Page 28 of The Assist
“You good?” I ask, voice tight with everything I’m not saying. Desperate to keep myself in check in front of Jonno. I have a job to do and nothing, not even Dylan Winters is going to jeopardise that.
“More than good,” he says. “Did you see that goal?”
“Unfortunately.” I cross my arms. “Your ego’s going to need its own dressing room.”
He laughs, low and bright, eyes shining. Then softly, he says, “Thanks. For everything.”
I swallow. “Just doing my job.”
He leans in slightly. Close enough that my breath catches. “You always say that.”
I should step away but I don’t. Because here’s the thing; I’ve spent weeks watching him fall apart. I’ve seen the cracks and the quiet and the pieces he hides from everyone else. And tonight, I saw the fire again. Not just Diesel. Dylan, and I want more. But I also know where this road leads. So instead, I give him the only safe answer I can manage. “Go celebrate with the team.”
His jaw ticks once. He knows I’m deflecting again. But he nods. “See you later, Clarke.” And then he’s gone, swallowed by the noise and the boys and the beer-drenched victory already brewing in the locker room.
I stay behind in the quiet. I don’t know what’s worse; that I want him to come back. Or that he might.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DYLAN
The locker room’s a riot of noise. Murphy’s got someone’s towel wrapped around his head like a championship belt, shouting about his two assists like he carried the whole damn team. Ollie’s filming a half-naked dance-off between Jacko and Danny, both of them soaked in sweat and ego. And there’s that buzz in the air, the one that only follows a win.
My first game back. Four-one on the scoreboard. I scored one, assisted another. Not bad for a guy who’s been off the ice for weeks, stitched together by physio tape and whatever spell Mia Clarke keeps muttering under her breath.
And yeah, I feel good. Shoulder held up. Ankle, too. No sharp twinges. No limp. But there’s this weird dissension between what my body’s saying and what’s happening in my head.
“Diesel’s back, baby!” Murphy yells, slapping my back with a force that should be illegal. “And he brought the show with him. Did youseethat celly?”
“You mean the one where he winked at the front row instead of actually celebrating with the boys?” Danny shouts from across the room. “Absolute tosser.”
“Jealousy’s a disease, mate,” I shoot back with a grin.
Everyone laughs. It’s easy, natural. The kind of lockerroom energy that feeds you. Makes you feel like you’re ten feet tall.
But I’m not. I’m sitting here, unwrapping my wrist tape, peeling back the layers until I’m down to bare skin, and wondering why the high never lasts long enough to quiet the voice in my head.
The one that sounds a hell of a lot like my dad.
He was never at any of my games when I was younger. Not one. But I always hoped he’d show up, just once. Apparently, he was a decent player, or so I’m told. Quick hands. Good instincts. But not good enough.
That’s the thing that gets me.Not good enough.Those words embedded themselves in him like rust in an old blade. And instead of sharpening mine, he turned it on me.
I learned not to expect much from Dad, except silence when I succeeded and something bitter when I didn’t. “Don’t get cocky,” he’d say when I brought home trophies. “You’ll peak too early.” When I scored the hat trick that got me scouted by the juniors, he just nodded and said, “Hope you don’t choke under the pressure.”
So yeah, I play cocky. I flirt with the fans. I wink, I smirk, I show off. But all of it’s a front. Because somewhere underneath all that swagger is a kid who still wants his dad to clap. Just once.
I flex my fingers, still sticky from the resin I use to grip my stick. The tape’s a mess on the floor now. Like my thoughts, and the guys are still celebrating around me. Music’s blasting from Murphy’s phone. Some pop remix with a bassline that rattles the lockers, and in the middle of it all, I sit quietly.
I glance at my phone. Nothing from him. Not that I expected it.
But there’s a message from someone else.
Mia: Good game, Winters. Shoulder held up?
I stare at it for longer than I should. Because it’s more than just physio protocol. I saw her on the sidelines tonight, trying not to watch me too closely and failing. The way her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t let herself. Because she’s real. And I can’t be.
I start typing back. Then stop before starting again.
