesley texted me, I’ve been a wreck. Sure, hanging out with an attractive, confident woman is half of it. The other half is because I’m watching my future on the Blades slip away. I’m terrified that cross-training won’t do anything, and then it’ll be too little too late.
I check my watch again. Five minutes have passed. Only five.
My phone buzzes with texts from the group chat.
Grayson: First day of school vibes, man?
Wyatt: Don’t tell me you’re nervous about a soccer player.
Liam: He’s had the jitters worse than a rookie at camp for days now.
Normally, I’d fire back something cocky. Today, the usual bravado isn’t there. It’s hard to pretend when everything feels like it’s dependent on the next hour.
Me: How about you all shut the hell up?
Liam: Uh-oh. Somebody is a little touchy this morning.
I cram my phone into my bag, trying to ignore the fact that they are right. I’m really fucking nervous.
And then she appears, twenty minutes early.
Wesley moves across the frost-kissed grass with a confidence that would make everyone else look like they’re moving through molasses.
Her stride is smooth and athletic in a way that’s effortless.
The few pieces of snow drifting through the air catch at the ends of her hair, turning a few brown strands white.
My nerves spike, but this time they twist into something warmer; an anticipation I have no right to feel.
She’s made it clear that there will be nothing going on off the field.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.
Our chemistry is there. At the end of the day, though, I respect it.
Her boundaries matter, even if they rain on my parade.
Flirting, though? I won’t be giving that up. I’m not sure I could if I tried.
Her eyes meet mine before darting to the ground. A flush rises in her cheeks, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in her head.
“Morning,” she says, sounding more collected than I feel.
I give her the cup of coffee I brought for her. Not knowing what she liked, I completely guessed. She lifts it to her mouth and lets out a soft groan when the warmth hits her tongue. The sound rips straight through me, and I swallow hard, willing my thoughts to behave.
“How’d I do?” I ask, trying to ignore the spark lit low inside me.
“Coffee black?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“You didn’t seem like a sugar and frills kind of girl.”
“You’d be right.”
I mentally curse myself for the hundred sugar and creamer packets in my bag just in case. Pathetic.
“You said you wouldn’t change your mind.”
“Yeah, well. I may have put my foot in my mouth.”
“You?” I tease. “Seems out of character.”
She huffs, and a cloud of breath swirls in the cold. “Very.”
“Are you going to explain or keep me guessing?”
“I told my coach you were my boyfriend.”
I nearly spit out my coffee.
“What am I supposed to say to that?” My mouth feels like sand. Because seriously. What the fuck?
Sure, hitting on her is quickly becoming my favorite pastime, but I haven’t thought of being in an actual relationship in years.
She’s pacing now, sleeves tugged past her fingers. “I know you’re not, nor do I want you to be.”
Ouch. Talk about emotional whiplash.
“Did you call me here to shut me down again? Because I got the message the first three times.”
“No. Shit—” She runs a hand through her hair. “God, this is so embarrassing.”
I laugh. I’ve seen her cocky, ruthless, and laser-focused. I’ve even seen her flirty and unguarded, but I’ve never seen her this rattled.
“Maybe start over,” I nudge.
She drops onto the bench. I sit down, too, careful not to touch her. Even still, every inch of me is aware of how close she is. I’d only need to tilt my leg slightly for our knees to brush. It’s tempting, considering the heat radiating from underneath her dark purple Tempest jacket.
“My coach saw you here and assumed something was going on. Which it’s not.”
Her eyes flick to mine, daring me to argue. I raise my hands in surrender playfully.
She takes her hair down and redoes it up into a ponytail. I’ve noticed she does this when she’s nervous. “She says I need to show balance. Be an example of a captain who’s not all soccer, all the time.”
“You? Too focused?” I smirk. “Shocking.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch.
“She threatened my captaincy. And you had just left. Bam. Boyfriend created.”
I sip my coffee, letting the bitterness and warmth settle my nerves. I should be more annoyed. Should be. Instead, my skin tingles with excitement.
