24 - Wesley
Wesley
I can’t believe you dragged me to a hockey game. I hate hockey. Hate it,” Avery groans beside me, slumping into her seat.
Harper snorts. “What could you possibly hate about hot, athletic men roughing each other up all night for our entertainment?”
“Everything.” Avery grabs a fistful of her stale popcorn and stuffs it into her mouth.
It’s early. The stands are still mostly empty, with only the smell of concession food and the chill of ice in the air.
I tug at the hem of my cropped Blades sweatshirt, pulling it a little lower over my midriff.
When people start filling up the arena, I know I’ll be hot, but right now the cold is getting to me.
“You dated a hockey player.” I steal a kernel of popcorn. “You went to his games all the time.”
“Don’t remind me,” Avery mumbles through her mouthful. “That's why I hate hockey now.”
Her words are clipped, making me want to push her harder to understand what happened. I don’t get the chance, though, because Avery is an expert at shifting the attention to me.
“Seriously, why are we here? A fake boyfriend is one thing, but coming to his game feels real.”
“No.” I blurt out, cheeks flushing. “Not real, but an easy way to make it look real without actually having to put on much of an act. I like hockey. I watch it at home. I can watch it here while giving the reporters something to talk about.”
It’s the same reasoning that Nathan gave me for the two weeks he’s pestered me about coming. I couldn’t argue the logic, so here I sit, almost an hour before gametime, wondering what the rest of the night will entail.
We’re going out with his team after the game, knowing that pictures will be published to give our relationship more credibility.
Who knew dating a famous athlete would be so easy to fake?
We pose for a couple of viral photos and then can go our separate ways.
Except tonight, I’m hoping we don’t go our separate ways at all.
It’s a bad idea, but one I’ve committed to.
So with any luck, the plan for the night will include finishing what we started before the pizza interrupted us.
I’ve been a ball of nerves thinking about it since he’s been gone.
It felt so good, letting my guard down and letting him touch me the way I’ve been wanting but fighting.
But I haven’t been able to shake the nagging feeling that it felt too good. Too real.
I push those concerns down because, regardless of how dangerous this tension between us feels, I need to see it through. My friends are right, I deserve to have some noncommittal fun, and Nathan seems more than willing to help with that.
My mind flashes to his head between my legs, and my skin heats.
The media has publicized so much of his romantic life, but even with the knowledge that he has an extensive dating background, I hadn’t expected him to be that good.
Good enough that I’ve lain in bed every night thinking about it.
It’s never been clearer how inadequate my vibrator really is.
I exhale slowly, letting my gaze wander to the rink to distract myself from the lack of control I have when I think about him.
The Blades’ colors gleam under the arena lights, the ice reflecting streaks of both shades of teal and gray like a frozen mirror.
Players are starting to warm up, their skates scraping lightly against the ice while their mascot, Razor the Raccoon, circles the outer edges, exciting the kids who run to the glass.
I catch a glimpse of Nathan exiting the tunnel wearing his number seventeen jersey. His hair is already wet with sweat, pushed out of his face, while he fidgets with something on his helmet. Something about seeing him here after being down there on the ice with him feels surreal.
My heart stops. What the hell am I doing here? Why can’t I get these feelings under control?
“Uh, Wes?” Harper eyes me carefully. “Are you okay?”
Her question breaks me out of my trance, but doesn't stop my anxiety spiraling faster by the second. I bolt out of my seat and make for the aisle. “Yeah. Just got to pee.”
It’s a lie. We all know it, but they don’t stop me. I fight the flow of traffic up the stairs and into the concourse, trying to calm my heart that's picking up speed.
My feet guide me in circles around the concourse, passing the same concessions three times before I’m calm enough to stop moving.
Stress is no stranger to me. It constantly lingers right over my shoulder, waiting for me to feel too comfortable before making a reappearance.
No matter how under control I might have things, the anxiety always finds a way to crash back into me at the most inconvenient times.
I talked to a doctor about it once, but she tried to get me to go to therapy. As if I needed someone to tell me what my issue is. I know my issue. I don’t allow myself to feel things. I block it all out until it sends my walls tumbling down and floods my nervous system. I know that.
Unless a therapist can pay the bills, lead a professional athletic team, or bring my mom back from the dead, there’s not much they can do about it. So, I cope. I run faster. I keep moving, pushing my walls back into place until my will is stronger than the anxiety trying to tear me down.
It usually works. But tonight, everything feels fragile, as if I’m balancing on the edge of a tightrope and falling is inevitable.
I watch the concourse flood with people before thinning back out as people make their way to their seats.
I should leave and take back my insane suggestion that we fool around for the duration of our fake fling. Clearly, it’s weighing on me enough to send me spiraling. It’s one of many signs that the whole thing is a bad idea.
I pull out my phone to cancel, scrolling to Nathan’s number.
“Wesley,” a voice calls out from behind me, and I turn to see Coach Bennett approaching.
Seeing her outside of soccer feels like seeing a teacher during summer break as a kid. Uncomfortable. She’s wearing Blades gear, and her husband trails behind her.
“Hey, Coach.” I fake an easy smile. “I didn’t know you were a Blades fan.”
It’s true. Other than knowing she’s one hell of a coach, I know next to nothing about her.
“Runs in the family,” She answers, gesturing to her husband, who might be more decked out than she is. “I would’ve thought you’d be in the family box, with the rest of the players' girlfriends.”
