34 - Nathan
Nathan
The bar is packed to the brim, but it’s New Year’s Eve, so no one seems to mind. Bodies press shoulder to shoulder, laughter stacking on top of music that is already too loud. The air smells like citrus peels, spilled champagne, and overheated speakers.
Someone has dragged in cheap metallic decorations that catch the rotating lights and throw them across the ceiling like restless stars. Every few seconds, another cork pops somewhere in the room, and people cheer.
The best part?
Wesley is tucked into my side. Her hip fits against mine, her arm sliding around me when someone bumps into us. Every time she laughs, she turns slightly toward me, as if I’m the anchor point that she checks in with before she floats away again.
I catch myself watching her more than I should, wondering if things have changed for her the way they have for me. She doesn’t seem to realize that she smiles differently now or that she laughs louder and more carefree. I like to pretend it’s because of me.
Both teams are here again, hers and mine mixing comfortably.
A month ago, it would have been weird. Now, it feels normal.
Becca is already halfway onto the dance floor, dragging Avery and one of our rookies with her.
Wyatt is arguing with one of Wesley’s defenders about which sport requires more conditioning and is losing badly.
Someone from our second line is teaching Haley a terrible chant that is definitely going to get us fined if it ever makes it near a microphone.
I should feel watched, the way I usually do when I’m out in public. People have their phones out, sneaking pictures of us, and paparazzi linger outside waiting for us to leave. We’re on display. Except I can’t bring myself to care, not when Wesley’s thumb keeps brushing the inside of my wrist.
It’s a distracted habit of hers. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it. I do. I notice everything about her. The small habits and unconscious touches. The difference between her public smile and the one she reserves for me.
The last week runs through my head in snapshots instead of a timeline.
Memories of her laughing against my throat when we forgot the pasta boiling over or her body pinned between me and the door after our workout, while she’s grinning as if she scored a game-winner, haunt me at all times.
My personal favorites are the quiet moments after, when she goes soft and traces circles on my arm as if charting new territory on a map.
We’ve told our friends it’s chemistry and convenience, but I stopped believing that after the third morning of waking up in each other's arms.
Avery steals Wesley away, but she looks back once and points at me like a warning to behave. I salute her with my drink. She laughs and disappears into the lights.
“You’re gone,” Grayson says beside me.
I glance over. “I’m right here.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’re physically present. Mentally, you’re writing poetry about your fake girlfriend.”
“I don’t write poetry.”
“Thank fuck” Wyatt says, clapping my shoulder. “It’d be awful. But you do have that look.”
“What look?” I take a long pull from my beer.
“The one when your eyes track her even when you think you aren’t.”
I shove him lightly. “You’re drunk.”
“Working on it,” he says proudly, then points toward the dance floor. “She’s got moves, by the way. You’re going to have to fight off half this bar at midnight.”
The thought stops me cold. A knot coiling tighter in my chest as I watch a man work up the nerve to approach her on the dance floor.
My feet start to move before I can stop myself, but I only make it two steps before Wesley shakes her head and turns back to Avery.
He gets the message and walks back to the edge of the dance floor, scoping out someone else to hit on.
Good.
I notice Liam smirk, but thankfully, he doesn’t say a word about it, instead letting the conversation shift to hockey.
We’re on a hot streak, having won every game in the past three weeks.
I’ve been playing better, sure, but it’s not only me.
Grayson has been steady on defense, and Liam has been on fire at center.
Wyatt’s also heading towards the team record for most shutouts in a single season.
If we keep it up, we’ll be a shoo-in to win the Cup.
The conversation is comforting, as we gossip about the other teams in our conference and the trades that will or won’t happen. It’s the first time all season that we can talk about trades without me feeling like I’ll be one. The relief has the weight lifting off my shoulders a bit.
With my contract looking better and her team’s party next week, I have no excuse to continue things with Wesley. Except that I just want to.
I lose track of the conversation, eyes scanning the bar until Wesley’s dark top and bright smile come into view.
“She’s good for you,” Liam says suddenly, voice quiet enough that only I can hear.
I look at him, setting my beer down on the table. “You base that on what?”
“You’re happy. Not in the bullshit way you’ve been the past couple of years, but actually.”
