23 - Nathan
Nathan
The gym is quiet in that early-morning way that always feels a little sacred. There’s no music yet, only the soft clank of plates and the low hum of the HVAC. It’s exactly how game days are supposed to start.
The lights are still dimmed to half power, casting long shadows across the rubber floors and the rows of racks. Chalk dust lingers faintly in the air, mixing with the familiar scent of metal and sweat. I’ve always liked this hour best. Before reporters. Before fans. Before the noise.
I’m halfway through my first set when I catch myself smiling at nothing.
It’s been two fucking weeks since I’ve seen Wesley, and we’re finally back in town.
There has to be some kind of cosmic joke behind the fact that our longest road trip of the year started the day after she showed up on my doorstep. Seven games, a ridiculous number of red-eye flights, and more hotel beds than I care to count later, and the trip is finally over.
My muscles buzz with restless energy as I move through my set. Some of it is the usual game-day adrenaline. Some of it is the relief of playing on home ice again after weeks on the road. Most of it, though, is because Wesley’s coming tonight.
We texted almost every day while I was gone.
Sometimes it was about the workouts she’s been putting together for me, and other times about my games.
She actually knows hockey, which makes talking to her about it different from talking to most people.
When I asked for her opinion, she gave real critiques. When I didn’t, she just listened.
My favorite moments were when I managed to coax a little flirting out of her. It didn’t happen often, and it took a hell of a lot of effort on my end, but damn if it wasn’t cute when she slipped and let it happen.
Flirting might be teetering on the boundaries we’ve set, but it’s far less concerning than the way she understands me so perfectly.
She somehow knows when I want to break down a shift or when I just need someone to remind me that I’m not playing like shit.
Even when I’m hard on myself, she balances it out.
It’s as if she believes in me in a way I haven’t believed in myself for a long time.
Aside from my teammates, I haven’t had anyone support me this way in years.
It has alarm sirens ringing in my head.
But it still didn’t stop me from asking her to come to the game tonight.
After weeks on the road, I told her it would look good to have my supportive girlfriend in the stands on my first night back. Technically, that’s true.
But really, I just want to see her. Touch her. Taste her.
Since our night together, I’ve been surviving on my hand and the memory of her underneath me.
Hopefully, tonight I won’t have to settle for that.
I’m desperate for her. Call it benefits, or lust, or something a little more pathetic, but I can’t seem to shake it. Especially not when she mentioned wanting to hang out after the game. I have no idea what hanging out actually means. It could be exactly that: just hanging out.
My body has already decided it means something else entirely.
But even if it doesn’t, I’m more than okay with only hanging out.
It had been surprisingly fun to eat pizza and watch an international soccer match while Wesley ranted about the bad officiating. I hadn’t understood a damn thing, but watching Wesley get animated about it was more than enough.
I’ve spent the past two weeks watching every soccer game I could find on TV to hold me over until I’d see her again. By now, I’m even starting to understand it.
So yeah, whether tonight includes benefits or not doesn’t really matter to me, as long as it includes Wesley.
I shake my head and step back under the bar for my next set, grounding myself in routine. Lift. Breathe. Control the descent. Explode upward. This is what I should be focusing on.
“Hat trick hero.”
I glance up to find Liam grinning at me from the next rack over. He’s already sweating, towel draped over his shoulder and water in tow.
“Thursday night,” he continues. “Three goals against the defending conference champs. You’re playing the best hockey I’ve seen out of you in years.”
“Stats don’t lie,” Grayson adds, coming up behind him. “You’re on fire.”
I shrug, but can’t stop the smile. “Just doing my job.”
Wyatt snorts. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the Pope.”
I rack the bar and sit down, grabbing my water. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Liam lowers his voice, leaning closer like he’s about to share state secrets. “Means you’re getting laid.”
I shake my head and point at him. “You don’t know anything.”
“Oh, we know,” Liam says easily. “We all got kicked out of your apartment. That’s not exactly subtle.”
“That was unrelated,” I say flatly, even as heat creeps up the back of my neck. The mention of that night drags every sensation back to the surface. Her breath. Her hands. The way she sounded when she came with my name on her lips.
I step back under the bar before they can push further.
“Sure it was,” Wyatt mutters.
I don’t take the bait. I’ve learned better. Instead, I focus on my next set, jaw tight, refusing to give them anything. They can speculate all they want. Wesley is not up for group discussion.
Still, I can feel my grin creeping back in, uninvited.
“Who’ve we got tonight again?” Wyatt asks, loading plates onto his bar.
“Chicago,” Liam answers without looking up. “It’s the second half of their road swing.”
I grimace. “They’ve been chippy lately.”
“Chippy is generous,” Grayson says. “They’re pissed after losing three straight.”
Chicago plays heavy. Every shift against them feels like a tax you pay with your body, especially along the boards. They walk the line between physical and reckless. When they’re frustrated, their sticks get lazy, and they’ll be frustrated tonight.
Liam nods toward me. “You still on the left?”
“Yeah. Coach wants to keep the line intact.”
“And you’re killing it there,” Grayson adds. “Took you long enough to admit it fits.”
I roll my shoulders again, stretching out lingering tension. I fought the switch at first. Left wing isn’t where I’ve built my instincts, but after seven games, it feels natural with more time to read the play instead of forcing it.
“Feels good,” I admit. “Opens up the ice a bit.”
“Also makes you harder to read,” Liam says. “Defense doesn’t know what to do with you right now.”
I like hearing that.
Playing the left changes everything against a team like Chicago.
The angles come faster, and the pressure hits from the blind side instead of straight on.
