Page 43 of The Assist
I snort, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. “Feels like both.”
“You ever think,” he says slowly, “that maybe the point isn’t to earn it this time? Maybe you don’t have to prove anything to her. Maybe she already sees you.”
I stare at him and Murphy shrugs. “Don’t look so shocked. Icanbe wise.”
“For like five seconds, yeah.”
He smirks. “Hey, that’s longer than most of your relationships.”
I toss a chip at him, and the moment softens a little. But the truth still weighs heavy on my chest. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice rough.
He takes another sip of beer. “Then learn. Slowly. Carefully. No one’s asking you to solve it all in one night. Just don’t run from it. You like her?”
“Yeah. God, yeah.”
“Then show up. Even when it’s hard.”
We sit in silence after that, the TV flickering uselessly in the background, the takeaway growing colder between us.
Murphy eventually stands, stretching. “Right. I’ve done my good deed for the week. Gonna leave you to your brooding and your feelings and your tragic haircut.”
“It’s not tragic.” I run my hand through my unruly mass of hair.
“It’s definitely tragic.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Think about what I said.”
“I will.”
He hesitates in the doorway. “You’re not your dad, Dylan. You never were.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
When the door shuts behind him, I’m left alone again, but it feels less suffocating now.
I sit back down, pick up the takeaway, and finally eat something. My appetite’s still a mess, but I force the food down anyway.
Because tomorrow’s another day. Another chance.
And maybe I’m not as broken as I thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MIA
Game days always carry a charge.
Even before I get to the rink, there’s a buzz in my chest, a hum beneath my skin. It’s partly adrenaline, and partly professional alertness. And part Dylan Winters.
The arena is already loud when I step inside. The chill hits immediately, curling under the hem of my coat and sinking into my bones. I like it though. It sharpens me. Keeps me focused on the task in hand.
I head straight for the treatment room, where everything is already prepped; ice packs stacked, compression wraps ready, the ultrasound machine humming softly in the corner. Everything in its place. Unlike my brain.
I check my phone and there’s a message.
Sophie: At the gate. My name better be on that list or I’m climbing the boards.
I grin.
