Page 22 of The Assist
“I’m fine, Mia.” It comes out rougher than I intend. Defensive and too much.
She doesn’t flinch or back off. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
But I do. Because if I don’t, I’ll tell her everything. That I can’t sleep. That every time I close my eyes, I see my old man yelling and my mum crying, and me swearing I’d be something better. That I don’t know how to be “Diesel” anymore without losing Dylan in the process.
And worse than all of that, I’ll tell her that I think about her too much. That when I can’t sleep, it’s her voice I hear. Her face I see. That I don’t come to physio for my shoulder. I come to see her. Even if I don’t deserve to.
So instead, I smirk, pulling up that mask I wear so well. “You worried about me, Clarke?”
Something flickers in her eyes. Frustration? Hurt? I can’t tell.
“I worry about all my players.”
Right. All of them. Not just me. “Of course you do.”
She steps back, arms folding across her chest. The air chills immediately. “You know, if you actually talked to me instead of dodging every question, maybe I could help you.”
I swing my legs over the side of the table, standing slowly. “I didn’t come here for therapy.”
“No. You came here to keep pretending you’re invincible.”
I laugh, it’s short and bitter. “Is that what you think?”
“I think you’re scared,” she says quietly. “And you’re too proud to admit it.”
That stops me cold.
She’s not wrong. I am scared. Of letting people in. Of losing control. Of being seen.
But hearing it from her hits differently. It cuts deeper. I don’t say anything. Only stare at the floor, jaw clenched so tight I can feel it crack. Then, after a long beat, I whisper, “I don’t know how to be any other way.”
The silence stretches between us like a tightrope.
Finally, she moves toward me again. Not to treat my shoulder or to lecture me. Just to stand close enough so that I can smell her perfume. It’s clean, soft, and grounding.
“You don’t have to be alone in this, Dylan,” she says. “But I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
I want to tell her I’m trying. That showing up here, even with the walls up, is the closest I’ve come to asking for help in years.
But instead, I nod.
It’s not much. But it’s something.
Later, after everyone’s cleared out and the clinic’s quiet, I sit in the changing room, staring at my locker. My gear’s piled up like armour, and I’m too damn tired to put it on again.
Murphy slides in next to me, smelling like cheap soap andpeppermint gum. “You look like you had a root canal and a colonoscopy back-to-back.”
“Thanks, Murph. Really painting a picture there.”
He leans back on the bench, elbows draped over the edge. “So you gonna tell me what’s going on or do I have to stage an intervention with Jacko and a tray of brownies?”
I don’t answer.
He whistles low. “Wow. You’re really in deep.”
I rub a hand over my face. “It’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it?” he asks. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve been walking around like someone dropkicked your heart. And the only person you light up for these days is Mia Clarke.”
