Page 40 of The Assist
MIA
The buzzer goes, and I open the door to find Sophie standing there with two bottles of wine, a bag of popcorn, and a smug smile.
She’s in her usual post-work uniform, slouchy band tee, mom jeans, and a bright red scrunchie pulling her blonde curls into a high ponytail. Effortlessly cool in a way I’ll never manage. She’s got winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass and combat boots she wears like armour. Sophie’s always been bold where I’m cautious, loud where I go quiet. But beneath the confidence is a softness reserved for the people she loves, of which I’m lucky to be one.
“You look like someone who needs to be force-fed emotional clarity and Merlot,” she says, breezing past me into the flat.
I smirk. “I hate how well you know me.”
“Occupational hazard of being your longest-serving emotional support human,” she calls from the kitchen, already raiding my snack cupboard like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she basically does.
Sophie and I met in our first year at uni; two overachievers with wildly different social settings thrown into the same dorm. Where I spent nights revising muscle groups and injury protocols, she was rallying people for protest marchesand open mic nights. We shouldn’t have clicked. But somehow, through late-night crisis talks and hungover fry-ups, we did.
We settle in with fluffy socks, a half-hearted movie playing in the background, and the kind of snacks that are just excuses to delay talking about what’sactuallygoing on. But Soph’s patience has a time limit, and she hits it around halfway through the second glass of wine.
“So,” she starts, arching a perfectly shaped brow, “you gonna tell me what’s going on with Hockey Hunk, or am I gonna have to start making up wild scenarios?”
I let out a long breath and sink deeper into the cushions. “It’s complicated.”
“It’salwayscomplicated with you, babe. But last time I checked, complicated doesn’t mean you have to self-destruct.”
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the light catch the rich red liquid. “I like him.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“No, I mean…” I glance over at her. “Ireallylike him. And it’s terrifying.”
She softens immediately, curling her legs up under her. “Because he’s a player? Or because he’s your client?”
“Both. And neither.” I press my knuckles to my mouth, struggling to find the words. “He’s not who I expected. He’s got this arrogance, yeah, but underneath it there’s something raw. Vulnerable. And he lets me see it.”
Sophie nods. “That sounds like a good thing.”
“Itshouldbe. But every time I let myself start to fall into it, I pull back. Because what if I get it wrong? What if I read it wrong, and it’s all just an act? Some kind of game to him.”
“You don’t trust him?”
I hesitate. “I don’t trustme. I’ve spent so long being the strong one. The one with the boundaries and the plan.Getting involved with a player, especiallythatplayer, it feels like undoing everything I’ve worked for.”
“Is that about your job or your heart?”
I go quiet. She’s too good at cutting through the noise.
“Both,” I admit finally. “I worked so hard to be taken seriously in this field. You know what the whispers are like, the whole ‘she’s only here to flirt with the lads’ thing. I can’t give anyone a reason to question my place.”
“So, it’s self-preservation.”
“Yeah. But it’s more than that.” I stare at the dark screen, letting the silence stretch for a moment. “There’s something broken in him. I see it when he talks about his dad, or when he thinks no one’s watching. It’s like he’s always braced for the next blow. And I know that feeling, Soph. I know what it’s like to live waiting for the people you love to disappoint you.”
She reaches out, and covers my hand with hers. “But you can’t protect yourself from everything, Mia. Sometimes loving someone messy is better than loving someone perfect. At least it’s real.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper. “I’m scared of letting my guard down and finding out I was just a distraction. Or worse, that I was the only one who felt it.”
“You don’t believe that though, do you?” she asks gently. “About him?”
My mind flashes back to the way Dylan looked at me in the treatment room. The way his voice softened when he asked if I was okay. How close we were; how close westillare to crossing a line I’m not sure we can come back from.
“No,” I say softly. “That’s what scares me the most. I think he feels it too.”
