19 - Wesley
Wesley
You’re late,” Avery says, though the accusation lacks any real frustration.
She’s already claimed her seat when Harper and I arrive. Her leather jacket is draped over the back of the booth, and a half-empty basket of chips sits between two sweating margarita glasses. It’s clear evidence that she did not wait patiently.
“You said seven-ish.” I shrug out of my jacket. “This is still ish.”
Girls’ night is always a reminder of who I am when no one is watching my performance metrics or dissecting my choices, when the only expectations for me are the ones I place on myself.
Tonight, tucked into a corner booth at a loud Mexican restaurant with chipped tile floors and walls painted in sun-faded reds and yellows, it feels especially necessary.
Harper laughs as she settles beside me. “Must be serious if you’re anxious, Ave.”
Avery wipes her hands on a napkin. “I have things to discuss.”
“That feels ominous.” I reach for a chip.
Avery takes another sip of her drink, sliding the second margarita to Harper. “Did you see the article about the friendly match in Lisbon?”
Harper groans.
I have seen it. The headline alone was enough to make my knee hurt. As soon as I saw the title, I closed the app and shoved my phone face down onto the counter, as if avoiding the details would protect me from the harsh reality that comes with being a professional athlete.
“It was her third ACL,” Avery continues, her voice lowering as if volume alone might soften the blow. “Same knee. Non-contact injury.”
The table goes quiet in that way only athletes can really understand. It’s the collective pause that comes when you realize how quickly the sport we love can be taken away.
I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of my legs stretching beneath the table. The strength in my quads. The stability in my knees. Things I never think about unless something goes wrong.
“I couldn’t bring myself to watch the clip,” I admit, my gaze drifting to the condensation sliding down my water glass.
“She’s done,” Harper says, adding more salt to her chips. “There is no way she comes back from that again. Not at that level.”
Retirement. The word hovers unspoken but heavy, a looming specter that follows every professional athlete whether we acknowledge it or not. Careers don’t always end when we’re ready in sports. Sometimes, they end when our bodies decide they’re finished cooperating.
“I can’t imagine,” I murmur. “Training your whole life just to have it taken away because something snaps at the wrong moment.”
Harper lifts her glass, swirling the lime wedge thoughtfully. “Soccer isn’t everything.”
Avery glances up sharply. “It was for you.”
Just like that, we’ve stepped into our unspeakable territory. We may never fully understand Harper’s choice, but she’s made it clear we don’t need to. Avery tends to forget how to tread lightly.
Harper smiles, but it’s a little distant. “It was. And now it isn’t.”
I watch her for a second longer than necessary, thinking of the move she made for James, and the opportunity she walked away from. Regret is complicated. It doesn’t always mean you made the wrong choice. Sometimes, it means the cost was higher than you expected.
The server appears, mercifully, and we order drinks and enough food to feed a small army. As the conversation shifts to tactics and formations, I relax.
This is familiar ground. Safe ground.
We fill Harper in on the new athletic trainer interning with the team, and she fills us in on her school’s latest teacher drama.
“So, the new history teacher is hooking up with the science teacher who’s married?” I ask, trying to keep up with what feels like a soap opera.
Avery snorts into her drink.
“Yup,” Harper says, popping the ‘p’ and nodding vigorously like she can’t believe it herself.
“There is nothing wrong with a workplace romance. Everything is wrong with an affair.” Avery shakes her head. “That, my friends, is why I don’t believe in love.”
We laugh, but I can’t help pushing her.
“You used to.”
“I used to be blinded by lust. Now, I can separate the two.” She cuts into her burrito as it’s set down in front of her.
And then, as if reading my mind, Avery’s eyes flick to my phone.
“So,” she says. “How’s Boston’s King of the Ice?”
I roll my eyes. “Dinner was going so well.”
Harper leans forward, interest piqued. “Oh no. You do not get to dodge that.”
“I am dodging it.” I take a bite of my chicken taco. “Successfully.”
Avery snorts. “You almost kissed him.”
