Page 128 of The Assist
“You’re late,” I say.
“I’m not. You’re just spiralling ahead of schedule.”
I sit up, wipe sweat from my brow, and take the coffee he holds out. “Did you sleep?”
“Not really. WatchedBake Offreruns and doom-scrolled through social media. Got whiplash from the emotional swing.”
I frown. “Still bad?”
Murphy smirks. “Actually, no. Better.”
He pulls out his phone, flicks through a few tabs and shows me a thread on one of the fan forums. I brace myself, already prepared to see my name dragged through the mud again. But the top comment makes me pause.
“You can literally see Dylan’s game change when she’s around. That’s not distraction, that’s motivation.”
Then another.
“Mia Clarke’s the most professional physio we’ve had in years. Leave her alone.”
And another.
“They love each other. You can see it. Let them.”
I scroll, blinking like the words might rearrange themselves into something cruel. But they don’t. The narrative’s shifting. “They’re defending her,” I say, almost in disbelief.
“They’re defendingyou, mate,” Murphy corrects gently. “Us. The team. Thewhole thing.”
Something heavy twists in my chest. “They don’t even know her,” I say, not sure who I’m trying to convince.
“They know enough,” Murphy says. “They’ve seen the way you look at her.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Doesn’t matter if the fans are on our side. Mike still hasn’t said a word. League’s still sniffing around, and she’s still gone.”
“You’re not the only one who misses her,” Murphy says, quieter now. “Ollie asked me if she was coming back. Jacko hasn’t stopped baking. I think it’s stress-related. There are banana muffins in the freezer and a carrot cake in the debrief room, ready for when we finish training.”
I laugh, a short, broken sound. “Tell him I said thanks.”
Murphy sobers, stepping closer. “She’ll come back. And when she does, you make sure it’s worth it. Yeah?”
Before I can answer, the locker room door swings open, and in comes Danny, loud, smug, and about two comments away from getting punched.
He claps his hands. “Well, well, if it isn’t Romeo and Juliet.”
Murphy groans. “Mate, read the room.”
But Danny just grins, swaggering like he’s the bloody hero of the story. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Diesel. You went all in for a physio. Ballsy.”
“Back off, Danny,” I warn.
“Oh, relax,” he says, tossing his gym bag on the bench. “I’m just saying she should’ve picked someone like me. Bit of fun. No headlines. No drama.”
Murphy’s eyes narrow. “You think this is funny?”
Danny shrugs. “She made her bed. Now she’s hiding while the rest of us deal with the fallout. I mean, come on, who gets this bent out of shape over a hook-up?”
My jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “Say that again.”
“What?” Danny lifts his hands, mock-innocent. “That itwas a fling? Come on. You’re Dylan Winters. She was never going to be more than a distraction.”
