Page 79 of The Assist
I just hold her closer.
When she heads into the shower, Itake a second and check my phone. There are two missed calls, one from Murphy, and one from Jonno.
And a message from my mum.
Mum: Saw the game. Looks like your shoulder’s holding up! So proud of you x.
Nothing from Dad. Classic.
I don’t know why I still expect anything else. So, I fire off a safe response instead.
Dylan: When are you gonna let me bring you down for a visit?”
I watch the screen as the bubbles bounce, then stop and start again.
Mum: We’ll figure something out soon x.
My finger hovers over the screen, trying to figure out how I respond to that. But the all too familiar feelings start to overtake me, so I close my screen and slip my phone back into my pocket.
Later,when we’re back at the rink for the afternoon recovery session, I’m quiet. Mia doesn’t push me to talk, but she glances over a few times like she knows I’m somewhere else entirely.
I want to tell her about my dad. About how he only ever reaches out to remind me that I’m notreallyworth much. About how every time I get close to something good, his voice is still in the back of my head, whispering that I’m going to fuck it all up.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because this thing between us is still fragile. And I don’t want to pour all my damage into her lap like a warning label.
Instead, when she comes to sit on the bench next to me as she watches the team on the ice I say, “After this, come back to mine?”
She blinks. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I need you there.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day. She’s not been to my place yet, and I’ll be honest, I’ve never taken a girl back there in all the time I’ve been at the club. Home is my sanctuary, and not somewhere I’ve ever wanted to share with anyone else. But when she reaches over, and threads her fingers through mine, I feel something settle inside me.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to prove myself to a man who was never going to love me the way I wanted.
But with her I don’t have to prove a thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MIA
By the time I pull into Dylan’s driveway and park behind his black BMW, the sun’s gone and the sky is bruised purple and grey, the clouds are rolling low over the rooftops like they’re bracing for a storm.
I watch him climb out of his car and head towards mine, he smiles as he approaches and opens my door for me. He holds his hand out to help me get out and closes the door behind me. There’s a beat between us as he waits for me to grab my bag and lock the car. Then he squeezes my hand tightly, his thumb occasionally stroking across my knuckles like he needed the contact more than the conversation. There’s a gravity to his silence I’ve started to recognise, like when he’s processing something deep, he drops into himself and only resurfaces when he’s ready. It’s scary how much I get him now. Scarier still how much Iwantto.
His place is tucked into a side street not far from the rink; nothing flashy, no towering gates or show-off windows. Just a clean-lined, modern house with dark wood trim. It’s sleek in the way Dylan is; understated but purposeful. And undeniably sexy.
I follow him up the steps and through the door, and when he drops his keys in a ceramic bowl by the entrance, I take a slow look around.
The living space opens out in one fluid sweep, kitchen to lounge to floor-to-ceiling windows at the back. Everything’s crisp, warm, and functional. Light oak floors. Matte-black fixtures. A few houseplants, which are somehow thriving. There’s a guitar propped in the corner by a bookshelf, that appears worn at the edges like it’s been played for years.
It’shim. Simple and grounded, but every detail whispers something more.
“You live like this?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Youownmatching mugs?”
Dylan chuckles, kicking off his trainers. “What, you thought I lived in a pit of sweaty socks and takeaway boxes?”