I don’t respond at first, trying to come up with a way to talk around it. I come up empty, and honestly, I really don’t want to talk my way out of it. Liam’s my oldest friend. If he can see it, maybe I should let myself be honest.
“I’ve already told you that next week, after her party, it’s over.” I force the words out as much for myself as for him.
“Why does it have to be?” He asks, turning his body to cut anyone else out of the conversation. “You both agreed to that almost two months ago. You can change your mind.”
“I have changed my mind,” I admit, running my hand through my hair. “That doesn’t mean she has.”
“How do you know?”
“Dude, you don’t know her like I do.” I pause, forcing my voice lower.
“She doesn’t do relationships for a reason.
Her family counts on her success. She has so much pressure on her to stay focused.
Even if I don’t agree with it, I won’t be the one to distract her from her goals. I would never ask her to do that.”
“Being with someone you care about doesn’t have to be a distraction.”
“Says the guy who fucks around with any girl that asks,” I snap, instantly regretting it.
To his credit, Liam masks the hurt only seconds later. “Yeah, I do, but you don’t. You’ve never taken that shit lightly.”
I pick up my beer, draining its contents. “I still don’t.”
“You’re playing better than ever. You’ve got the girl. There’s no reason to call it.”
“That’s the thing. Even if I’ve changed my mind, our sports are too tangled up in this.”
He scrunches his eyebrows.
“I want her. Okay. You’re right.” I lay my head back onto the back of the couch. “And I am playing the best hockey of my life. Is that because of me or because of her?”
“Does it matter?” Liam leans forward, his arm draped across his knee.
“I need to be good enough on my own. She can’t be the only reason I’m better now. Every time I decide I want to be with her, there’s this nagging part of me wondering if it’s because I’m afraid I’ll lose my contract without her.”
He watches me, waiting for me to continue.
“It’s so fucked up. She doesn’t deserve someone who only wants her out of selfishness and fear. Even if she wanted me, which she doesn’t, I can’t live with myself not knowing if I can do this on my own.”
I’m a coward. At least, that’s the conclusion I come to after saying it all out loud.
I want her. But I’m too afraid that my success is tied to her to even try to make it happen.
I’m too scared to ask if she wants me for real.
I’m worried that everyone else won’t think I’m enough on my own. Bullshit, bullshit, and more bullshit.
Liam’s eyes dart behind me. He shakes his head slightly as Wesley comes up behind me, sliding back into my space. She’s flushed from dancing, and her eyes are bright. Her fingers hook casually into my belt loop. My brain short-circuits for half a second at how easily she claims the spot.
“Miss me?” she asks.
“Constantly,” I say, not entirely pretending.
That earns me a softer look than I deserve.
Eventually, Liam gets pulled away into a loud debate about power play structure. It leaves me, Wesley, and Avery on the couch that the staff roped off for us.
Avery watches us with her usual skepticism. She’s annoyingly perceptive. I don’t miss the way Grayson keeps glancing her way. He can’t seem to take a hint, even when the hint is Avery quite literally telling him he has no chance.
“You two look really comfortable,” she finally says.
“Avery,” Wesley warns.
“For people who are fake dating,” she adds, sticking her tongue out at Wesley.
There is a half beat where the air shifts.
Wesley lifts one shoulder. “Repetition builds skill.”
“We’re elite performers,” I add, shifting Wesley closer on my lap. “Very committed to the craft.”
Avery rolls her eyes. “Hey, I’m not judging. It’s working. Both of your coaches are off your backs. You’re both getting what you wanted.” She lifts her glass. “And next week you’re free.”
Free.
That word lands like a puck to the ribs.
I nod because the script says nod. Free sounds a lot like done and back to before.
We both know it’s the plan, but I’m sick of everyone around us pointing it out. All week, Wesley and I have let this be whatever it is. We’ve soaked up every fucking second and have managed to avoid the topic entirely. Now, our friends want to consistently remind us of it.
Wesley may not mind, but I do. It’s like they’re pre-drilling the hole for the knife Wesley is going to stab through my heart.
Now that the words are floating out there, Wesley seems distant. She’s still here, hand in mine, but she’s also in her head. I wish I knew what thoughts are swirling there.
When she sits up out of my grasp this time, I let her go. People move to the side as she carves out a path to the bar to get us all another round. I watch her go.
