28 - Nathan
Nathan
Lunch with my agent, Ryan Elliott, is supposed to be routine.
It’s something that happens every few weeks, whether I need it or not.
A standing appointment disguised as a meal.
We always go to the same downtown spot with exposed brick and too much natural light.
We sit at the same corner table where the noise dulls, giving the illusion of privacy while we have the same conversation that always starts with small talk and ends with business.
Ryan is mid-sentence, hands moving as he talks, fork abandoned on the edge of his plate as if his food is an afterthought compared to this discussion.
“Eight wins out of the last ten,” he says, checking his phone. “Second in the conference and first in the division. Nobody had you guys pegged for this back in October, but here we are. Everything is finally clicking, the defensive pairings are solid, and the fans are eating it up.”
I nod along, mechanically, lifting my fork and lowering it again without actually taking a bite.
He’s right. The season is good. Better than good.
The wins are stacking, the city is buzzing again, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like we’re building something instead of surviving week to week.
I should feel lighter.
Instead, my brain keeps dragging me backward to an apartment that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and coffee, to her familiar clutter, and to the moment her walls slipped back into place as she shut the door behind me.
You should probably go.
She wasn’t angry or dramatic. It was less emotional than that, just painfully careful. My stomach’s been in knots for the past two days, wondering if she regretted it.
I’d walked back to my car afterward, hands shoved into my jacket pockets while the cold did nothing to clear my head. No matter how many times I replayed the night, I couldn’t quite figure out where it all went sideways.
It was the best sex of my life. No hesitation or competition.
That thought alone should scare me more than it does. I’m starting to accept that she does it for me in a way no one else has.
But she sets the rules and boundaries, and I’m expected to follow them. I understand why, it’s just really starting to piss me off. That woman has gotten under my skin and planted roots, but she won’t even let me scratch the surface.
Now it’s Monday. Tomorrow I’ll see her again for our workout under fluorescent lights and professional expectations.
Somehow, I’m supposed to pretend like nothing has shifted when everything has.
I have no idea how to look at her. No idea how to speak to her without crossing the lines she drew for a reason.
Ryan clears his throat.
“Nathan.”
I blink, realizing I haven’t processed a single word he’s said in at least a minute. “Sorry,” I say. “What?”
He studies me for a moment, sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “You good?”
“Just tired,” I say automatically, even though exhaustion has nothing to do with it.
He lets it pass, but his tone changes, becoming more professional. The real conversation is starting.
“Here’s the thing,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “As good as the last couple of weeks have been, we need to stay realistic.”
My shoulders tense.
His phone slides across the table with the contract notes pulled up. Numbers and bullet points stare back at me as a reminder that nothing is ever as simple as it feels in the moment.
“The front office is happy,” he continues. “They like your bounce back. They like your effort, but the last few seasons still matter. It’s your inconsistency they’re worried about. The narrative around you doesn’t disappear overnight.”
I stare at the screen without really seeing it.
“You need a damn near perfect rest of the season. No stretches where you disappear. You do that, and we have leverage. You don’t, and we’re talking short-term deals again. Prove-it contracts.”
Something sharp twists in my chest, annoyance flaring up my spine.
“Of course. I’m only worth something if I’m flawless.”
It always comes down to this. I’m a caged animal that can be shipped off at a moment's notice. I’m only useful if they decide I am.
Ryan’s eyebrows lift. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
The edge in my tone surprises even me. This isn’t how I talk to Ryan. He’s been with me since before my rookie season, through injuries, rehab, and late-night doubts I barely admit to myself. He’s never sugarcoated things, but he has always been on my side.
He exhales slowly, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”
The answer piles up all at once. The contract. The future. The woman I cannot stop thinking about, who made it very clear she doesn’t want complications, even as she let me into her bed.
Everything feels out of my control. My career. Whatever is happening with Wesley.
It feels like I’m walking a tightrope with no net, aware that one misstep could send everything crashing down, while someone unseen waits below with a blade, ready to cut the line to see what happens.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, forcing myself to breathe. “That was out of line.”
Ryan watches me for a beat longer, then nods. “Yeah. It was. And that’s not like you.”
“I know.”
“I’m not trying to scare you,” he says more gently. “I’m telling you this so you understand the stakes. You’re playing great. Keep doing that. Control what you can control.”
Control.
The word sticks with me long after lunch ends, mostly because it’s starting to feel like I have none.
The city noise hums around me as I head straight to the rink from the restaurant.
I contemplate texting Wesley, something casual that acknowledges our night together while taking the pressure off, but I chicken out.
I don’t know which version of me she wants tomorrow or if she wants me at all.
The parking lot looks gross with gas streaking through the puddles of melted snow, and piles of icy, black sludge along the edges despite the sun. I click the engine off but stay in the car. The arena looms in front of me like a concrete reminder of everything I’m supposed to be prioritizing.
