9 - Wesley
Wesley
Avery is the only person I know who treats getting ready like a competitive sport. In fact, she might take it more seriously than she takes soccer.
At the moment, she’s tearing through my closet like a natural disaster, sending clothes flying in every direction as she hums under her breath. Her perfectly manicured nails flick hangers aside with ruthless efficiency.
I sit on the edge of my bed in the outfit I’d selected earlier, picking my cuticles and watching the destruction unfold. It’s jeans and a t-shirt. After all, it’s lunch, not the Oscars.
“No. No. Absolutely not,” Avery declares, spinning toward me mid-rampage. “You’re not wearing black.”
Before I can protest, she’s already tugging my shirt over my head with a concerning amount of force, and I don’t bother resisting.
I don’t have the mental bandwidth. My thoughts are spiraling too fast, looping back on themselves in a way that feels dangerously close to nerves.
Instead, I let her manhandle me while I stare at the floor.
“I like black,” I mutter.
“Yes, and today you need to look like a woman going on a date,” she says, already reaching for another hanger, “with her very new and very hot boyfriend.”
“It’s not a real date,” I remind her, the words have a permanent place in my brain.
She pauses to level me with a look that could peel paint. “Fake or not, you’re going to a restaurant with a hot hockey player who agreed to spend his free time helping save your captaincy. Humor me and put in a bare minimum of effort.”
“This is business,” I insist, though even to my own ears it sounds thin, like I’m trying to convince myself as much as her. “We’re saving each other's asses with our coaches. Today is part of the strategy.”
Avery snorts, “And I only watch Love is Blind for sociological research.”
I bite down on the smile threatening to give me away.
She holds up a soft blue sweater dress. It’s cut simply, but flattering, with long sleeves and a hem that falls right above the knee. It’s feminine without trying too hard, which somehow makes my nerves pick up.
“No,” I say immediately, even as my stomach flips with pesky butterflies that won’t die no matter how hard I try to kill them.
“Yes,” she replies, tossing it at me. “Try it on.”
I sigh but comply, pulling the fabric over my head and stepping back into the room. Avery’s reaction tells me everything before I even glance at the mirror.
“You look adorable.”
“I look—” I stop short, finally meeting my own reflection. I look good. Me, but softer somehow. My hair is freed from its usual ponytail, falling around my shoulders in loose waves.
Avery steps behind me, fastening a pair of earrings that I haven’t worn in years. She insists that they bring out the blue in my eyes.
“You look approachable,” she says, her tone gentler now.
It’s a nicer way of saying I look like someone who doesn’t spend every waking moment thinking about soccer. Someone who remembers how to exist outside of obligation and pressure. The realization sits strangely behind my ribs.
I drop onto the bed to pull on my boots, focusing on the zippers as Avery’s expression shifts to reveal concern.
“You okay?”
I nod, a little too quickly. “Just thinking.”
“About him?”
I hesitate, fingers stilling. About a lot of things, actually.
About the way Nathan hadn’t hesitated when I asked for his help.
About the focus in his eyes when he worked, not showy or performative, just locked in.
About how I’m afraid I was completely wrong about him.
I’m worried that fake-dating him will derail the entire future I’ve dreamt of since I was a kid.
“I didn’t expect him to agree so fast,” I admit quietly. “Or to actually follow through on it.”
It was true. I’d texted Nathan on and off throughout the week to see if he would show up today. He liked it a little too much, taking it as a sign to tell me about his practices or days as if this wasn’t only a strategic arrangement.
I had to hand it to him; he was charming, even if that charm didn’t work on me.
Not visibly, anyway. I’d kept my messages short and focused, ignoring him every time he tried to flirt with me.
Eventually he got the message long enough for me to double check that he’d be here.
Getting stood up for a fake date would be too mortifying.
Avery leans against my dresser. “That’s because most men suck.”
She makes a face, and I laugh.
“We’re figuring out how to exist around each other outside of workouts, so this doesn’t fall apart the second someone asks about us.”
“Is that all it is?”
“Yes,” I say it confidently enough to convince us both.
Avery steps forward and pulls me into a quick hug. She understands the pressure I’m under better than anyone. My family. My captaincy. The National Team. All of it balanced on a knife’s edge.
“Didn’t the Blades lose last night?” she asks, deliberately changing topics.
I glance up. “How do you know that?”
She shrugs, suddenly very interested in smoothing my hair. “I saw it somewhere.”
I don’t miss the deflection.
“Think your boyfriend will be in a mood?”
I almost correct her, but that’s what she wants me to do, so I ignore it.
“A couple of weeks ago, I would’ve said no.” I swipe on lip balm. “He acts like none of it matters, at least in front of the cameras. Now? I’m pretty sure he cares more than he lets on.”
“Desperation will do that.”
“It sounds like his contract is actually at risk.” I surprise myself with my own empathy.
“That has got to be tough.”
“Yeah, especially because it seems like hockey may be one of the few things he’s serious about.”
A knock sounds at the door.
My entire body freezes while my pulse picks up to a frantic pace.
Avery steps behind me and physically shoves me down the hall before disappearing entirely. I take a breath and pull the door open, finding Nathan on the other side with his hands tucked into his coat pockets.
He’s dressed simply in dark jeans and a black Henley, somehow still oozing sex appeal. Everything about him, from his perfectly messy hair and confident stance, screams effortless.
His gaze sweeps over me, lingering a fraction of a second, something shifting there before he schools it away.
“You look nice,” he says easily. “Really nice.”
“Thanks.” I’m carefully neutral, ignoring the warmth flickering low in my gut.
