29 - Wesley
Wesley
By the time we hit mile one, my lungs are burning, and I’m entirely in my head. My calves ache in a familiar, almost comforting way. The burn that usually quiets my mind sharpens every thought I’m trying not to have.
We’re jogging along the harbor path outside the stadium. It’s cold, but warmer than it has been, thawing the last remaining frost on the ground, at least for now. The trees around us make me feel claustrophobic.
I’m running ahead of Nathan, close enough that I can feel him there without looking. Every instinct in my body is aware of his stride, his breath, and the way he matches his steps to mine. It’s as if he can anticipate every step I take.
He’s acting normal. He walked right in today with his usual coffee for both of us and jumped straight to business, asking for a longer jog in anticipation of the shorter endurance drills he’d be running at practice this week.
For the past three days, I’ve thought about how this morning would go.
It would be awkward and embarrassing. There’d be a conversation to address what happened in my apartment, on my bed.
We’d both chalk it up to a one-time thing, and I’d carefully step back inside the boundaries we should’ve stayed within in the first place.
Instead, he’s all business as if nothing happened at all. It’s what I wanted. At least, what I thought I wanted.
Except, after having the kind of sex that rewired something fundamental in my brain, I’m not sure it’s what I want at all.
I’m confused.
At two miles in, we make the turn, crossing over the bridge that will circle us back around to the stadium. The path narrows, and his arm brushes against mine accidentally, but it makes my pulse trip anyway.
I hate that I notice. I hate that my skin burns long after he’s moved in front of me.
Normally, I lead, pushing us at a pace that I decide, but today, I let him stay in front.
Instead, I let myself watch him, lingering on his hair that’s damp with sweat and the side of his face, chiseled and covered in the kind of stubble that happens after a day or two without shaving.
I swallow, my body taking in how good he looks while remembering how perfectly our bodies fit together. It isn’t the sex that scares me. It’s how easily I can imagine letting it become routine, letting him take up space I’ve been guarding for years.
If things were different or if the timing were better, maybe I’d let that happen. But now, with where I’m at in my career, with my captaincy on the line and an invite to the Futures Camp at risk, there’s no way I’ll let him get that close.
My legs stretch out in front of me as if I can outrun the memory of how right it had felt to have him inside me.
You should probably go.
I’d meant it when I said it. The words had masked the panic crawling up my spine.
The lines had blurred, the air shifting from something casual to something full of implications.
Kicking him out had been the only move left that still felt like mine.
So, I’d sent him into the cold before I could want more than I was willing to risk.
Nathan slows, matching my stride easily. “What are you doing back here?”
“It’s scrimmage week,” I say, keeping my eyes forward. “We have practice too, so I’m taking it easy.” It was a plausible excuse, far better than saying I was checking out his ass.
Which, well, who wouldn’t?
“San Francisco, right?” he asks.
“Thursday,” I confirm. “They’re fast and young. We didn’t play them last season, so they’re coming in annoyingly confident.”
He laughs under his breath. “I’m sure you’ll fix that.”
I glance at him and immediately regret it. His expression is open and relaxed without any sign of conflict. It’s as if this isn’t complicated for him at all. For him, maybe it’s not.
Just because the sex was earth-shattering for me doesn’t mean it was anything out of the ordinary for him.
He wasn’t the one who’d gone over four years without sex.
Surely, he had an endless list of amazing nights with beautiful women to compare me to.
If I compared at all. I cut off that train of thought before it gets too self-deprecating.
“You’re in New York this week?” I ask because talking about schedules is safe. Schedules don’t have feelings.
“Yeah,” he says. “Away game. They always have a big crowd, and they hate us. The usual.”
“If you keep playing how you have been, you’ll take them easily.”
“My agent thinks so too.” His smile drops an inch.
I’m tempted to dig in and figure out why, but that’s a line I shouldn’t be crossing. Instead, we fall into an easy silence, the kind that would feel comfortable if I weren’t hyperaware of him. Every thought circles back to the one very specific night I have no intention of repeating.
I tell myself that again. Firmly.
We work through our standard mobility drills, both used to the routine and oddly in sync. We’re taking it easy. He’s in the thick of his season, and with any luck, I’ll be trying out for the National Team soon. Neither of us wants to end up with an injury.
My focus is on muscle memory, precision, and the satisfaction of getting things right when everything else feels dangerously close to unraveling. I take the movements slowly, ensuring that every step is perfect. The repetitive motions bring a steady calm to my head.
I catch Nathan watching me more than once. Not openly, but curiously. My palms sweat as my mind tries to piece together what it could mean.
Probably nothing.
After our cooldown, we stretch at the end of the field, the late morning sun warming my back as I lean into the grass. I can’t wait until it’s warmer all the time. One nice day is not enough.
I focus on stretching every muscle in my leg, isolated and then with movement.
“Are you heading home for the holidays this weekend?” Nathan asks as we pack up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Not this year.” I mimic his actions. “I’m flying my family out, instead.”
His eyebrows lift. “Your dad and your sister, right?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “They don’t make it out here often, but since I just went there, it seemed like a good time to change that.”
