Page 4 of The Assist
And worse, he knows it.
I toss the used empty tape roll in the bin and go back to writing my notes in his chart. Shoulder instability, likely subluxation, with acute pain. Recommend MRI. Ice, compression, no on-ice activity until cleared. Ankle sprain, grade two at best. He shouldn’t be walking on it, let alone making jokes about “rattled rib meat.” God help me.
I glance at the clock, and it’s nearly midnight. The halls are quieter now. Most of the team have either gone home or out drinking somewhere. I could be, too. I’ve had lots of offers. “Come out with us, Clarke. Just a few pints. Don’t be boring.” But I didn’t take this job to be liked. I took it to be respected. To be taken seriously. That means keeping the lines clear.
Especially with someone like Dylan, because he makes it hard to breathe when he looks at me like that.
I close the file, lock the cabinet, and sit for a moment on the edge of the table, elbows on knees. My hands are still but my thoughts are not.
Dylan Winters is going to be a problem.
A knock on the door makes me jolt upright. For a split second, I wonder if it’s him again, with some cheeky excuse about forgetting his water bottle or needing help with his “rehab exercises.” But it’s not. It’s Jonno, the trainer.
“You still here?” he asks, stepping inside with a bottle of sports drink in his hand.
“Obviously.”
He grins. “You always hang around this late, or are you hoping Diesel comes back with another dislocated ego?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not judging. Just keep your guard up, yeah? He’s a good player. Bit of a mess, though. And not someone I’d recommend spending any time with outside of the job. His reputation precedes him, and for once it’s not fabricated by the press.”
“A bit of a mess? That’s an understatement if ever I heard one.” Jonno doesn’t miss the sarcastic tone in my voice.
“He’s not a bad bloke,” Jonno adds, more thoughtful now. “Just got his walls up. You can’t fix that with tape and ice packs.”
“Good. I’m not planning to.” The only fixing I’ll be doing for or with any member of this team is that of the medical kind. I’m not a psychologist, nor do I intend to nanny any of them.
Jonno nods briefly, accepting my answer, and leaves without pushing it any further. One of the few on this team who actually respects boundaries. Most days, I’m grateful for that.
I pack up my bag, flick off the lights, and head into the corridor. My steps echo off the tiles. I’ve walked this path a hundred times already and it still feels slightly surreal. Premier League team. Big stadium. Big pressure. All eyes are on everything I do, waiting for me to slip up.
So I have to make sure I don’t.
Ever.
Outside, the night air is cold enough to make my fingers sting. I pull my jacket tighter and walk toward the car park. My old hatchback sits under a flickering streetlamp, looking painfully out of place next to the players’ sleek black RangeRovers and other souped-up German machines. I don’t care. I didn’t take this job to impress anyone with my wheels.
As I climb in and start the engine, I catch sight of Dylan’s car parked two spots down. He’s sitting there with his engine and lights off, head bowed slightly like he’s thinking too hard about something.
I should drive away but I don’t.
Instead, I sit there with the heater humming, watching the outline of him in the darkness. Not moving. Maybe he’s icing his shoulder. Maybe he’s hiding. Either way, it’s none of my business.
But still.
I reach for my phone and text him before I can talk myself out of it.
Mia: You shouldn’t be sitting in your car like that. Go home. Ice. Rest.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Dylan: Spying on me, Clarke?
Mia: You’re not that hard to spot.
A pause.