“It was harmless, until she said I have to bring you to the team party.”
My mind instantly flashes to the night we met. Wesley, all dressed up for a party, would be reason enough for me to say yes. “When is it?”
“Second week of January.” She bites her lip. “I know it’s kind of a long time away.”
I nudge her with my shoulder, unable to stop myself. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“A very fake date.”
“All I’m hearing is date.”
“You’re impossible.”
She swats me. I grin.
“Is that the condition?”
“You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re dedicated and willing to do what it takes to succeed. Even if it’s embarrassing.”
We’re the same that way. We’re both leaning on each other to help prove something to the people doubting us.
She stands, kicking her ball between her feet.
“I don’t usually have girlfriends,” I say.
Her face softens, vulnerability peaking through. “If you don’t want to…”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” I start, her eyes lighting back up.
“I’m saying that I’m not like Liam, who goes through women like candy, but I’m also not like Grayson, who is perpetually in a relationship.
I date, but not seriously. It’s usually highly publicized.
People aren’t going to believe that we’re in some multiple-month relationship if we’re only seen at your party. ”
“Right.” She nods. “Unless maybe we have a couple of dates before the party.”
Yes.
Instant yes.
The idea of spending time with Wesley sends a spark racing through me. I manage to tone down my response out loud.
“I’m in.”
“Really? Thank God.”
She launches herself at me. I wrap my arms around her way too eagerly without thinking.
It’s like she’s made to fit right here, and it feels way too good.
She pulls back when she realizes what she just did, smoothing her jacket back into place.
She puts space between us. I let her. Because professionalism.
My body hates me for it.
“Strictly professional. I’ll help you cross-train, and you’ll help me prove I have a life outside of soccer.” Her eyes flash in a way that’s equal parts warning and challenge, and I wink.
“Of course. Professional,” I echo.
“Are you ready to work out, then?” She asks, shedding her anxiety and stepping into sport mode.
It’s the first time she’s been comfortable since getting here.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She rolls her shoulders, adjusts her stance, and we fall into the rhythm of exercise.
We stretch, mostly familiar ones with a couple that pull on muscles I’ve never thought of. Then, we run three miles instead of two like last time, but her pace is just as aggressive.
Our breaths fog the air in synchronized bursts. Muscles I never use for this length of time burn. She moves with relentless purpose, and I try to keep up.
If anyone thinks women aren’t as athletic as men, they need to meet Wesley. She’s an endless well of energy and effort. The fact that I didn’t know who she was until a couple of weeks ago is a damn shame. I make a mental note to watch more women’s sports.
An hour in, I’m less eager when we do agility drills. She says they’re soccer-specific, but they seem more like foreign torture tactics. I follow her through them anyway. More than once, I feel her eyes on me, but every time I glance, they’re focused on her feet.
I’d rather do the Gauntlet and let my team slam me into the boards repeatedly than do this multiple times every week, but I asked for this.
I’m not a quitter, but I am a complainer.
So even though Wesley’s quiet, I chirp away, coming up with different ways to describe the hell she’s putting me through.
After what feels like hours, she finally calls a pause, wiping her brow. “Alright. That’s enough for today.”
I shake my head, still buzzing with energy. “We can keep going.”
“You’ve been bitching the entire time.”
I gasp. “I don’t bitch.”
“Yes, you do. And whine. And moan. And groan.”
I smirk, sweat dripping down my cheek. “You’re right, I do do that.”
“Fuck off, Wilder.” She sighs, exasperated with my antics.
I shake my hair, sending a few stray drops of sweat in her direction.
Like she always does, she steers the conversation back within our boundaries. “Let’s not push it. You were dead on your feet last time.”
“I’m a little more motivated now.” I sigh, taking a sip of my water.
“Do you really think this is going to help with your game?”
“I have to think that,” I admit. “I’m out of ideas otherwise.”
She hauls her bag over her shoulder and nods for me to follow. “I hope it does.”
I can tell she means it. It’s nice to have someone new in my corner, rooting for me, even if it is only because of an arrangement.
