Page 15 of The Assist
The training session overruns. The men are slow, and sloppy. It’s been a long week of travel and double sessions, and it’s showing in every grimace and grumble.
I’m crouched on the floor, wrapping a rookie’s knee, when I hear Jonno shout across the rink. “Winters! Where the hell’s your head at today?”
Dylan doesn’t respond. He skates off with his jaw tight, and his eyes darker than usual. I catch the flicker ofsomething in his face as he passes me, it looks a lot like shame. Or maybe frustration. He’s good at hiding the difference.
After everyone clears out, I tidy the bench area, sweeping up tape and sweaty towels, trying not to think about him.
It doesn’t work.
Dylan shows up at my office door twenty minutes later, knocking once before pushing it open like he’s not waiting for permission. He looks wrecked. Not physically, he’s still all lean muscle and sharp lines, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there yesterday. Something’s gnawing at him.
He slumps into the chair across from mine but doesn’t say a word. “I’m not a therapist,” I remind him, still scrolling through player assessments on my screen.
“Good. I’d rather not cry in front of anyone wearing scrubs.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Not your best line.”
“Didn’t come for that.”
I glance up. “Then why are you here?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Didn’t know where else to go.”
That’s new. I lean back slowly, folding my arms across my chest. “Something you want to talk about?”
“Only if you promise not to diagnose me with emotional constipation again.”
“I said mild emotional constipation, actually. There’s a difference.” That earns the smallest twitch of his mouth. A half-smile, gone almost as soon as it appears.
“You ever feel like you’ve built your whole life on something shaky?” he asks. “Like any second now, it’ll all fall in on itself?”
I consider that for a second. “I’ve felt like that since I left London.”
His gaze sharpens. “You miss it?”
“I miss the noise. The way it always felt like something was happening. Here, everything’s a little too still. A little too polite.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I get that.”
I rest my elbows on the desk. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
He doesn’t speak for a long time. He stares at the floor, fingers laced together like he’s holding something in. When he finally talks, his voice is different. Softer and honest. “I used to dream about playing in the league,” he says. “Like, obsessively. Posters on the wall. Memorised every stat. Played until my hands bled. It was the only thing I was ever any good at.”
“You’re more than good,” I say before I can stop myself.
He looks up at me, and there’s something raw in his eyes. “Doesn’t feel like it. Not lately.”
“You’re injured. You’ve been off the ice.”
“It’s not just that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s like I made it. I’m here. And it’s still not enough. I thought once I got to this level, I’d stop feeling like a fraud.”
I tilt my head. “You think you don’t deserve to be here?”
He gives a humourless laugh. “Sometimes, yeah. Like I tricked everyone and got lucky. Or loud enough that they couldn’t ignore me.”
I want to reach across the table, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “You don’t get to the top by accident, Dylan.”
He shakes his head. “You’d be surprised.”
