Page 10 of The Assist
Just him.
“Didn’t think you’d be in this early,” he says.
“Where else would I be?”
He shrugs. “Thought maybe you needed a break. You were looking at me like you wanted to throw me into oncoming traffic yesterday.”
“I still might.”
He smiles at that. The real kind, not the one he wears for the cameras after a game. Dylan steps into the room and sits opposite me without asking. That irritates me on principle. But I don’t stop him. I don’t know why.
He watches me type for a moment. “What’s it like?” he asks.
“What’swhatlike?”
“Your job. Looking after broken things. Every day.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not a vase, Winters. You don’t shatter and get glued back together.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I glance at him, but his expression is neutral. Not joking. Just resigned. “You like it?” he asks after a moment.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Yeah, but don’t you ever get tired of fixing people who don’t want to be fixed?”
That makes me pause. Because, if I’m honest, I do. All the time. But I don’t say that. I say, “I don’t fix people. I help them fix themselves. You lot either listen or you don’t.Not my responsibility if you don’t take care of your own bodies.”
“And what if it’s not their bodies that are broken?” Dylan studies me, it almost feels like he’s staring into my soul. And I don’t answer right away.
Because suddenly the air between us feels a little too tight, too quiet. Like he’s cracked something open without meaning to. Or maybe he meant to all along. “Then that’s not something I can tape back together,” I say carefully. “I’m not a miracle worker.”
He looks at me with tired eyes. I wouldn’t say defeated, more worn out. “I was never going to do anything else, you know. Hockey. That was it.”
I nod slowly. “I figured.”
“There wasn’t a plan B. No safety net. Just make it. Or don’t.” He doesn’t say what would’ve happened if he didn’t. But I see it. In the way he taps his fingers against his knee, restless. In the way he keeps glancing toward the window, like the walls are starting to press in.
“You did make it,” I say. “You’re one of the best wingers in the league.”
“Yeah. And I still feel like I’m one bad hit away from disappearing.”
There’s a long pause after that. And it’s heavier than I want it to be. “I get it,” I say finally. “The fear.”
He doesn’t respond. But he hears me. I can tell by the way his shoulders drop slightly.
“I didn’t grow up around this,” I say, surprising myself. “Hockey. Sports. None of it. My family thought I should do nursing or teaching. Somethings softer and more suitable for a girl.” I meet his eyes. “I’ve had to fight for every room I’ve walked into. Earned every bit of respect. And yeah, it gets tiring. But I show up every day. Because I know what I’m worth. Even if no one else does.”
He holds my gaze like he’s trying to memorise something. Like he’s not used to hearing the truth said that plainly. “I like that about you,” he says softly.
“Don’t flirt with me when I’m being sincere, Winters.”
“It’s not flirting.” I tilt my head in disbelief, but he continues. “It’s respect.”
That word lands somewhere I don’t expect. Somewhere deep. “Good,” I say, clearing my throat. “Because if you start calling me ‘Clarkey’ or ‘darling’ I’m going to dislocate your other shoulder.”
He grins. But there’s something different in it now. Less performance and more gratitude. He stands and stretches his good arm. “I’ll do the exercises properly today,” he says.
“I should bloody hope so.”
