Page 117 of The Assist
The meeting ends with no ceremony. No handshake. No comfort. Jonno doesn’t say anything, but as the others filter out, he lingers.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod, though I’m not.
“Dylan said it’s real,” he says. “Don’t make him a liar.”
My chest pulls tight. “I won’t.”
He nods and leaves me sitting there, staring at the closed folder.
I find Dylan waiting in the corridor outside, slouched on the bench like he’s been sitting there for hours.
He stands the second he sees me. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. I just walk into his arms. He holds me like he thinks someone’s about to rip me away from him. And maybe they are. “They haven’t made a decision,” I whisper. “But they might. They will.”
He pulls back to look at me. “I told them I loved you.”
My breath catches. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he says, brushing a hand over my cheek. “Loud and clear. I said I’d do it all again.”
My heart aches. “Even if I lose my job?”
“I don’t care. I’ll leave with you if I have to.”
“You’d leave the team?”
“I’d do whatever it takes.”
I press my forehead to his. “I don’t want to be the reason you walk away from hockey.”
“You’re not.” He kisses my temple. “But you’re the reason I’d be okay if I did.”
I choke on a laugh that’s more sob than anything. “You’re so bloody annoying whenyou’re noble.”
He grins, tired. “Don’t get used to it.”
And even in the thick of all this chaos, this fear, I believe him. This is the storm. And I’m not standing in it alone anymore.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
DYLAN
It’s past ten when I finally get her to eat something. Just some toast, cut in triangles as she likes it, with peanut butter and banana because she skipped lunch and barely touched dinner, and I’m watching her waste away in real time.
She doesn’t say much. Hasn’t since we got back.
She just sat in the passenger seat of my car, eyes glassy and fixed on some point in the distance the entire drive here. She didn’t argue when I took her keys, didn’t protest when I told her she wasn’t driving home. I don’t think she had the energy to fight me on it.
Now she’s curled up on the end of my sofa, knees tucked under her, still in the black skinny jeans and jumper she wore to work. She hasn’t even changed. Just pulled her hair up into a messy knot and gone quiet. Too quiet.
I lower myself onto the other end of the couch, plate in hand. “Eat this.”
She blinks, eyes dragging to the plate like she’s only just realised I’ve been in the kitchen. “Toast?” she asks faintly.
“Banana peanut butter toast,” I say. “It’s upmarket.”
