33 - Wesley
Wesley
By the time Avery starts counting my touches out loud, I know I’m in trouble.
“One,” she says as she jogs alongside me, watching my feet instead of the ball. “Two. Three. Wow. You’re playing like you’re either extremely well-rested or got laid.”
“Can you not narrate my life?” I mutter, pushing the ball forward and threading a pass to Becca on the sideline.
Becca traps it cleanly, shoots me a grin, and immediately betrays me. “She’s glowing,” she says. “It’s unsettling.”
Haley, already jogging back into position, snorts. “I’d say her boyfriend is treating her very right.”
“He must be.” Avery nods for me to follow her to the corner. Once she’s got me alone, she starts again. “What’s with the post-holiday, post-fake-boyfriend, post-whatever the hell has been happening for the last week, glow? And why haven’t I heard about it already?”
I wink, then send the ball back to Becca down the sideline harder than necessary and take off downfield. My lungs fill with cold air as my body falls into a steady rhythm. It’s only a matter of time before Avery follows me over here.
We’re running passing drills with quick touches. It’s meant to keep us sharp since we have a break before our next scrimmage. It’s working. My muscles feel loose and responsive. Everything is clicking perfectly, and we’re moving as a unit.
I don’t think it's a coincidence.
I can map this past week by moments instead of days.
The sound of Nathan’s laugh as it echoed through his parking garage when I tripped over my own bag.
The way he leans against door frames like he has nowhere else he needs to be, even when I know his schedule is tighter than mine.
The strange calm that settles in my chest when his hand finds the back of my neck as if it belongs there.
The steadiness under the heat keeps catching me off guard.
Nathan’s had home games this week, so we haven’t been separated by distance.
And without a plane ride keeping us apart, we’ve found a way to get to each other every single day since Christmas.
Sometimes it’s after our workouts, or late at night, or in the middle of the damn day.
We’ve squeezed each other into whatever space we could find.
It’s an uncontrollable need masked by the unspoken agreement that we won’t examine it too closely.
I’ve lost my mind. I’m not the Wesley Miller whose singular focus is soccer.
That Wesley would never sneak into the custodial closet at the stadium after training with a professional hockey player.
She’d never let him push her against the door and sink to his knees in front of her.
She’d never let him put his head between her legs, using his tongue until she collapsed against him.
But I had, and I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
I was simultaneously making up for the time we lost fighting against this and making the most of the little time we had left.
It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow. Nathan won both of his games this week and is leading his team in goals, all but cementing his spot on the team.
My coach is thoroughly convinced that I have balance, because I do.
It started as a charade, but getting out of my comfort zone with Nathan has made it real.
I’ve made more friends on the team, and I plan to keep fostering those relationships.
After the party next week, we have no reason to keep this arrangement. I don’t like to think about it. Then, I don’t like to think about why I don’t like to think about it.
Tomorrow, we are going out together. It’s our last public date aside from the party.
Considering how well the Blades are playing and the fact that it’ll be New Year’s Eve, I know the paparazzi will be out in full force.
But I hadn’t thought about that at all. I was really only thinking about how much fun we’d have.
Because if one thing was guaranteed when I was with Nathan, it was having fun.
Two months ago, I thought Nathan Wilder was overrated, overhyped, and arrogant.
Now, I know him well enough to know that the hype is warranted.
He’s got more stress in his life than anyone would ever realize because he somehow manages to smile through it.
He is confident and charming, but not in an arrogant way.
It’s in a way that is totally deserved because his every action backs it up.
“Wes,” Avery says, out of breath as she makes her way to me across the field. “You’re ignoring me, which means I’m right.”
“I’m literally in the middle of a drill.” I try to refocus, checking my shoulder and laying the ball off to Haley before cutting inside.
“Multitasking is a thing,” she fires back. “Now. Details. Are we talking about good sex or life-altering sex?”
I groan. “You’re insufferable.”
Becca jogs closer, lowering her voice like we’re not all still very much within earshot. “Is it true that hockey guys are packing?”
Haley perks up immediately. “Oh my god, yes. Please confirm.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself as we reset at midfield. “I’m not talking about this.”
“That’s a yes,” Avery says smugly.
“Oh, captain. My captain!” Becca teases, in a breathy fake moan.
Avery snorts, and my cheeks go molten.
Luckily, Coach blows her whistle, saving me from more embarrassment. We transition into shooting drills. I line up at the top of the box, take a touch, and strike. The ball snaps into the right corner of the net.
We rotate through another round. Pass, move, shoot. The repetitive motion should clear my head. Usually it does. But today, my thoughts keep drifting, circling the same truth I’ve been carefully avoiding.
The way his hands have learned my body in such a short amount of time. His confidence when we’re together grounds me, even when my anxiety threatens to pull me under.
Sure, we don’t talk about the future, and we don’t pretend this is anything more than what it is. But my body doesn’t care about rules, and my heart is starting to forget them entirely.
“So,” Becca says lightly, as if we’re discussing practice instead of my impending emotional demise. “You guys are coming tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, after dinner.”
