Page 125 of The Assist
“That means you care.” I close my eyes. “I’m proud of you, Dylan,” she adds, softer now. “Not because of hockey. Not because of the goals or points or how fast you can skate. I’m proud because you’ve learned how tofeel. That takes more strength than anything you’ve ever done on the ice.”
The silence stretches again. But this one feels different.
Less hollow. More like a lull after a storm. “Thanks, Mum.”
“You’ll be alright,” she says. “And so will she. Just don’t give up on her. Even if she needs space, don’t let her think you’ve stopped choosing her.”
“I won’t.”
“I love you, Dyl.”
“I love you too.”
After the call, I just sit there. Letting the weight of everything settle. Then I do something I should’ve done from the start. I open my laptop, pull up the media policy, and start reading. Properly this time. Not just headlines or bullet points. I go through every line, every clause, every section.
And then I open a new document and start writing.
Not to the press.
Not to the board.
To her.
Because maybe she needs space right now, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need to know I’m still here. Still fighting. Still hers.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
MIA
I’m back in my childhood bedroom, and nothing feels smaller than this bed.
The same worn duvet I once buried myself under during GCSE meltdowns is now wrapped around my legs as I sit, staring at the wall like it might hand me answers. Mum brought up tea an hour ago. I haven’t touched it. I feel guilty, she has enough on dealing with Dad and the dementia right now, and I’ve just added to that.
The silence here is thick with memory, soft and safe, but too quiet. Like I’ve stepped out of the fire into the snow. There’s comfort in coming home, but it doesn’t solve anything. It just gives you space to hear your own thoughts louder.
And mine won’t shut up.
I keep replaying the fact I didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t give him a chance to talk me out of it. I couldn’t. If I’d looked him in the eyes, I would’ve stayed.
And I couldn’t afford to stay.
Not when everything I’ve built, my career, my integrity, my sanity, feels like it’s hanging by a thread.
The press storm hasn’t slowed. My phone still vibrates every few minutes, even though I’ve muted most notifications. Social media is a war zone. The official team statementwas released about thirty minutes ago; short, formal, and non-committal. “We are aware of the situation and conducting an internal review.” Classic PR tap-dancing.
Mike didn’t say much when I asked for time off. Just looked tired, then nodded.
I wanted to scream. This isn’t a holiday. It’s damage control. And I’m the one cleaning up a mess I didn’t make. Well. Not entirely. My chest pulls tight because I did choose this. I chose him, and I still would.
Even now.
A soft knock breaks through my spiral. It’s Ben, my older brother. Former annoying teen menace turned overqualified lawyer and self-appointed protector of the Clarke name. “You decent?” he says, already pushing the door open.
“I’m in my childhood pyjamas, Ben. There is nothing decent about that.”
He smirks and drops onto the bed beside me with his laptop. “Mum says you haven’t eaten.”
“I haven’t vomited either. So that’s progress.”
