Page 46 of The Assist
“Obviously,” Sophie says, already pulling out her phone. “Smile for the ‘we survived game night’ selfie.”
I groan as she snaps the picture.
But later, when Dylan disappears back toward the locker room, and Sophie wraps an arm around me, the smile fades from her face.
“You looked terrified when he went down.” The concern in her voice is evident.
“I wasn’t.” It’s a blatant lie. I’ve never been more scared in my life.
“You were,” she says gently. “You care about him.”
I stare at the ice, now empty and slick with streaks of colour. The team logo now projected onto the wet surface. “I can’t do this. Not with him. It’s messy. Complicated.”
“It’s life,” she says. “It’s always messy. But you’re allowed to want things, Mia. You’re allowed to have something good.”
I press my lips together, emotions threatening to spill over.
“I don’t know if I can survive wanting him.”
Sophie squeezes my hand. “You already are doing.”
The low whirrof the fridge hums in the corner of the treatment room, and the air still emits antiseptic and muscle rub. I’ve laid out everything I need, but I keep double-checking anyway. I don’t want to admit I’m stalling.
The door swings open, and Dylan steps inside, hair still damp from the post-game shower, T-shirt stretched over shoulders that should come with a warning label. His gaze sweeps the room before landing on me, and something in his expression softens.
“You came,” I say, trying for professional. It comes out breathier than I’d like.
He closes the door behind him with a casual flick of his wrist. “You said to.”
I gesture toward the table. “Shirt off. Sit up.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s how you ask?”
“Do you want the treatment or not?”
His lips twitch. “Bossy.”
I don’t dignify it with a reply, just turn my attention to prepping the ultrasound gel.
When I glance back, he’s shirtless and perched on the edge of the table, shoulder angled toward me. There’s a blooming bruise already forming, it’s angry and dark.
I step between his knees and focus on the joint, hands gliding over warm skin, checking for inflammation, tension, signs of deeper damage. He smells of that subtle, clean cologne he always wears. The one that lingers long after he’s gone.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” I murmur, keeping my tone even. “You need to stop playing like you’ve got something to prove.”
“I do have something to prove.”
“To who?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Everyone.”
My fingers still for a second, then move again. “You scared me tonight,” I admit, softer than I mean to.
He looks up at that, eyes searching mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His hand comes up, brushing against my hip, it’s the lightest touch. “I didn’t mean to.”