Players drift in and out through the side entrance with their heads down, each of them wrapped up in their own rituals. Normally, I’d already be inside, carrying out my own routine. Today, my body feels stalled, like my brain forgot to send the signal.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, the vibration sharp in the quiet of the car. I don’t look at it right away. There’s a small, stupid part of me that hopes it’s her, even though I know better. I’m not sure what I’d even say if it were.
I finally glance down at the screen.
My sister.
It rings once more than necessary before I answer. “You have a sixth sense, you know that?”
Delaney laughs immediately. “I do. It tingles every time you’re brooding somewhere with bad lighting.”
“I’m not brooding.” I stare straight ahead at the concrete and glass. “I’m thinking.”
“That’s worse,” she replies. “Thinking never goes well for you.”
I shake my head, a smile tugging at my mouth despite myself. “What do you want?”
“Well,” she says lightly, “I was going to ask how lunch with Ryan went, but then I opened my phone and saw that little press clip from a couple weeks ago. You know the one where you announced your girlfriend. You’ve been avoiding me since then, so I figured I’d start there.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh, that’s why you’ve been sending me to voicemail,” she teases. “Mom and Dad are hassling me for details. It was adorable for about thirty seconds, but after weeks it’s become deeply annoying.”
I sigh. “You can tell them you don’t know anything.”
“I have,” she says. “That hasn’t stopped them. They’ve upgraded from curious to invested, which means they’re asking me when you’re bringing her home for dinner so they can interrogate you directly.”
“I’m not bringing her home.” Nausea churns in my gut.
“Mmhmm,” my sister hums. “You could come alone then.”
“You know we don’t get along,” I add, the words automatic and well-worn.
There’s a reason I don’t go home as often as I should. A reason why dinners feel more like obligations than comfort.
“I know,” she says carefully. “But at some point, you’re going to have to deal with that. All of it. You can’t keep circling around it forever.”
I stare out the windshield, jaw tight. “This is not the time.”
“When is? Because from where I’m standing, you having a girlfriend might actually help. At the very least, it’ll force everyone to stop dancing around it all.”
I almost tell her that it’s fake and nothing more than an arrangement that ends in January. It’s rules and an end date with no real future in sight, which means telling my parents about her would only serve to make things worse.
Most people assume that my parents are proud. After all, parents should want their kids to reach their dreams. And what parents wouldn’t support their son playing a professional sport if they were good enough to do it and loved it enough to commit?
Well, mine.
They expected me to be married, settled with kids, and in the family business by now. As if I could ever love insurance the way I love hockey. If they knew my contract was on the ropes, they’d throw a party.
Don’t get me wrong. They love me. They care about me. They just think I chose something silly to spend my life doing. This silly little game prevents me from finding true fulfillment, which for them is a family, kids, and a life without press coverage.
It’s a fundamental and age-old argument that’s driven the wedge so deep I’m not sure it’s possible to bridge the gap. I do hate that Delaney is stuck in the middle, though.
The words sit right there, ready. Tell her it’s fake.
Instead, I say, “I might’ve blown it.”
Her tone shifts immediately. “Okay. That’s different.”
“She doesn’t want anything serious.” I struggle to explain while staying vague about the details. “She was clear about that from the start. And I agreed. But now…”
“But now you caught feelings,” she finishes.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I rub a hand over my face. “She wants no strings. That’s it.”
“And can you handle that?”
I picture Wesley standing in her apartment, composed and careful, even when everything between us felt anything but. Her words had been restrained, but her eyes had been filled with emotion. In my gut, I knew she shut it down not because she didn’t feel it, but because she felt too much.
“If I want her at all, I have to,” I say finally. “That’s all she wants.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Then take it,” my sister says. “But don’t ask for more than that. Let her come to you if she’s going to.”
“And if she doesn’t?” An ache tugs at my chest.
“Then you find someone who wants you more than they want anything else,” she says. “You deserve that. You can find that.”
I’m not so sure I can, but I don’t say that. Every single person I’ve dated always wants something more than me. My money. My fame. Hell, most people in my life always want something more than just me, too.
Even Wesley wanted nothing to do with me until she needed help.
It makes my feelings for her more pathetic.
I run my hand through my hair and rub the back of my neck.
I need to get over this little crush. So what if she’s attractive and athletic and driven?
We’re fooling around. I can do that without letting myself get carried away.
“I still think you should come home for the holiday,” Delaney’s voice rings through the phone, jolting me back to the present. “Mom’s already planning something passive-aggressive, so you might as well be there to absorb it.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s the best you’re getting.” Going home for Christmas sounds awful, but I can’t avoid my parents forever.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m holding you to it.”
We hang up a minute later. I don’t move, tossing around Delaney’s advice in my head.
Take whatever Wesley gives and don’t ask for more.
If she wants me, she’ll prove it.
It sounds so simple. Except not asking for more is getting harder, and Wesley doesn’t allow herself to want anything outside of soccer.
She belongs only to herself and soccer. The problem is that even though she’s made it clear she’s not mine, I’m starting to think I might already be hers.