11 - Nathan
Nathan
The rink is quieter than it will be in an hour.
It’s the kind of quiet that only exists before a game, when blades have yet to cut the ice, and the air still feels clean.
Last night we managed a win, so hopefully, we'll pull through again tonight.
But for now, everything is still untouched by expectation.
I like this part best.
My headphones are in, and the music is low enough that I can still hear the scrape of my skates and the echo of voices somewhere down the tunnel.
I move through my warmup more out of habit than intention, stretching muscles that already know what’s coming and loosening joints that don’t need the reminder.
My body’s locked into routine while my mind refuses to stay where it belongs.
Because it keeps drifting back to her.
Wesley.
At lunch, we’d been casual and familiar, but our workout sessions were different.
We’d convened at seven a.m. sharp on Tuesday and Thursday.
She’d been exactly what she promised. Professional and focused.
There were no lingering touches or teasing glances, just quiet instruction delivered with the same calm authority she brings to everything else.
It was as if Sunday’s lunch never happened.
I matched her energy because I said I would, because I told her I’d make this easy, and because I don’t want to be the guy who proves her caution right.
Still, it wasn’t easy at all.
Not when I caught myself noticing how she shifts her weight when she demonstrates a drill, or how her voice changes slightly when she pushes me harder. I left each session feeling wrung out in ways that have nothing to do with the muscles I don’t normally use.
She never once let her gaze linger anywhere it shouldn’t. It’s like there are infinite Wesleys and every single one is tempting in a different way. I’m hooked on trying to figure out which version I have in front of me every time we’re together.
It’s becoming a problem. I don’t do this. I don’t like women who are completely uninterested in me. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I really liked a woman at all. At least not enough to be thinking about them when my mind should be focused on my game in a couple of hours.
I check my phone again, even though I already know there won’t be anything new.
Our text thread is short and painfully well-behaved.
I tried flirting, lightly at first, then bolder, but backed off when she responded with scheduling confirmations and eventually nothing at all.
Rationally, I know that she ignored me today because she has her own scrimmage tonight that she’s warming up for.
Focus, for her, is sacred, and she doesn’t break it lightly.
Even with the less-than-promising text chain, I’m looking forward to tonight.
We’re going out with her team. We’re supposed to be seen together as a couple. I get to be less careful and pretend she’s mine. That thought alone sends a restless spark through me that I can’t quite shake.
I skate a slow lap, then another, keeping my breath steady as I fight the urge to pull my phone back out.
Liam appears right as I am about to climb off the ice.
“Waiting for an important call?” He asks, already wearing a shit-eating grin.
I flip him off without breaking stride.
Grayson follows close behind him, smiling like this is the best part of his day. His stick is slung over one shoulder, and he looks like a captain in every way that counts. Wyatt, of course, brings up the rear with his mask dangling from one hand and his expression permanently unimpressed.
“You’ve checked it twelve times.” Grayson points at my phone in my hand. “We counted.”
“I was stretching.” Had I really checked it that much?
Wyatt snorts. “Your thumbs don’t stretch.”
Liam peers at my screen like he might be able to see through it. “So,” he says, voice dripping with interest, “Wesley?”
“Fuck off.”
“That’s not a no.”
Grayson raises a brow. “You went on a date.”
“No,” I say, even though my palms sweat as I try to figure out if that’s a lie or not.
Liam’s grin widens. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re pretending you don’t care while caring a lot.”
I push past him toward the bench. “Mind your own fucking business.”
Sometimes it’s really annoying that Liam has known me for so long. He can see right through my bullshit.
“That’s a yes,” Grayson says, amused.
“You guys are worse than middle-aged women with your damn gossiping.”
“Call me Karen, I don’t care as long as you tell me what’s going on with the scary soccer captain.” Liam blocks my path, preventing me from fleeing, even though that’s exactly what I want to do.
Luckily, just as I’m about to try to make a break for it, a familiar face from our PR team appears at the tunnel entrance, tablet tucked under her arm.
“Nathan,” she calls. “We’re doing pregame media in five.”
“We’re not finished here,” Liam calls as I walk off.
The media corner is already crowded by the time I’m waved over, with cameras angled and microphones clustered like I’m talking about something groundbreaking instead of hockey. I pull my headphones down around my neck and school my face into the neutrality needed when facing the sharks.
