Page 19 of The Assist
But he’s there. Dylan. In the corner of my thoughts. In the silence he left behind yesterday when he walked out of my office, dragging that invisible weight behind him. He looked like he was holding himself together by a thread. And the worst part is, I know that look. I’ve worn it.
The door opens with a creak, and my heart stutters for half a second. But it’s not him. It’s Callie from reception, holding a clipboard and a too-sweet smile. “Morning! Got the massage roster for next week, figured I’d bring it by.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it and trying not to let the disappointment show. It’s ridiculous. It’s been less than twenty-four hours.
She hesitates, giving me that look people do when they want to say something personal but are trying to find the least invasive way in. “You okay, Mia?”
I nod automatically. “Fine. Just a long week.”
Callie doesn’t press, bless her. Just gives me a small smile and leaves me alone with my ghosts.
I glance at the clock. Dylan’s not due in for another hour, but he’s unpredictable lately. Sometimes early, sometimes not at all. Depends on the shoulder and his mood. I should stop thinking about him like this.
He’s a player. A damn good one. And I’m his physio. Which means there are lines I can’t cross. And not to mention the no fraternisation clause in my contract.
Except when he looks at me like I’m the only person in the world who sees past the noise in his head. Except when he talks to me like it costs him something. Like it matters.
I hate that I understand him. I hate that I want to.
I’m in the middle of wiping down the treatment table when I hear his heavy footsteps. They’re confident, even when they shouldn’t be. My pulse kicks up. Idiot.
“Morning, Clarke,” he says.
I don’t turn. “You’re late.”
“Technically, I’m early. Just for tomorrow.”
I glance over my shoulder. Dylan leans in the doorway, hoodie slouched over broad shoulders, eyes still tired from the night before. His smile is lopsided. It’s easy. False.
I toss the cloth in the bin and gesture for him to sit. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Still attached.”
“Don’t get cheeky. I’ll put you on the elliptical for an hour.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Rehab is not supposed to be fun.”
He sits on the table, wincing as he shifts his arm. I take his wrist gently, rotating the joint, testing range. I can feel the tension under his skin, but he doesn’t complain. Not out loud.
“How’s the pain?”
“Manageable.”
“Translation, it’s worse than yesterday, but you don’t want to admit it.”
He huffs a laugh, then goes quiet. I press the heel of my hand gently against his deltoid. “You were out last night.”
“Yeah.” His voice is low now. “Team pub night.”
“You drink much?”
He shrugs. “Enough to forget I’m not on the ice.”
I glance up at him. His jaw is clenched, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. The same distance he disappears into when things get too real.
“You don’t have to lie about it,” I say quietly. “Not here.”