I nearly choke. In a moment of weakness, I told Avery what happened with Nathan. I blame the extended period of stim treatment we were both doing post-lift this morning.
“That is not what happened.”
Harper’s eyebrows shoot up. “Almost kissed him?”
I fire daggers in Avery’s direction. “You promised not to say anything.”
“We both know that doesn’t apply to Harper.”
She’s right. I sigh, sinking back into the booth. “He almost kissed me.”
“Wait,” Harper says. “Who almost kissed who? I need details.”
“There are no details,” I insist. “We were ice-skating.”
“Why were you ice-skating?” Harper’s confusion laces her tone.
“Because I am stupid.” I squint my eyes at her as if it’s obvious. “Anyway, he leaned in. I left.”
Avery stares at me as if I’ve admitted to a felony. “You didn’t tell me you left.”
“Well, I did.”
“You panicked.”
“Yes.”
Harper crosses her arms. “Why? You kissed at the bar.”
Avery mumbles under her breath, “Yeah, and then she fled the state.”
There’s a bang, and Avery flinches. Harper must’ve kicked her. Good.
“Wes,” Harper tries again. “Please tell me you didn’t literally run away.”
“Not exactly.” I think back to being with him, how I let my guard down and flirted, how cute he looked when I called him a good kisser.
How attractive it was when he kicked my ass in the race instead of letting me win.
“I slowly made for the bench, took off my skates, and then left. We still made plans to train again after their away trip.”
They both exhale, like that’s better than expected.
If my best friends are this shocked that I didn’t physically run away from him, what does that say about me?
“I still want to know why you were ice skating. That is not part of the arrangement.” Avery wiggles her brows.
“We’re friends. Friends skate.” I echo Nathan’s words to them, but they sounded infinitely more believable when he’d said them.
“Why did you panic?” Harper asks gently, like I’m a caged bird.
Because it scared me. Because no one was there and it would've been real. Because I’m not sure I’d be able to stop him.
Not sure I’d want to.
I pick at the edge of a napkin. “I can’t afford distractions right now.”
Avery groans. “You’re already distracted.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t,” Harper says. “You’re already thinking about him. Training with him. Pretending to date him in public. And apparently, hanging out in private. Somehow, you think kissing him is where the line is.”
The idea settles uncomfortably in my head, too close to something true.
“It changes things,” I say quietly.
“How?” Avery presses.
“It makes it harder to walk away.”
There it is. The truth, sitting between us like a fourth person at the table.
Harper softens. “Wes.”
“I have worked too hard to get here,” I continue. “I finally feel close to achieving everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m playing the best I have in years. I will not lose sight of that.”
Avery reaches across the table, her hand covering mine. “You really think having fun with a guy will change that?”
I trace the rim of my glass, my head throbbing. “At the bar, it was like I forgot soccer altogether.”
I seem to forget it every time I’m with him, which further proves it’s an awful idea. Soccer needs to be the first thing on my mind right now.
“That isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” Harper takes a sip of her drink. “You could tear your ACL tomorrow in a friendly match.”
I flinch.
“Sorry,” she adds quickly. “Bad example, but you get my point. You can’t only live for soccer. It’s not healthy.”
I stare at my phone again. Still face down. Still silent.
“What are you really afraid of?” Avery asks.
I don’t answer right away.
“I’m afraid,” I say finally, “that if I let myself want him, I won’t know how to stop. And this has an expiration date right after the new year. I mean, do we seriously think Nathan Wilder would actually want something serious with anyone, let alone me?”
Harper smiles gently. “If he had half a brain, he would.”
The idea shoots straight through my chest, equal parts terror and something dangerously close to excitement.
Avery’s lips curl. “You know I hate hockey players, but I say go get him.”
I laugh it off. He’s already said he doesn’t date. Besides, I don’t either. I don’t have the time to spare, not with the Futures Camp coming up at the end of January. If I want to make the National Team, I still need to fight for an invite to that camp.
