Page 74 of The Assist
“Hi,” I manage, trying very hard to look like I’m not undressing him with my eyes. It’s not easy, by any stretch of the imagination. Not now I know what’s underneath those pads.
He leans his elbows on the table, just close enough that I smell the clean scent of him; shower gel, fabric softener, and whatever it is that makes himhim. “You okay?”
I nod, swallowing. “Fine. You?”
His mouth curves slightly. “Tired. Sore. Thinking about last night.” I don’t miss the wink in throws in just for me. Theres a warmness to his dark eyes that he rarely shows at the rink. And I know it’s just for me.
The world narrows. “I can’t think about that right now,” Isay quickly, scanning behind him. “Jonno’s already circling like a hawk.” It’s suddenly very warm in here, and a little bit stifling.
He leans in half an inch, his voice warm and wicked. “I’m trying really hard not to grab you, and kiss you senseless.”
My breath catches. “You can’t say stuff like that.” Colour taints my cheeks and I feel it seeping all the way down my chest.
He smirks, he’s all slow-burning heat and confidence. “Then stop looking at me like you want me to say it again.”
I shoot him a look, my heart is hammering against my ribcage, but the grin he gives me is stupidly gorgeous, and I have to fight the tug at my mouth. I swear, this man could charm the pants off a nun in a snowstorm.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
Then the door bangs open and Jonno steps in, clipboard in hand, game face on. Dylan and I spring apart like guilty teenagers.
“Everyone good?” Jonno barks, eyes sweeping over the bench and gear. “Clarke, tape situation sorted?”
“Yep, all set.”
He nods, and doesn’t linger, and I fail to breathe properly until he disappears.
Dylan glances sideways at me, still amused. “Told you we wouldn’t get caught.”
“You’re a menace,” I mutter.
He shrugs, smugly. “You like it.”
And damn him, he’s right.
The game is brutal.
The kind where I keep one foot out of the physio room just in case. Players slam into boards like car crashes. Thecrowd is unrelenting. The other team plays dirty, and Dylan, God help me, plays dirtier. He’s quick and clever and ruthless, but every time he throws himself into a check, I feel it in my spine. He plays like he’s got something to prove. Like he’s on fire, and I can’t help thinking it’s for me. Or maybe because of me.
I try telling myself I’m just doing my job. That if it were Murphy out there throwing his body around like that, I’d feel the same. But that’s a lie and I know it.
This is personal.
When he scores in the second period, he doesn’t even celebrate properly. Just turns and finds me across the boards like I’m the only person in the world.
It shouldn’t mean anything.
But itdoes.
And it’s not just Murphy who notices. Jonno glances between me and Dylan like he’s connecting dots. One of the assistant coaches gives me alookwhen I lean a little too close to the edge of the bench.
By the final whistle, my stomach is in knots, but the relief of a four-two win is drowned out by the sheer surge of noise as the crowd roars. Dylan’s the last one off the ice, sweat-drenched and wild-eyed, his helmet’s off and he’s grinning. I duck into the physio room to escape the chaos, but he finds me anyway.
This time he doesn’t knock.
He just slips in, closes the door behind him, and stands there like he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing.
I glance at the door. “Someone could…”
