Page 14 of The Assist
I’m not late, but I don’t argue. Instead, I say, “Do you ever feel like you don’t belong?”
It catches her off guard. I see it. But she recovers quickly, “It’s a daily occurrence in a building full of men who think they know more than me.” Then she adds, with a small shrug, “It doesn’t mean they’re right.”
I laugh, but it doesn’t reach all the way through me.
She gestures for me to sit and starts checking my shoulder. Her fingers are clinical, practiced, but I still feel every place they touch. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far.” I tell her.
“Why not?” Her tone is flat but not unkind.
I try to explain it. “The doubt clings to success like mould on a wall you never quite finish scrubbing. Every good thing feels like it belongs to someone else, like I’m borrowing this life and someone’s going to come back for it.” I pause for a second, wondering if I’ve said too much. But I carry on anyway. “The league makes you feel replaceable. Even when you’re winning.” Especially when you’re winning.
“That sounds exhausting.” She’s not wrong.
After my session, I find myself walking back onto the rink long after everyone’s gone home. The lights are half off, but there’s enough glow left from the ceiling to see the lines on the ice, faded and familiar.
I lace up again, slowly. Carefully.
There’s a reason I keep coming back here. A reason I stay late, sneak onto the ice when I shouldn’t. It’s the only place I can hear myself think and not want to rip my own head off. Out here, it’s just me and the ice, the sound of my breath and blades.
I start skating gentle laps. Nothing aggressive. Just movement.
It feels good. Not perfect, my ankle still catches, and my shoulder twinges when I shift too far, but good enough to remind me I’m not finished yet. I’ve made it further than anyone ever expected. Especially me. But that voice still follows. That whisper in the back of my skull that says I’ve cheated my way here. That the people cheering in the stands don’t really know me.
I wonder if Mia hears that voice too. I wonder if that’s why she sees through mine so easily.
I end up outside the physio room again. I don’t knock this time. I lean on the doorframe and wait. She doesn’t look surprised to see me, but she doesn’t tell me to piss off, either.
Instead, she nods toward the second chair and says “You can sit if you promise not to bleed on anything.”
I don’t talk much and she doesn’t push. She just carries on tidying up, taping up a few new ice packs, and updating the board with notes from the day. Mia moves like someone who’s always three steps ahead, like she’s learned the hard way never to let her guard down. And I get that. “What would you be doing if you weren’t here? If you hadn’t taken this job, and left your family behind.”
“Probably be stuck in some miserable clinic back home, watching other people live my life for me.” She glances up at me as she speaks, but it’s fleeting.
“I get that.” And I do, I feel it just as deeply.
It’s not a big moment. There’s no swelling music or deep eye contact. Just two people sitting in a room, quietly realising they’re more similar than they thought.
I stand to leave, my shoulder is stiff but manageable.
“You can stop icing it so much now; you’re giving yourselffreezer burn.”
And as I walk out, I think maybe this is what belonging looks like.
Not fans. Not headlines. Not stats or trophies.
Just someone who sees the parts of you you’re not proud of and doesn’t flinch.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MIA
There’s a strange kind of energy in the air today.
Not good, not bad. More restless like the wind before a storm. Or the pause before something cracks. I feel it in the way I miscount reps during a morning rehab session. In how the team is sniping at each other more than usual. In how my phone keeps lighting up with messages I don’t want to read.
Mum has sent another photo. One of Dad in the garden, sat in the old deck chair with a slice of cake balanced on his knee. The caption underneath says,we missed you today. He didn’t say it, but I know he did too.
I lock the screen before I let the words land. I’ve got a job to do. And the last thing I need is to get sentimental over a man who taught me to hold my tongue before he ever taught me how to use my voice.
