Page 36 of The Assist
I don’t know what comes next with Mia. I don’t know if this thing between us is a slow burn or a car crash in the making. But I know I want to be there to find out. I want to be present. Not for the game, not for the crowd. For her. For myself.
The buzz of skates and the low murmur of coaches fills the air as drills begin on the other rink. It’s the junior league, they’re young and hungry for it. I close my eyes and let the sounds wash over me, not needing to be in motion for once. Just here. Breathing and healing.
Maybe Jonno’s right. Rest is part of the work.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to do it the right way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MIA
The thud of pucks against boards echoes through the walls of the treatment room, from the steady rhythm of training beyond the door. A low drone of voices and skate blades carving into the ice hums in the background. It’s somehow a comforting soundtrack to my Monday morning. It should feel routine by now. Familiar even. But there’s an itch under my skin that won’t settle.
I tape down a fresh ice pack, adjusting it on Murphy’s bruised thigh. “You need to stop throwing yourself into the boards like it’s a dating tactic,” I mutter.
He grins through the wince. “Jealousy, Clarke. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Jealous of what? Your limp?” With my eyebrows raised, I give him my best ‘seriously’ look.
The sound of Murphy’s laugh rattles through my room, and it makes me smile. Murphy’s one of the good guys on the team. He was the first team member I treated when I joined The Raptors, and I’ve been icing him weekly since. He loves to tease me but he never oversteps the mark. “Of my raw animal magnetism. Obviously.”
I roll my eyes, but the banter helps. It lets me pretend everything is fine. Normal even. That the messages from Mum this weekend aren’t still sitting like stones in the pit ofmy stomach. Involuntarily, my hand goes to rest on my tummy, rubbing at the psychological ache that won’t leave me.
Murphy slides off the table and gives me a mock bow. “My compliments to the miracle worker.” It’s enough to bring my focus back to my job.
I doff my pretend cap in his direction before I warn him, “Don’t make it worse or I’m cutting you off from the good ice packs.”
“Brutal. I love it.” He heads back to the rink, whistling some out-of-tune melody as he goes.
I move to tidy up, tossing used tape into the bin, and wiping down the table, but I let my mind drift for a second. Mum’s latest message replays in my head. “He forgot my name today. Just for a moment. Then he laughed like it was nothing. Said he was just tired.”
My fingers tighten around the roll of bandage in my hand. I haven’t replied yet. Not because I don’t want to, but what can I say to make it better? Nothing. We all know this is the beginning of a slippery slope, yet none of us are willing to verbalise it.
The door clicks behind me. I turn, expecting another player or maybe Jonno, with a list of injuries and players he wants me to work on.
It’s Dylan.
He’s in a navy hoodie with the team logo emblazoned on the chest, and a pair of pale grey joggers, they’re loose and comfortable but no less distracting. There’s always this sharp awareness I feel when he walks into a room, like my senses go on high alert to accommodate the space he takes up.
“You’re not due in here,” I say, trying for professional and firm. My default shield.
He shrugs, a crooked half-grin pulling at his mouth. “Skipped my post-skate stretch. Thought I’d come see you. Strictly medical, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmur, turning back to reorganise the drawer that really doesn’t need reorganising.
He leans against the counter, his arms folded across his too-wide chest. Watching me. I don’t need to be facing him to know his gaze is fixed on my back as I busy myself doing nothing. I can feel it, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. My body is vigilant whenever he’s in my space.
“You didn’t respond to my message. The one from Saturday morning. You okay?”
I pause. My hands still. Of course he brings it up. Of course he notices.
“Fine,” I say too quickly.
“Mia.” He says my name like it matters. Like it means something.
I exhale slowly, not looking at him. “It was just a rough morning. Family stuff.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.” That stops my fake reorganisation of the drawer. I glance up, and our eyes meet. Something shifts. The room feels smaller and somehow warmer.