Coach calls time, and we jog toward the sideline, breath fogging in the air.
Avery bumps her shoulder into mine, so I hang back with her. “You look happy,” she says, softer now.
She’s seen every version of me that exists on and off the field.
The ruthless one. The locked in one. The one who plays through pain and refuses help.
She is one of the few people who also recognizes the difference between focused and hiding, and lately, I suspect she knows I have been doing a little of both.
“I’m good.” I don’t let myself smile.
“I know I was the one who suggested you go for it.” She bites her lip nervously. “But be careful getting invested, Wesley. Hockey players, especially ones that get his kind of attention. They don’t settle down.”
“I’m not attached.” Even as I say it, I know I’m lying.
I’m really fucking attached. But that doesn’t mean I won’t end it. I’m nothing if not exceptional at cutting my feelings off when I need to and ignoring the pain.
“I don’t want you to get hurt.” Avery leans over, giving me a side hug that doesn’t draw too much attention.
“You know me,” I tease. “Poster child for self-control.”
She smiles, then walks away, leaving me standing, wondering whether it’s even possible to avoid getting hurt when Nathan’s already carved himself into me so deeply.
I grab my water bottle and take a long drink, eyes drifting to my phone on the bench, already knowing there will be a message waiting from him. There always is.
Tomorrow, we’ll count down together. We’ll laugh. We’ll ignore the expiration date. We’ll do what we do best. Fake it. I’m just not faking the same things anymore.
Coach catches me as I’m shoving my shin guards into my bag, the cold finally settling into my fingers now that the adrenaline is fading.
“Wesley,” she says, hand light on my arm. “Got a minute?”
My pulse drums in my ears. It always does, no matter how old I get, no matter how many seasons I’ve played under her. I nod, following her a few steps away from the rest of the team, toward the far sideline where the noise thins out, and the field feels wider.
She crosses her arms, studying me.
“I wanted to talk to you before we break until the party,” she says. “It’s about the Future’s Camp at the end of January.”
My heart stutters. “The camp for the National Team?”
She smiles. “Yes, that’s the one.”
For a second, the world goes oddly quiet, like someone turned the volume down on everything except her voice. My chest feels tight, not in a bad way, just full.
“They’ve got a spot for you,” she says finally. “If you still want it.”
I suck in a breath, then another, trying to keep my voice steady. “If I want it? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Thank you.”
I see flashes of every early morning alarm, every extra sprint, every night I sat alone rewatching game film while everyone else went out.
The sacrifices never feel dramatic while you’re making them.
They feel normal, like part of the job. Hearing this now turns them into proof and direction.
A door that was theoretical yesterday is suddenly wide open today.
She nods. “You’ve made huge strides this year, not just technically. You’re seeing the field better, communicating more, pulling people up instead of carrying everything yourself. That matters.”
The last eight weeks of team bonding have allowed me to understand my teammates in ways I never have before. Leadership has started to feel less like pressure and more natural.
“I’m proud of you,” she says, meeting my eyes. “You’re becoming a true leader on this team, Wesley. It’s nice to see you making the changes I asked for.”
Something warm blooms behind my ribs.
“I won’t waste it.” I know she can hear how much I mean it.
“Good. Because if you perform well at camp, you’ll be on a very real path toward the National Team. This isn’t a courtesy invite. This is an opportunity knocking.”
When I was nine, I used to fall asleep in my National Team jersey even when it needed to be washed, convinced that proximity counted for something. I memorized roster lists like other kids memorized song lyrics.
Back then, the dream felt huge, like something that belonged to a future version of me who was braver and faster. Standing here now, hearing her say it out loud, I realize that the future version has been quietly building herself for years.
My pulse is racing. The end of January suddenly feels impossibly close and thrilling all at once.
“And,” she adds, shifting her weight like she’s about to pivot topics, “I’m looking forward to meeting Nathan properly at the team party next week.”
I laugh, caught off guard. “He’s great. You’ll like him.”
“I’m sure, but I want you to hear this clearly. Even without him, the work you’re doing is obvious. You’re not improving because of who you’re with, you’re improving because you’ve decided to.”
Her words confirm that we don’t need to keep pretending. I’m back in her good graces even without our arrangement. There is no need for Nathan to be my fake boyfriend. I hate it.
“I need you focused at camp,” she finishes. “Play like you know you can. The rest will take care of itself.”
“I will.” I nod quickly.
She squeezes my shoulder once before turning back toward the field, leaving me standing there with cold fingers and a buzzing heart.
The Future’s camp. The next step is to the National Team and eventually, the World Cup.
I should call my dad or Emma to tell them the news. Or maybe run to catch up with Avery. But the only person I’m dying to tell is the one whose name is lighting up my phone.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, smiling at Nathan’s text.
Nathan: You left early this morning, and now, the bed’s too cold.
His name on my screen has started to feel like exhaling after holding my breath. I don’t overthink it when my finger hovers over the call button. Or when it rings twice before he answers. Or when the excitement of the camp spills out of my lips as I explain it all at a neck-breaking pace.
I only start to overthink it when we hang up, and I’m already wishing I could call him back.