Page 24 of The Assist
My thumbs hover over the screen, then I write back without overthinking.
Mia: I know.
And then, after a beat.
Mia: You don’t have to be.
There’s silence after that. But it’s adifferent kind of silence. Not the cold distance he wraps around himself when he doesn’t want to feel; this one’s warmer. Like a held breath. A tether. A step forward possibly.
I place the phone face down on the bedside table, my heart still thudding, and stare at the ceiling.
What am I doing?
This is Dylan Winters. The team’s golden boy. My patient. Off-limits in a dozen different ways. Yet every time he walks into that clinic, something inside me shifts. Gravity tilts subtly in his direction. It’s as though I’ve been balancing too long on a ledge and he’s the only one who sees how tired I am of holding on.
I don’t sleep much, instead I toss and turn most of the night. My mind looping through his voice, his words, the weight in his eyes when he said he didn’t want to screw this up.
Whateverthisis.
By the time my alarm shrills, I’m already wide awake and bone-deep tired.
The clinic smellsof Tiger Balm when I unlock the doors. It’s still dark outside, the kind of early morning that feels like the world hasn’t woken up yet. It’s peaceful except for the riot going on in my chest.
I bury myself in admin. Inputting rehab notes and scheduling follow-ups. Rechecking Murphy’s knee scans for the third time even though nothing’s changed. I keep my back to the door when I hear someone come in, my heart beating faster than it should.
But it’s only Ollie. His usual chipper self, cheeks pink from the cold, beanie halfway down his face. “Morning, Mia! You’re in early.”
“So are you,” I say, smiling despite myself.
“Yeah, trying to impress the coaches,” he says sheepishly. “You know, show initiative.”
I nod, trying to focus, but part of me is listening for heavier footsteps. The ones I know by heart now. The ones I feel before I even hear them.
But they don’t come.
And for some reason, that makes it worse. Like I’d braced for the fall, but now I’m stuck in the anticipation.
By noon, I’m restless. I’ve worked through three players, two stretching routines, and a full-strength circuit. I should be exhausted, but all I can feel is heat. Frustration. A quiet ache under my ribs I don’t know how to name.
I duck into the storage closet, pretending I need more resistance bands, and press the cool metal shelf against my forehead.
Get it together, Clarke.
I’m a professional. I’ve handled concussions, muscle tears, sprains in places people didn’t even know could sprain. I’ve dealt with egos and tantrums and actual grown men crying. I can handle Dylan Winters.
Except I’m not sure I want tohandlehim anymore.
I think I just want him.
There’s a difference, and it terrifies me.
He shows up an hour later. Not on the schedule. Not booked in. Just turns up. Like a storm cloud rolling in under a hoodie and an all-too careful smile.
“Mia,” he says, voice low, like we’re the only two people in the room.
We kind of are.
“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” I say, trying to sound casual, but my pulse is already betraying me.