Avery waits until she is out of earshot. “Does my best friend know that this is real for you?”
“What?” I glance over at Avery, who sips her champagne casually.
“You heard me.” She smirks.
“You and Liam should get together. Maybe then you could interrogate each other instead of me.” I sigh, letting my breath out slowly.
“Way to dodge the question, Wilder.”
“She’s your best friend. Ask her.” My lips thin into a line. “She doesn’t want anything past next week.”
“Bullshit.”
“Not bullshit.”
“I know what she says, but I also know that she’s lying to herself as much as you.”
“Didn’t know you were a mind reader, Avery.” I tilt my head, raising my eyebrows.
Avery flings her red curls over her shoulder. “I’m not. But I am her best friend. And contrary to everything you might think you know about her, I know more.” She smiles and waves to Haley, who’s yelling her name from the dance floor. “And unless you do something, I’ll always know more.”
A world where Wesley slowly becomes a stranger to me sounds depressing and desolate.
“Tell her how you feel, Nathan,” Avery tosses the rest of her drink down, in preparation to take the next one from Wesley. “Prove to me that not all hockey players are idiots.”
My heart picks up pace at the possibility that Wesley might really want me the way I want her.
Avery’s up and moving, and my teammates fill her spot on the couch. Wesley passes a shot to Avery, who disappears toward the bar. My hand clings to the beer that Wesley hands me, while my other arm circles her waist, pulling her onto my lap.
I don’t miss the way that she sits carefully, as if to maintain the distance that Avery’s words created.
We have a little over half an hour until midnight, but the excitement has people talking louder. She leans into me so we can hear each other over it all.
“You okay?” She asks.
“Got evaluated by the panel,” I answer, nodding toward Liam sitting at the table behind us and then toward Avery chatting up some guy at the bar.
“Let’s hope they never get together. They’d be insufferable.”
“You think they’ll get together?” Grayson leans over, his eyes locked on Avery.
Wesley laughs. I try not to stare at her mouth when she does.
“Avery has sworn off hockey players, and she has damn good follow-through.”
The words don’t seem to settle Grayson at all. He mutters under his breath and walks off, but I don’t pay him any attention. My sole focus is on the woman who is sliding her arms around my neck.
We sit comfortably, watching the chaos unfold around us, stealing glances at each other and exchanging grins that make me feel like a kid with a crush.
When the noise swells and the lights dim for the countdown, she finally speaks.
“I’m happy you said yes to this arrangement,” she whisper-yells into my ear over the music.
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I know it’s almost over, but I’ve had more fun than I’ve had in a long time.”
For a second, the bar drops away. She’s on a bigger field. Bigger stage. Everything she’s been grinding toward. And I’m supporting her from the stands.
The fantasy cracks when I remember that I won’t be there to see it.
“Wes,” I say, and it comes out shaky. “I…”
“No, please don’t feel like you have to say anything.” Her smile breaks open. She has no idea what I want to say to her.
At the last second, I chicken out. “I’m having fun too.” I pull her into a hug without thinking.
She exhales against me, tension leaving her shoulders. Then she drops her arms, her careful distance returning. It’s not rejection, but it still stings.
I understand it. I hate it a little anyway.
I know what this costs her. I’ve seen the pressure in her house and in the way her father watches her as if every game is a verdict. I will not be the one to ask her to choose me anyway.
The countdown starts. The whole bar turns toward the screens, and the DJ starts shouting numbers like a general calling troops.
Ten.
This feels like a clock running down on more than a year.
Nine.
My mind nags on the staged breakup and going back to separate routines.
Eight.
I try to picture not texting her first after a game. It’s hollow.
Seven.
I try to think of having my freedom back and doing whatever I want.
Six.
She steps closer on her own.
Five.
Her palm rests flat against my chest. She can definitely feel my heart hammering.
Four.
I touch her jaw, slow enough that she can pull away. She doesn’t
Three.
Her eyes are soft and a little scared, but she smiles.
Two.
Fuck my freedom. Fuck the pressure. I just want her.
One.
The room detonates into cheers and horns and falling glitter. I kiss her like the noise doesn’t exist. I kiss her, trying to memorize the feeling of her against me. For after. For when I’m on my own again.
“Happy New Year,” I murmur against her mouth. It sounds like a plea and a goodbye at the same time.