Page 19 of Scoring Lessons

She leaned on her chair with a small chuckle then stared at me intently, like there were a million questions on the tip of her tongue. “Can I ask you something?”

I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms, leaning forward on the table to silently tell her, Go on.

“What’s going on with you?

I sat up straighter as alarms went off in my head. “Nothing. Why?”

“You’re tense during practices. It’s so…unlike you.”

I cleared my throat, trying to act like her question hadn’t thrown me for a loop. “How would you know?”

“I’m observant.”

My chest tightened as my breathing quickly turned into a chore. “You’ve been watching me, huh?” My words were playful even though my chest turned too tight and my lungs had forgotten what oxygen felt like.

She leveled me with a dry look. “Not just you.”

“I’m flattered I caught your attention.” I forced a smile. “Can’t stay away, can you, Livvie?”

“You’re deflecting.” She let out a long, slow whistle. “Typical.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked defensively.

“When things get serious, you love turning everything into a joke.”

Her comment, though true, stung—like salt being rubbed into an open wound.

I didn’t want anyone to find out the truth. But this was Olivia. If anyone could give it to me straight, it was her. She didn’t owe me kindness or sugarcoating. And I needed another person’s point of view. Someone to talk to. I loved the guys, but knowing them, they would be too optimistic, when what I needed was a reality check.

“My contract is expiring at the end of the season.” It was no secret. Every sports media in the country made sure to remind me of it every time I turned on the fucking TV.

She nodded thoughtfully. “They haven’t offered an extension?”

I shook my head. Didn’t bother elaborating. Not like there was much to say.

Her face remained neutral. “It’s still early, Wesley.”

I settled her with an Are you being serious? look. One she didn’t try to deflect. “If they wanted me, I’d have an offer already, and we both know it.”

Teams tried to negotiate with enough time to make sure every player they wanted was aligned with their budget. But still, even going by that logic, it made no sense. I explicitly told my agent not to ask for a raise. I would have gladly taken a pay cut as well. I only wanted to stay in a place where I belonged.

She waved a hand, brushing the air like that could erase the doubts that were eating me alive. “Yeah, but you know how it is—budget caps, roster reshuffling. Did you ask your agent to push for a raise? New terms? Maybe that’s why the negotiation is taking longer.”

I shook my head as I gaped at her. “Are you insane?”

Her eyes narrowed, brows drawn like I’d personally offended her logic. “Why would that be crazy?”

“I’m a thirty-year-old player who got drafted late and isn’t exactly breaking any records. I’m not in any position to be demanding shit.”

I mean, I wasn’t terrible. My assists were above average, but I wasn’t a prodigy like Anderson or Sullivan. I was never going to be, and I was okay with that.

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?” I was quickly regretting opening my mouth. Maybe I wasn’t ready for a reality check after all.

“I figured you had more fight in you.” She shrugged like she wasn’t poking holes in my chest with her words. Like her comment hadn’t slashed at my already deep, infected wound.

All I’d been doing since I got drafted was fight.