“Anyway, how’s your thriving dating life?” I shift the topic.
“A disaster.”
“Shocking,” Harper deadpans.
“I went on a date last week with a guy who spent thirty minutes explaining my own position to me. Incorrectly.”
We all giggle, listening to her recount the whole date. For Avery, it makes complete sense. Her taste in men is interesting to say the least.
“Nice try deflecting, but I won’t let this go until you text Nathan.” Avery pops a chip into her mouth.
“Text him,” Harper echoes.
“What would I even say?”
Avery shrugs. “Wanna bang?”
I slap her shoulder.
My phone buzzes suddenly, like it’s listening.
I freeze.
Avery squeals. “Is that him?”
“No,” I say quickly, flipping the screen over. It’s a group chat notification. I relax, then feel foolish for doing so.
“Text him,” Harper says again. “You don’t have to make a move. Just open the door a little.”
I stare at the screen, thinking of the way he looked at me on the ice. His attention had felt hot against my skin.
I type before I can overthink it.
Me: How was Thanksgiving?
Wanting to talk to him doesn’t have to mean anything. I text my friends all of the time.
Nathan: Not much of a holiday since we’re in season. You?
My heart kicks when he responds right away like he always does. Just friendly excitement.
Me: I celebrated with my family last weekend. Celebrating with the girls tonight.
Nathan: What’re you thankful for?
It’s a loaded question. I’ve been teetering on the line between flirty and serious since we met, and it feels like I’m about to fall off one side of it.
Me: Still thinking about it. You?
Nathan: You messaging me. I’m stuck watching game tape, and fuck, it’s boring.
I smile despite myself. He wants to talk to me, too. That knowledge makes me feel a bit too giddy.
Me: I love watching film. It helps you get better.
Nathan: Of course you do.
Me: Maybe if you paid attention, you’d fix your backhand.
Nathan: Seriously, you can’t talk dirty to me like that.
I roll my eyes. This man can’t go five seconds without flirting with me.
Me: That’s what you call talking dirty?
Nathan: Not even fucking close, Miller. Why? Thinking about finding out for yourself?
Me: No
Yes.
Nathan: We’ll stick with your kind of dirty talk then.
Nathan: You would love watching hockey tape. So. Much. Pausing.
Avery leans over to read. “He’s flirting.”
“I know,” I say.
Harper clicks her tongue.
I hesitate, then type.
Me: Lucky you that I messaged then.
Nathan: Seems that way. I was just hoping for a distraction.
My pulse jumps.
I think of how close he’d been. Our breath had mixed in the chilled air. There had been no crowd or excuse. He’d wanted to kiss me, for real.
The fear is still there, crawling up my spine. But beneath it is something else.
Me: Careful what you wish for.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. I slide forward in my seat, watching my screen in anticipation.
Nathan: I always am.
The words sit on the screen longer than they should, confident in a way that causes a slow burn to start under my skin. I don’t reply. Instead, I let the noise of the restaurant wash over me, my mind heading in directions that I don’t usually allow.
I’m a professional athlete. The captain.
The default mother to my sister. The budgeter and bill payer for my father.
I’m the person everyone looks to when something needs to be handled, when pressure spikes, and there’s no margin for error.
I pull off the impossible not because it’s easy, but because it’s required.
I love soccer. I do. But loving it doesn’t erase the weight of it. I play because I need to, because people need me to.
What scares me isn’t Nathan. It’s wanting something that doesn’t serve a purpose beyond me. Letting myself want him doesn’t pay the bills or further my career.
But maybe, letting myself have a little fun wouldn’t derail everything I’ve worked for.
It’s not like it would be serious. Nathan Wilder, Boston’s golden boy, doesn’t do serious. He has fun. He has flings.
Maybe that’s what I need. Fun that can be filed away when everything goes back to normal.
I glance down at my phone again, my thumb hovering over the screen.
For the first time, instead of shutting the thought down entirely, I let it sit there.
I wonder what would happen if, just this once, I leaned in.