Page 53 of The Assist
He leans in, voice low and steady. “The other night wasn’t a one-off. You feel it too, Clarke. I know you do.”
My mouth opens and then closes. I can’t lie to him. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m something he wants andmeansto have.
“We’re at work,” I say finally.
“Right now, we’re standing outside a coach in the middle of nowhere.”
“You’re still Dylan Winters. I’m still your physio.”
He gives me that slow, infuriating smile that makes my knees weak. “Yeah, next time, you won’t get away.”
I stare at him, completely unable to speak. Then Murphy pokes his head out the bus door. “Oi, lovebirds. Can we go? Some of us need our ritual pre-game nap.”
Dylan steps back with a wink and boards the bus. I watch him go, my heart still racing. I’m not sure whether to scream, laugh, or kiss him.
Maybe all three.
This rink feels colderthan ours. Or maybe that’s the drop in Dylan’s mood.
By the time we’re inside, the flirty ease of the morning has shifted. He’s still going through the motions of taping his stick, tossing banter back at the boys, but there’s a heaviness to it. A disconnect. Like his body’s here, but his mind’s somewhere else.
I catch him sitting on the bench, staring at the ice like it taunts him. I linger near the med kit a few feet away, pretending to sort out muscle spray and resistance bands, but mostly I’m watching him.
His jaw’s clenched. His knuckles are white around the tape roll. And when Ollie cracks a joke loud enough to echo through the changing room, Dylan doesn’t even blink.
Okay. Something’s wrong.
I cross the space between us and crouch next to where he’s sitting. “You alright?” I ask gently.
His eyes flick to me, then away again. “Yeah.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Didn’t realise I needed to.” His tone is clipped. I can see the anguish taking over, the self-doubt creeping back in. It’s all there on show for anyone who’d take the time to look at him.
I lean back on my heels. “You don’t have to be a wall all the time, you know.”
“I’m not.”
“You kind of are.”
His gaze snaps to mine then. That frustration in his eyes is sharp and unguarded but I know it has nothing to do with me, but I’m the one here. The one close enough to see it.
“You want me to say I’m nervous?” he mutters. “That my shoulder still aches when I shoot from the top of the circle? That I’ve got my dad’s voice in my head telling me I’ll screw this up like he always said I would?” The words fall out before he can stop them. And immediately, I see the regret hit his face like a wave. “I didn’t mean—” he starts.
“No, it’s okay,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to take it back.”
He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s angry at himself for letting anything slip. “When he realised I was better than him, he hated it. Pulled away. Said I was getting too cocky. Said I’d crack under pressure one day, and he wouldn’t be there to clean up the mess.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “You’re not him, Dylan.”
“Doesn’t stop him living rent-free in my head every time I lace up.”
I sit down beside him. Close enough for our knees to brush. “You know what I see when you’re on the ice?” I say. “I see someone who makes it look effortless. Who plays like it’s part of him. Like the ice belongs to you.”
He snorts. “That’s just muscle memory.”
“No,” I say firmly. “It’syou. You’re good, Dylan. You’regreat. You’ve earned every bit of it.”
