Page 12 of The Assist
“Just messy?”
I sip my tea. “Yeah, messy.”
He doesn’t press, which surprises me. He merely nods and unwraps his protein bar with a crinkle of foil.
“I moved here from London,” I say eventually, my voice low. “Lived there my whole life. Grew up in East Finchley. My family’s still there.”
“What made you leave?”
I shrug. “A lot of things. Needed a change. Got offered the job here and figured, why not?”
He watches me closely, chewing slowly. “You don’t sound like you’re close with them.”
“We’re complicated.” I run my finger along the rim of the mug. “My dad’s a retired lawyer. My mum was a teacher. Both very traditional and proper. They weren’t thrilled when I told them I wanted to work in sport. Thought it was a phase. Something I’d grow out of.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? You?”
I smirk. “I know. Shocking. Apparently, having hands-on access to sweaty athletes wasn’t in the Clarke family’s vision board for their daughter.”
“Sounds like they need to lighten up.”
“They’re not bad people. Just different. My brother’s a solicitor. I was always the odd one out.”
“And now?”
I lean back, exhaling through my nose. “Now I’m the one who doesn’t come home much. The one who always has an excuse.”
Dylan doesn’t respond right away. He finishes the bar, dusts off his hands, and looks at me like he actually gets it. Like he’s been there too. “You ever think about going back?” he asks.
“Sometimes. Then I remember how many times I had to fight to be heard in that house.”
“That’s why you’re so bloody terrifying,” he says, almost affectionately. “You’ve been going twelve rounds your whole life.”
I look at him, caught off-guard by the softness in his voice. “Is that what you think I am? Terrifying?”
He grins. “Absolutely. But in a good way.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Better than invisible.” I don’t know why that lands the way it does. Maybe because I know what it feels like, too, being in a room full of people, and still feeling like no one sees you. Not the real you, anyway.
Dylan sees more than I want him to. And for some reason, I’m letting him.
That afternoon,I sit on the edge of the rink, watching the younger players run drills with the assistant coach. The air is cold, my breath fogging in front of me. I like it here, in the quiet corners of the building, when it’s not filled with noise and testosterone and banter. Just stillness and focus.
I think about home. About how different things were.
My dad never shouted. He didn’t need to. One look could cut you down. Everything about him was measured andprecise. And everything I did seemed like the opposite of that. I was loud, messy and overly curious. I wanted things he couldn’t understand.
I remember the first time I told him I wanted to study physiotherapy. He barely blinked.
“That’s sports massage, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s actual science, Dad.”
He never came to my graduation. Said he had a court hearing scheduled. I never asked if that was true. I didn’t tell Dylan that. There was no need to spill any more beans.
That night, I stay late in the gym. Running through paperwork. Updating rehab logs. Busywork, mostly. Just to stay moving.
