Page 127 of The Assist
Still rooting for you.
Because that’s what you do for people who save you.
D
I don’t cry.Isob. Right into my pillow, shaking and messy, every word of his a balm and a blade. Because this is the Dylan no one sees. The one beneath the swagger and the headlines. This is the man who shows up when it matters, even if he doesn’t know how.
I clutch the phone like it’s him. Like I could will him into the room and throw my arms around him and tell him I love him too. Because I do.
I was just too scared everything was falling apart.
When the tears subside, and my chest feels wrung out like an old cloth, I make the mistake of opening the internet again. I brace for more poison. But what I find isn’t what I expect.
A fan site, one of the big ones, with way too much time and dedication to the team, has posted a thread titled“Let’s Talk About Dylan Winters and Mia Clarke (Without Being Jerks)”.
And for once, the comments aren’t fire and brimstone. They’re kind and supportive. Thoughtful even.
“So what if they’re together? She’s a professional, and he’s clearly serious about her.”
“She’s been with the team for YEARS without a single scandal. People need to chill.”
“You can literally see the change in Dylan this season. The guy has matured. That’s what love does.”
“I’m just saying… if someone looked at me the way Dylan looks at her, I’d risk it all too.”
“If they break her heart we riot.”
There are hundreds of comments. Maybe thousands. And they’re not all perfect. Some still grumble, still question. But the overwhelming tone is shifting. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until now.
Because for the first time in days, I don’t feel like the villain in my own story. I feel seen and heard. Defended to some extent. Maybe not by the club. Not yet. But by the people who actuallywatch. Who notice the way he softens when he looks at me. The way I check his shoulder, not just because it’s my job, but because Icare.
They see it.
They seeus.
And that’s enough for tonight.
I curl into the duvet, Dylan’s message still open on my phone, the fan site still glowing on my laptop, and for the first time since I left, I think we might actually survive this.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
DYLAN
The gym is empty when I get there. Just the soft clink of weights and the low hum of the vending machine in the corner. That sound used to drive me mad, but now its predictability feels safe and grounding. I need safe.
I haven’t slept and I’ve barely eaten. Every muscle in my body is tight, like I’m playing in overtime but haven’t trained in weeks. This isn’t a game though; it’s my life. And I’m currently losing.
Mia’s gone. She needed space, and I didn’t fight her on it. Didn’t chase her. Didn’t beg. Just sent the truth and hoped it landed softer than the world did.
I don’t regret what we had, what wehave, if there’s still a chance, but the fallout is brutal. Social media is a warzone. I had to log out after I saw someone call her a gold digger. Like sheneedsanything from me.
I’d give her everything I have.
I pull the barbell off the rack and push through another rep, ignoring the ache in my shoulder, and the slight burn in my ankle. I remain focused and try to stay in control. If I stop moving, I’ll start thinking. And if I start thinking, I’ll break.
“Morning, lover boy.” Murphy’s voice breaks through the haze, and I exhale hard, re-racking the bar.
He’s got two coffees in hand and a stupidly optimistic grin like we didn’t just live through the equivalent of a PR nuke.