“That’s really nice.” There’s a soft edge to his voice, teetering between jealousy and kindness.
“Your family lives around here. Are you spending the holiday with them?” I ask.
He’s never told me much about his parents, but I know he adores his sister.
His toe digs into the dirt as he nods. “Yeah. Figured I’d show my face.”
The words sit between us, heavier than they should be for this conversation.
“You don’t sound too excited.” It’s not a question, but an opportunity for him to elaborate if he wants. I know firsthand that not everything’s easy to talk about.
We make our way down the tunnel to the exit, passing by groundskeepers who are heading to freshen up our paint lines before the scrimmage later this week.
“Why don’t you want to go home?” I can’t seem to mind my own business.
He exhales slowly, eyes flicking toward the ground before meeting mine again. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says carefully. “It’s just complicated.”
I wait, refusing to pry the details out of him.
“They’ve never really been on board with this,” he adds. “Hockey. The career. The whole thing. Of course, they encouraged me to play when I was a kid. Then, I ended up being really gifted. I got scouted and committed to it. They’ve never been able to get on board with me doing this for a living.”
He shrugs. The gesture looks learned, like armor he’s been wearing since he was too young to know he needed it. “It’s hard to enjoy being around people who are perpetually disappointed in you.”
Something twists in my chest. It sounds like a script he’s practiced until it sounds like indifference instead of disappointment.
“They should be proud of the effort you put in.”
My dad would never miss a game he could physically attend. My sister wears my jersey on game days, even if she can’t watch. Despite the pressure to provide for them financially, we are close. Their belief in me has never wavered, and the thought of Nathan not having that is depressing.
He let out a dry laugh. “The effort I put in doesn’t matter to anyone.”
My heart clenches, and I find myself disliking people I’ve never met simply on his behalf.
He’s one of the most decorated NHL players of this generation.
He makes small talk with the arena custodial staff.
He agreed to help me save my captaincy without hesitation.
Aside from the effort he puts in on the ice, which is extensive, he manages to put that same effort into caring about everything and everyone around him.
How could anyone not see how amazing he is?
“I’m sorry.” My words are laced with sadness. Mostly for him, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also for me. Because he’s exactly the kind of person I’d be with if it were an option for me.
He gives a small smile. “Don’t be. I’d rather run another four miles right now than go home for the holidays, but Delaney asked. I can’t say no to her.”
“Little sisters can be bossy.” I tease, lightening the mood. “Emma is only eighteen, but she scares me.”
“Ha.” His eyes light up as he looks at me. “I can’t picture anyone or anything scaring you.”
We reach our cars and finally slow, the moment stretching thin. Our eyes stay locked on each other, and I wish things were different. This is the moment where we part cleanly, and I do the sensible thing. I have always been good at being sensible.
“A lot of things scare me, Nathan.” My voice is breathy, a confession wrapped in subtlety. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a sad half-smile as if he knows exactly what I’m referring to.
“After the holiday this weekend, can we meet up Monday for training?”
My smile sharpens, even though my chest aches. The lines I’ve drawn simultaneously keep me from letting go with him, while tearing me in half over it. “Sounds like a plan.”
We hesitate, then step apart, the spell breaking as I turn toward my car. My keys are already in my hand when I hear it.
A low, frustrated sound under his breath. My name is barely audible off his lips.
Before I can turn fully, his hand wraps around my arm, tugging me to him. I gasp as he spins me, my back hitting the side of my car. Then, his mouth is on mine.
It’s hard and desperate. The metal of the car is cold through my jacket, a sharp contrast to the heat building everywhere else.
All thought evaporates.
I launch myself into him without hesitation, fingers fisting in his hair, kissing him back like I’ve been starving and just remembered what food tastes like. He presses closer, crowding my space, the solid heat of him grounding and unraveling me all at once.
I don’t know why I ever thought I could stop touching him.
I never want to stop touching him.
My hands crawl under his sweatshirt and along his back as I grip him tighter. A soft moan escapes from somewhere deep in my throat. His hips pin me in place the same way he’d pinned me to the mattress. My thighs clench together as if remembering exactly what might come next.
Fuck, this man can kiss.
His hands are pressed against the car at the side of my head, caging me in. I’d gladly stay locked in between them forever if it meant reality didn’t exist.
Instead, a car door sounds across the parking lot, snapping us back to ourselves.
My cheeks turn crimson. We were practically mauling each other in public. He pulls back. Our breath comes hard, foreheads nearly pressed together as we regain our bearings.
Almost as soon as his lips leave mine, my mind starts working.
As if he can read it on my face, his thumb traces my jaw. “Hey,” he says softly. “No worries. There is no pressure here. Not from me. As you said, it’s just some fun.”
The words should calm me.
They almost do.
Except something in his eyes doesn’t match them. Something unsteady, as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.
I nod anyway. “Right. I know.”
He steps back before I can say anything else. “Merry Christmas, Wesley.” He gives me one last look, then turns and walks to his car.
A moment later, he’s gone.