Page 80 of The Assist
“Honestly? Yes.” I stifle a laugh.
“Well, the socks are hidden. Takeaway boxes arerecycled.”
He looks over his shoulder, grinning. I can’t help but smile back. He’s still got that edge to him; the dark eyes and the smirk that can undo me in a second, but when he lets the softer parts show, itwrecksme.
I drift through the open space, touching things like I need proof it’s real. “I thought you’d have a giant framed picture of yourself on the wall. You know. Shirtless and holding a puck.”
He follows me into the kitchen. “It’s in the garage. With the shrine.”
“You joke,” I murmur, running a hand along the smooth countertop, “but this house is dangerously close to givingwell-adjusted adult man.”
Dylan snorts. “Guess I’ll have to fix that then.”
But then his smile fades a little. The shadows creep back in.
He leans against the kitchen island and watches me, his jaw working like he’s trying to decide how much to say. Thatthing he does when he wants to open up but doesn’t quite know how.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
His gaze drops. “Just thinking about my dad.”
My stomach twists.
I nod slowly, waiting.
“Mum text earlier, said she’d seen the game. Dad doesn’t watch any of my games.” Dylan says after a beat. “He used to tell me not to get too cocky when I was younger. That I’d burn out if I thought I was untouchable. I think he thought he was trying to help, but I know different.”
My heart breaks a little.
“That’s what he said?” I whisper.
Dylan nods. “Standard fare.”
There’s a tightness in his voice he’s trying to play down, but I can hear the hurt in it. The old scar that still aches when it rains. I walk around the island and reach for his hand.
“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t matter,” I say. “It clearly does.”
He looks at me, and something raw flashes behind his eyes.
“I just want him to be proud,” he says. “Once. For five seconds. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“I know,” I murmur. “I know exactly what that’s like.”
And I do. It’s not the same. My dad didn’t tell me I’d never be good enough, he just never cared enough to ask. I could tell him I was treating a pro player, patching up championship legs, helping careers stay on the ice, and he’d still ask if I was going to apply for arealjob. Something steady. Something safe.
But Ilovehim. God, I love him. Even when he breaks my heart by accident.
I don’t say all of that though. I just squeeze Dylan’s hand tighter.
“We’re messed up, huh?” he murmurs.
“A little,” I say. “But, like functionally messed up. Sexy trauma.”
That gets a laugh out of him. A real one this time, and he pulls me into him.
“Sexy trauma,” he repeats. “It’d make a great band name.”
“I’d buy that album.”
