Page 100 of The Assist
MIA
The second I feel Dylan’s presence behind me, my body reacts before my brain catches up. My pulse rate begins to rage, and my skin prickles, it’s like some part of me is tuned in to him. It’s dangerous. I turn my head, and there he is.
He looks fresh from the showers, and his hoodie is clinging to his broad frame, with his backpack slung over one shoulder like he’s some cocky university kid, instead of the star of the goddamn team. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he wants in the world.
My phone slips from my fingers into my lap, but I barely notice. Because Dylan’s closing the distance between us, his body radiates heat, and his jaw is tight with something barely restrained.
I rise to greet him, I can’t not. One step and then another, and when his hand finds my waist and pulls me in, I don’t resist. I’m not sure I even breathe.
The stadium is quiet and dimly lit. Most of the staff have filtered out, and only the occasional voice echoes from the rink. This is all still too risky. Still so damn stupid. Regardless, I brush aside the fear and I push my fingers into the front of his hoodie and pull him down to kiss me.
He groans low in his chest, like he’s been holding it in forhours. Dylan’s hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing under the hem of my top, skin on skin.
Every rational thought I have fizzles out. There’s only this. Him. Us. He kisses me like he’s making promises he has no idea how to keep.
I feel the rough scrape of his stubble against my jaw as he deepens the kiss, his mouth hot and desperate on mine. His hands travel lower, over my hips, squeezing hard like he wants to memorize the feel of me.
“Dyl,” I gasp, breaking the kiss, panting, dizzy. “We shouldn’t,”
“I know,” he rasps, voice shredded. “I know, fuck… Mia…” His forehead drops to mine. His breath gusts hot over my cheek. He’s shaking. We both are.
I clutch the front of his hoodie tighter, grounding myself. For a second, we breathe the same air, tangled up in each other. Then he pulls back, barely. There’s something raw and serious in his eyes now, slicing through the fog of heat between us.
“I need to tell you something,” he mutters.
I tense and he notices instantly. Of course he does. “What?” I whisper.
He scrubs a hand through his hair, jaw flexing. “Murphy saw us.”
It’s like someone dumps a bucket of ice water over my head. “What?” I croak.
Dylan shifts, and steps back like he’s giving me space he clearly doesn’t want to. “He saw me dragging you into the physio room,” he says, voice low. “He pulled me aside after the game. Said ifhesaw, anyone could’ve.”
I press a hand to my mouth, heart hammering so hard I swear it echoes in my ears.
Jonno. Coach. Anyone. My job. Everything I’ve workedfor. My legs wobble, and I sink back onto the bench before I collapse.
Dylan crouches in front of me instantly, hands braced on my thighs. “Mia.” His voice is rough, and urgent. “Murph’s not gonna say anything. He’s got our backs. But we need to be more careful.”
I nod. Fast. Too fast. The panic still rides me hard, threading through my veins. “I can’t lose this job,” I whisper, throat thick. “Dyl, this is my life,”
“I know,” he says fiercely, squeezing my thighs. “Iknow.I’m not gonna let that happen.”
I laugh, but it’s broken. “This isn’t exactly something you can punch your way out of, Dylan.”
That earns me a crooked smile, it’s small and sad. “No,” he admits. “But I can control myself. I can make sure we don’t get caught again.”
I lift my gaze to his, and for the first time, I see the fear tucked deep behind the stubborn set of his jaw. Not fear for himself but for me. And something inside me cracks wide open.
“I’m scared,” I admit in a whisper.
He leans in, forehead to mine again, voice barely a breath. “Me too.”
It’s the most honest thing either of us has said all night.
We sneak out separately after that. No lingering touches or heated glances. Just a brush of fingers when no one’s looking. A whispered promise to text later.
I drive home on autopilot, my mind racing through every possible scenario. Once I’m inside, I collapse onto the couch and fish my phone out of my pocket. There’s already a message from Dylan waiting for me.
