Page 16 of The Assist
Something about the way he says it makes me pause. But I don’t push. I let the silence stretch between us until it feels solid.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why tell me this today?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. You don’t look at me like I’m full of shit.”
“Because you’re not.”
“Most people think I am.”
“Then most people are idiots.”
He laughs again; a bit more genuine this time.
Then it’s quiet and I realise something else. Something I’ve been trying not to admit. I care about him.
Not just as a patient or a player. But as a person. As this complicated, proud, damaged man who wears bravado like armour and hides the bruises underneath. And that scares the hell out of me. Because caring means risk. It means cracks in the wall I’ve spent years building. Or feeling something that could hurt.
We don’t talk much after that.
Dylan eventually stands, stretches out his shoulder, and mutters something about getting some rest. I tell him to do the mobility work properly or I’ll double his sessions. He smirks. “I wouldn’t dare cross you.”
And when he walks out, I stare at the door long after it’s closed. There’s a storm coming. I can feel it. And I’m not sure whether I want to run from it or walk straight into it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DYLAN
The pub’s already heaving by the time we get there.
It’s one of those places with sticky floors, too many TVs, and a permanent smell of spilt beer and fried onions. It’s familiar and loud. The kind of noise I can lose myself in when I’m tired of thinking too hard.
Murphy’s at my side, pint already in hand, leaning against the bar like he owns the place. He probably does, in spirit. Knows everyone. Talks to anyone. Makes the room bend toward him without even trying.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. The good one, thankfully. “You need to get that look off your face, mate. You’re off the ice, not on death row.”
I grab my pint and raise it. “Maybe I just don’t look as thrilled as you do to spend a night with five grown men all trying to out-banter each other.”
“Yeah, but you love it really.”
I don’t answer, but he’s not wrong.
We snake through the crowd to a corner booth already half-filled with the rest of the team. Danny’s there, our second-line centre, proper Northern lad, quick as hell on skates and mouthy as fuck off them. Next to him is Ollie, one of the younger ones, all hair gel and fresh-faced energy. Helooks about twelve but skates like he’s got something to prove.
And then there’s Jacko, team enforcer, hands like bricks and a surprising obsession with baking shows.
“Christ, he actually turned up,” Danny says when he spots me. “Thought you’d be at home icing your ego.”
“Was hoping you’d say that,” I reply, sliding into the booth opposite. “I’d nearly forgotten how much I hate you.”
Murphy slides in beside me, grinning. “Give him ten minutes and three pints and he’ll be doing karaoke.”
“I will not,” I mutter.
“You absolutely will,” Jacko says, pointing a sausage-thick finger. “You sang ‘Wonderwall’ last time and got half the pub involved.”
“That wasn’t singing,” Danny adds. “That was emotional damage.”
They all laugh, and I let myself relax a bit. The ache in my shoulder flares, but I ignore it. I’ve gotten used to playing through worse.