“When’s our first date?”
She glares at me.
“Oh, come on. I’m not going to specify that it’s fake every single time.” I switch into my casual shoes and shoulder my bag.
“Maybe Saturday. We can grab lunch or something?” She doesn’t look at me.
“Can’t. We have an away game stretch, starting tonight, until then. What about Sunday?”
“Fine.”
“You do know that the fake-date part of this arrangement is to help you, right?”
“Yes.” She looks at me warily.
“So, I think you meant to say: Thank you, Nathan.”
She huffs a laugh, lips twitching up despite the annoyed look on her face. “Nope. Definitely didn’t mean to say that.”
We walk wordlessly through the hall, our footsteps the only sound. Eventually, we make it to the parking lot, where only two cars sit. My Range Rover and a Hyundai Santa Fe that looks almost ten years old. Why would a professional athlete be driving that?
“Is that your car?” I point to the grey clunker.
She clicks the button on her keys, unlocking the car. “Yes. What about it?”
“Why are you driving that?”
“Not everyone wants something flashy like you.”
My Range Rover is pretty tricked out, but compared to my teammates, like Liam, for example, it could be worse.
“No, but everyone wants something that can pass an inspection.”
She doesn’t answer, and I know that I’ve crossed one of her lines. Her privacy is clearly sacred to her, and I just keep pushing right through her boundaries anyway.
“Look, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t get it. You’re a professional athlete.”
Her laugh is loud and condescending. “I’m a woman. My entire team makes a fraction of what you alone make in a year.”
Oh. Fuck. I didn’t think about that. It never even crossed my mind. She’s clearly an elite athlete. I figured she got paid somewhere in my ballpark. I should’ve known better.
“I didn’t know.” I rub the five o’clock shadow on my jaw.
“No worries,” she says, but I can tell she’s embarrassed.
My foot practically lives in my mouth around this girl.
“Text me your address.”
“Why?” Her brows furrow.
The hesitancy is rolling off her in waves, but I ignore it.
“Because we have a date on Sunday.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“My girlfriend would never meet me there,” I argue. This is not debatable.
“I’m not your…”
“Until your team party, you're my girlfriend. At least in appearances, which means you’re getting treated as such.”
Either she thinks I’d be an awful boyfriend in real life, the kind who wouldn’t even pick her up for a date, or she hasn’t dated anyone in far too long. The way her foot is tapping a mile a minute leads me to believe the latter.
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to.”
“I’m picking you up. End of story. Text me your address. Now, Wesley.”
“I can later.”
I wave my phone at her, and she sighs. “I’m not leaving until your address is in my phone.”
There is no way I’m letting her leave without it. Not when she could make up some excuse later to keep it from me. If we are doing this, we’re doing it right.
“Fine.” She sets her bag down in front of me, dropping to her knee to pull out her phone. “Here. See? Address sent,” she says while typing.
I should be paying attention to her words and the text dinging through my phone, but instead I’m acutely aware of her proximity, the way her scent is mixed with sweat, the taut line of muscle in her calves, and the curve of her neck.
The realization hits me like a jolt: she’s on her knees in front of me, and I’m getting hard.
I take a sharp breath, forcing myself to step back and shake out my shoulders. My mind struggles to refocus, but the tension lingers, delicious and maddening. She doesn’t notice, or at least she doesn’t comment, and I shove my awareness into checking my phone.
Maybe I find her attractive. Okay, I definitely find her attractive, but that doesn't matter. Just like it doesn’t matter how much I enjoy teasing her, or how she taps her hands against her legs when she’s flustered.
None of these things matter because I don’t want it to go anywhere, and neither does she.
It would complicate everything. Besides, just because we have physical chemistry doesn’t mean we should hop into bed, even if it would be so fucking good.
My sole priority is using these workout sessions to my advantage. Risking my contract over a girl would be next-level stupid. Two months of fake dating and working out together, then we go our separate ways.
Now, if I could get my body to remember that and keep my head in the game.