It’s not a question, but the skepticism written on her face is clear as day. I hate lying to her, but not enough to back down now.
“Nathan really wanted me to, but I love being in the thick of things. A part of the crowd. Avery’s down in the stands with me, too.” I nod generally toward my seat.
Her lips form a thin smile, one that says she thinks I’m full of shit. Anyone who has met me knows the last place I want to be is in the thick of things. Well, second to last place. The last place is in a box designed for very real, very significant wives and girlfriends.
“It’s good to see you out having fun with your friends and supporting your boyfriend.”
“Yeah, it’s been really good for me.” I nod, eyes darting back toward the entrance I’m desperate to escape to. “Well, I should get back in there, don’t want to miss Nathan’s official entrance.”
“Of course, see you at practice.” She nods, brushing past me with her husband trailing behind.
I move toward the entrance, taking the steps one at a time.
It’s ironic that everyone says this is all good for me.
If only Coach knew that the ‘life’ she wanted me to have is making me a spiraling, stressed-out mess.
What a fucking joke. If anything, this entire thing is complicating my life far more than I can handle.
“You were gone for a while.” Avery eyes me, standing up so I can squeeze by her.
“Ran into Coach.” I sigh as I take my seat.
“I swear she might be stalking you or something.”
“Apparently, she’s a big Blades fan.” I smile, picturing how ridiculous she looked with her foam finger and face paint. “I need to cancel tonight.”
Both of their heads snap to me, confusion and concern flitting across their faces.
Harper speaks first. “Why? Don’t you need to convince everyone you’re dating?”
Avery’s face shifts from concern to a knowing smile. “You fooled around, didn’t you?”
Damn it.
“What? No way, she would’ve told us.” Harper looks between us, before seeing the guilt on my face and jabbing her finger at me. “You totally did, and you didn’t tell us? Spill it.”
“It doesn’t mean anything. We both figured if we’re going to pretend to date, we may as well reap some of the benefits.” I shrug, clicking my tongue against my teeth. “It’s just until we fake break up after the party.”
“Oh my god.” Avery’s eyes widen, like a shark circling its prey. “How good was the sex? I bet it was so good. He looks like the kind of guy who would bang you into oblivion. You know?”
“Shut up.” I slap her arm, but she smiles wider. The idea of telling them everything has the pressure in my chest dissipating, so I do. “We didn’t have sex. I mean, it was heading there, but then a pizza arrived after he’d gotten me off. It kind of killed the vibe.”
“So, he got you off, then you left right away?” Harper scrunches her eyebrows.
“Well, no. We ate some pizza and watched the Brazil game. Then I left.” They exchange a look.
“He didn’t get any benefits for himself? He got you off and gave you pizza. You watched soccer, then you left. He didn’t even ask if you’d help him out?”
“No,” I admit sheepishly. I felt a little bad about my lack of reciprocation, but tonight, I had planned to more than make up for it.
“He’s down so bad.” Harper laughs in delight, looking toward the ice to search for him.
“No,” I argue quickly. “It’s not like that.”
We’re both looking for a little fun. No strings. Right?
Avery quirks her eyebrow. “Post orgasm pizza and couch cuddling while watching soccer sounds a little more than casual.”
This. This is exactly what I’m worried about. I’m rusty with this kind of thing and too close to this to know what the hell is happening.
The fans in front of us start screaming and gathering around the glass.
“No strings, huh?” Avery smirks, gaze shifting to the chaos in front of us.
I follow her gaze, seeing Nathan, helmet under one arm, standing at the glass, looking up at me. My heart stumbles in the way that is becoming familiar but no less terrifying. He motions for me to come down.
I shake my head no, but he’s persistent.
He leans against the boards casually, prepared to hold up warm-ups and the game if I don’t go to him.
It’s a shame that this arrogance is part of what makes him so damn attractive.
My body moves without my permission because apparently, I can’t say no to him. At least not when he looks like that.
Once I get close enough, I can see that he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, instead letting his stubble cast a shadow on his face. He mouths, Hi, but I can’t hear him over the swarm of fans around us. They’ve given us some space, but still form a tight semi-circle behind me.
My eyes shoot daggers at him, though I smile to keep up the act for anyone watching. And they are all watching. Instead of backing off, he smiles wider, acting innocent.
My skin is on fire with his sole attention on me mere minutes before he’s expected to play three periods of elite hockey.
He holds up a puck, tossing it up and over the glass.
I catch it, pushing it into my pocket, without looking at it, desperate to get out of the public eye.
The cameras have zoomed in on us, putting us on the big screens above the ice.
I tilt my head to where his team is gliding to the bench, and he reluctantly skates backwards following them. He watches me the entire way across the ice, smirking. His eyes burn with a promise of later. My heart is beating uncontrollably.
No, I won’t be canceling on him at all.
When I get back to my seat, I pull the puck out and see a slip of paper taped to it. His messy handwriting is scribbled across it.
I’ve been waiting all day to see you.
I flip it over.
And even longer to get my hands on you.
I suck in a breath as heat crawls up my spine. He shouldn’t be saying things like this. And I shouldn’t be counting down the minutes until the game is over. But if I’m honest, I can’t wait to see him either. Two weeks is a long time for me to sit with my own thoughts about what we’re doing.
I like spending time with him.
I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Or the worst thing.
I tuck the paper back into my pocket, ignoring the questioning glances from my friends, and focus on the ice.
I’m the one in too deep, and I’m not sure how to get back out.