Page 113 of The Assist
By the time I get home, the weight of the day is already creeping into my bones. It’s not even six o’clock, but the sky outside my kitchen window is heavy and bruised, the last smudge of daylight sinking fast.
I toss my keys into the little bowl by the door and kick off my shoes, feeling the ache of being on my feet all day. Normally, spending the night alone would sound like heaven after a long week. Tonight, though, it feels empty. I chew my lip for a second, debating, then grab my phone and fire off a text before I can overthink it.
Mia: Netflix and chill night? Bring snacks. x
Not even twenty seconds later, my phone buzzes.
Dylan: Be there in twenty. Should I pack an overnight bag or are you kicking me out before sunrise?
I laugh, warmth blooming in my chest.
Mia: Overnight bag encouraged.
He sends back a winking emoji and a photo of aridiculously overstuffed duffel bag, and just like that, the flat feels a little less empty.
When Dylan knocks, I’m already in my comfiest leggings and an oversized hoodie, a blanket thrown over the back of the sofa, and a stack of takeout menus fanned out across the coffee table.
He steps inside with a carrier bag of snacks and that same duffel slung over his shoulder. “Reporting for duty,” he says, grinning.
I take the snack bag from him, but before I can pull him into a kiss, my nerves get the better of me. “Wait,” I say, my voice tighter than I mean it to be. “Before we do anything else, I need your brain for a second.”
He frowns slightly but sets the duffel down. “Everything okay?”
I grab the folder off the kitchen counter, the one with my signed team contract, and wave it like a white flag. “Just... can you look through this with me? Sophie’s friend said there’s a definite loophole, I’ve been through and highlighted all the important bits, but I can’t stop freaking out about it. I need to know if I’m risking everything for…”
I cut myself off before the words tumble out too fast, too raw. Forus.Foryou.
Dylan’s face softens immediately. “Of course,” he says. “Come here.”
We sit at the table, papers spread out between us. I tap the no fraternization clause with my finger, my heart hammering in my ears. “It says ‘relationships that could create a conflict of interest with players under medical care are prohibited,’” I say, voice shaking slightly. “But technically, I’m the team physio. And you’re…”
“I’m not under specific ongoing treatment from you anymore,” Dylan cuts in gently. “You signed me off last month. I’m back in full rotation. No restrictions.”
I bite my lip, needing more than just his words.
“And anyway,” he continues, tilting his head toward me, “even if you were still working with me, it saysrelationships that could create a conflict of interest.You being amazing at your job doesn’t stop because you’re crazy about me.”
I snort despite myself, but then I scoot through the highlighted bits and point out the section where it specifies direct supervisory roles. As in, you can’t date someone you directly manage or who directly manages you. “And then there’s this bit. Which Sophie’s friend says we can use. Because I don’t manage you, I just treat any injuries. As long as I remain impartial in my treatment and advice about getting you back on the ice, then I think…think we’re good. What do you think?” I stare at him, willing him to agree with me and not point out that I’m going mad and dragging him down with me.
“I’m serious,” he says. “We’re not breaking any rules, Mia. You’re not risking your career. I swear it.”
I want to believe him. God, I do. But all I can picture is the look on Jonno's face if he found out. The disappointed way Mike, the team manager, would shake his head. The way everything could unravel so fast if even one person complained. “I don’t want to mess this up,” I whisper.
“You won’t,” he says fiercely. “We won’t.” He reaches across the table, folding my hand into his, grounding me.
“You’re not alone in this. Whatever happens, we face it together.” I nod, because I can’t speak for a second. He tugs gently on my hand. “Now,” he says, a glint in his eye, “can we eat all the snacks and make out on your couch before you spiral into a full contract-induced meltdown?”
A watery laugh escapes me, but it breaks the tension enough that I can breathe again. “Deal,” I say, and the world feels manageable again.
We make it to the sofa, and sit tangled together under theblanket with the TV playing some terrible reality show neither of us are really watching. He feeds me peanut M&Ms one at a time, smirking when I nearly choke from laughing too hard. At some point, he shifts, digging around in the duffel bag.
When he sits back, he’s holding up a brand-new toothbrush and a travel-sized bag of toiletries with a triumphant look. “I come bearing gifts,” he says, waving them at me.
I snort. “You planning on moving in, Winters?”
He grins, wide and wicked. “Not yet. But, y’know, figured if you can leave your girly crap at mine, it’s only fair I clutter up your bathroom too.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart flips in my chest. It’s stupid, how much that tiny toothbrush makes me feel like we’re really doing this. Like it’s not just stolen nights and risky kisses behind closed doors.