On the right, I used to drive wide and cut in on instinct.
On the left, I have to think half a second earlier about where the puck will be, not where it is.
We move through another set, the rhythm familiar.
The room fills slowly as more guys trickle in, the quiet giving way to low conversation and the occasional laugh.
The clatter of weights, the scrape of shoes on rubber mats, and the distant beep of timers all blend into a soundtrack that reminds me why I love this chaos as much as the calm from earlier.
“So, any word on your contract?” Liam asks, a little quieter now.
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the bar.
The question lands heavier than any weight I’ve lifted today.
My agent, Ryan Elliot, has been cautiously optimistic, but nothing is final.
The switch to left wing, the extra goals, the increased ice time; it all counts, sure, but until the ink is on paper, it’s all hope and strategy.
“Ryan’s been more upbeat,” I say carefully. “Nothing concrete yet, but he thinks the switch and the production are helping.”
“That’s huge,” Grayson says. “Told you. You needed a little shake-up.”
The past couple of weeks, it feels like everything is clicking when it needs to. Every successful shift feels like a tiny piece of proof that I still have value. Anxiety still gnaws at the edges. One bad game or careless move against a team like Chicago, and it can all evaporate overnight.
I can’t seem to think about my success on the ice lately without thinking about the brunette who seems at least partly responsible for it. A heavy pull settles in my chest at the thought that wanting her might be misplaced gratitude.
Wesley circles my mind until I’m thinking about her in my apartment. On my couch. Wearing my shirt as if it belonged to her.
I fight my way back to the present. “I’m not counting on anything until it’s signed, but it’s better than it was a month ago.”
Grayson claps my shoulder. “If you keep playing like this, they'll have no choice.”
“Yeah, so don’t fuck up.” Wyatt takes a swig from his water bottle.
“Fuck you, Knox.” I throw my towel at him.
The pressure is there tonight. Not only because of the contract, but because Wesley will be in the stands. I know she’s watched our games on TV, but she’s never come to a game before. I want to impress her.
She drew the line at wearing my name on her back, but her being here is enough. I got her last-minute tickets in the stands since she refuses to sit in the box. She claims to want to be in the thick of things, but I think she’s worried about the attention she’d inevitably get with the WAGs.
I’ve already scoped out her section, so I know where to look tonight.
“Is she coming tonight?” Wyatt asks as if reading my mind.
We’re in the final stretch now, wiping down benches and re-racking plates. Sweat clings to my skin, and my muscles feel loose in the good way, worked but ready. Game-day lifts are always like this. We lift only enough to wake everything up without taking anything away.
“If he has anything to say about it, I’m sure she is,” Liam says, waggling his eyebrows.
Grayson smacks the back of his head without breaking stride as he reaches for his towel.
“Don’t go there,” I warn, voice flat. “Yes. She’ll be at the game tonight.”
That gets their attention.
Liam pauses mid-stretch. The looks they exchange are quiet but loaded, the kind of shared skepticism you only earn after years of being forced together for hours on end every day.
“How deep are you in?” Liam asks.
I don’t think about it, denial ringing as the answer flies out of my mouth.
“I’m not. We’re fake-dating to get her coach off her back, and she’s helping me with some cross-training. That’s it.”
Wyatt snorts, grabbing his water bottle. “I didn’t realize her coach was at your house at almost midnight two weeks ago when she showed up looking like she wanted to rip your clothes off.”
Grayson chokes on his water, and heat creeps up my neck. I open my mouth to argue, already lining up the words, but Liam cuts in first.
“You could train without her now,” he says, more careful than before. “She’s already taught you everything to do.”
I don’t answer.
Technically, he’s right.
I shouldn’t need her anymore. The thought of calling it all off, though, leaves me hollow. Besides, I can’t bail on her when she’s counting on me to sell this fake relationship. It means too much to her.
I hook my towel over my shoulder and start toward the lockers, the rubber floor giving way to cool tile under my shoes. The silence stretches, saying everything I’m not ready to.
“Look,” Grayson says, catching up to me. “We like her. She’s great. But she’s also intense and maybe a tad unavailable.”
“Intense?” Liam’s eyes widen as we pass the doorway into the locker room. Steam drifts out from the showers. The hum of the vents is louder in here, echoing slightly. “She ran circles around all of us without breaking a sweat. She’s discipline wrapped in a sexy body.”
“Shut up,” I snap.
I’m louder than intended. A couple of guys down the row glance over, then look away.
Wyatt smirks, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Yeah, there’s nothing going on at all.”
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall and lean forward, forearms resting on my thighs. My pulse is still elevated, but not from the lift anymore. Now, it’s from them poking at something I’ve been avoiding naming.
“We’re having some fun. Nothing serious.” The words scrape on the way out, but I shove the feeling down before I can think about why.
“You’ve got momentum. Real momentum.” Grayson rubs at the back of his neck, eyes on the floor. “I don’t want your game to slip when this ends.”
“And it will end,” Liam adds, meeting my gaze this time. “We both know that once her coach is off her back, she goes right back to being focused on whatever the soccer equivalent of the Stanley Cup is.”
I nod, even though it feels like swallowing glass.
They’re not wrong.
I reach down, untying my shoes and sliding them off, mostly to keep my hands busy.
They’re right to remind me what this is. Temporary. Fake. An arrangement.
But she’ll be in the stands tonight. For me. In mere weeks, this will all be over, but right now she’s mine. Publicly and privately.
I’m not going to let the future steal this from me.
If I happen to catch her eye when I score, if I see her lean forward, focused and intent, eyes glinting with excitement the way they do on the field or on my couch, well, that’s just a bonus.