This is familiar territory. Safe, even. Hockey questions are predictable. I answer cleanly, saying nothing interesting and giving them enough to chew on without causing problems.
The first few come exactly as expected.
A question about the upcoming matchup against Dallas. Another about line combinations. Someone asks about the pace of play we’re trying to establish early. I answer on autopilot, nodding where it’s appropriate, using the right phrases, and keeping my voice even while my mind drifts elsewhere.
Then one of them clears his throat.
“Nathan,” he says, tone casual but sharpened enough to put me on alert, “your numbers this season have been steady, but not exactly what people expect from you.”
There it is.
My shoulders stiffen with the instinctive urge to retreat inward, to clamp down before my thoughts spiral somewhere I don’t want them to go.
“How do you respond to criticism that your performance has been mediocre by your standards?”
Mediocre.
The word sinks like a stone in my gut because it’s not entirely wrong. I’ve been trying like hell not to let that thought take root, though.
I exhale slowly through my nose, buying myself half a second.
“Hockey’s a long season. There are stretches where things click and stretches where you’re grinding, and right now my focus is on consistency and contributing where I’m needed.”
A couple of heads nod. Pens move.
Another voice cuts in. “Do you feel pressure to prove something tonight?”
Pressure. Prove. Perform.
I keep my gaze forward. “Pressure comes with the job. If you let it get in your head, that’s when you make mistakes. I’m trying to stay present and play my game.”
It’s the right answer. I know that. Still, the truth underneath it hums uncomfortably. Staying present has been harder lately because a part of me knows exactly what they’re seeing, and that part of me is terrified they’re right.
Sure, last night was the best game I’ve played in a while, but one game’s not enough to secure my contract.
The questions shift again, mercifully, toward the team, strategy, and other topics I can discuss without feeling exposed. I relax slightly, the edge dulling as I fall back into rhythm.
And then someone at the front raises a phone.
“So,” she says, her tone bright, almost amused, “care to explain this?”
She turns the screen toward me.
It’s a photo from my lunch date. I’m opening Wesley’s car door. She’s mid-laugh, head tipped back so the light catches her face. It’s harmless.
And it hits me harder than any hockey question they could’ve asked.
“Is this the same woman you donated two hundred thousand dollars to spend the day with?” Another reporter adds quickly. “The soccer captain?”
There’s roaring in my ears.
I hadn’t planned on this. I hadn’t planned on saying anything, on making it real outside of our carefully constructed bubble. Commenting formally seemed pointless when it was all a temporary arrangement.
We should’ve known better. Privacy is not a luxury I’m afforded.
My instinct is to deflect and downplay it until it disappears. But if I do that, if I shrug it off like it’s nothing, I don’t just protect myself. I undercut her. Her plan. And potentially her captaincy.
That’s not an option.
“Yes,” I say, jaw tightening.
A ripple goes through the group. Someone murmurs her name. Someone else leans forward.
“Who is she to you?” the first reporter presses.
I don’t hesitate this time, even as my heart starts to pound.
“She’s my girlfriend.”
For half a second, everything goes quiet. Then the room explodes.
Questions overlap, cameras shift, and someone whistles under their breath. I catch fragments as they come at me from every direction.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Is this serious?”
“Does this affect your focus?”
I hold my ground the way I do on the ice when chaos hits, creating too much noise with no space to breathe.
“We’re private,” I say simply. “And no, it doesn’t affect my focus. If anything, having the right support makes it easier to do my job.”
It’s true. Knowing that she’s fully in my corner, hoping I get my contract renewed is a breath of fresh air. Having support outside of my teammates isn’t something I’m used to. My sister tries, but considering my parents vehemently disagree with me playing hockey at all, her hands are tied.
As the questions keep coming, the shift settles in, the moment where something private becomes public, whether you’re ready or not. Somewhere across town, Wesley is probably taping her ankles or lacing her cleats, completely unaware I’ve changed the narrative.
I hope she understands why.
My fingers curl around my phone as I head for the locker room. Do I warn her, or does that risk throwing her off before her game?
I decide to hold off. I’ll see her in a couple of hours and can explain then.