The car smells faintly of clean laundry from an air freshener, the windows fogging from the heater to blur the city as we pull away. For a few quiet seconds, neither of us tries to fill the space. The silence stretches, more curious than uncomfortable.
“This is weird.” He’s drumming his fingers against the steering wheel while we sit at a red light.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Very.”
“I don’t know how to act on a date that isn’t a date.”
I watch the traffic crawl past us, headlights reflecting off damp pavement. “Friends get lunch all the time.” The word friend settles oddly in my mouth.
His eyes search my face. “Is that what we are?”
“Yes,” I answer, then tease, “Just out of order.”
The sound of his laugh eases something in the car and in me. “Friends works for me.”
I can be friends with Nathan. Honestly, he isn’t as bad as I’d thought he’d be. His jokes are even sort of funny, not that I’d ever let him know that. So yes, we can be friends. Just friends.
We merge onto the highway with the skyline rising ahead. The glass and steel catch the pale winter sun, making the city look tired and busy in a way that steadies me.
“So,” I say after a moment, mostly to break the silence, “rough game last night?”
He shrugs, eyes focused on the road. “Lost in overtime, which sucks. Houston’s fans are pretty brutal when we play there, too. But this time the loss wasn’t fully on me, so I’m calling it a personal win.”
“Your stats aren’t that bad.”
He smiles, brief but real. “They pay me too much for me to have average stats.” His thumb taps along to the music, then stills. “How would you know my stats?”
“I told you I watch games.” I smooth the hem of my dress, my hair sliding over my shoulder and falling into my face, giving me a convenient excuse not to look at him.
“That’s a little more than just watching.”
My heart kicks up, betraying me. I told myself it was necessary research, but we both know that no one is going to quiz me on his scoring average.
“Hey,” he says, gentle enough that I look up despite myself. His hand lifts without urgency, brushing my hair behind my ear so he can see me, his fingers linger long enough to feel intentional. “It’s okay. I looked you up, too.”
“Really?” My hands go still in my lap as something in my chest loosens, then tightens again when his hand drops away.
“Yeah. I needed to know how badass my girlfriend is. Turns out, very.”
I laugh, a little breathless, my gaze staying on him a beat while he focuses on the road. Every time I think I have a grasp on him, I realize I’m only scratching the surface.
The restaurant parking lot comes up quickly, and I blink. It’s the kind of place with warm lighting and polished wood and no ambiguity about its purpose. A date place. Fake date, I internally reiterate. Chosen for appearances. Nothing else.
He’s already out of the car by the time I reach for my door, holding it open with an expression that suggests this is simply how things are done. I swallow my instinctive protest and let it go.
Inside, we’re guided to a booth by the window with sunlight spilling across the table. The low hum of conversation wraps around us.
Once our drinks arrive, his beer and my sparkling water, I lift my menu like a shield. “We should probably come up with our story.”
He arches a brow, still scanning the menu. “Story?”
“You know, how we met. How long. The basics.”
He pauses, then sets the menu down, thoughtful. “Probably best to keep it close to the truth. We met at the awards ceremony and started dating right after.”
“Where was our first date?” I ask, the word date catching in my throat despite myself. “And who asked who?”
“I asked you. No one would buy it the other way around.” His smile widens as I order the salmon and rice, like my entree proves his point. “And our first date was here.”
I choke on my water as logic and something softer collide beneath my ribs. It makes sense to stick close to the truth, but it also makes today feel more real than I expected.
He watches me with careful attention, amusement tucked beneath the surface.
“Aren’t you worried this will mess up your image?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He leans back, crossing his arms. “No.”
“Ladies’ man Wilder. The city’s most eligible bachelor.” I gesture vaguely, quoting headlines I’ve read too many times. “A girlfriend doesn’t exactly fit the narrative.”
His shoulders drop. “I know what they say.”
“I’m just saying,” I add when the waiter passes, refilling glasses, “it doesn’t seem on brand.”
“I’m not a brand,” he cuts in, sharper now. “I’m a person. Even if everyone forgets that.”
The frustration in his voice makes my heart sink.
“Most of those photos are of Liam,” he continues, calmer but no less honest. “I play wingman more than anything. Most nights end with me calling someone an Uber and going home alone.”
“I didn’t mean to assume.”
He exhales. “I know.”
But it still sits wrong, the ease with which I let someone else define him.
“So,” I ask after a moment, “you don’t actually hook up with that many women?”
He shakes his head. “Not even close. Occasionally, I date, sure, but nothing serious. My travel schedule scares most people off, and the ones who aren’t scared usually want something other than just me.”
“Oh.”
It sounds kind of sad. I might not open myself up to relationships, but if I wanted to, I’d never have to wonder if they were in it for the right reasons. Never quite knowing if someone wants you or just your fame or money would be exhausting.
Nathan leans back in his chair, arms resting on the table casually.
Anyone walking by would think it’s normal, but I can see the hint of sadness behind the glint in his eyes.
I can see the way his jaw twitches as he thinks about the women who have walked into his life only to use him and then walk back out.
Am I doing the same thing? I might be honest about my intentions with this charade, but that doesn’t mean I’m not just another person using him.
“I always thought it was bullshit that I work as hard as other professional athletes only to get a fraction of the recognition,” I explain, smiling despite myself. “But that kind of attention actually sounds awful.”
He grins, the tension easing. “It is. There’s this version of me everyone expects all the time. My team. The media. My parents. No one’s ever happy.”
“Will this,” I say, gesturing subtly between us, “mess anything up?”
“No,” he answers without hesitation as his food arrives. “But even if it did, I’d still do it.”
That shouldn’t cause a slow warmth to pool low in my stomach. But it absolutely does.