Page 21 of The Assist
And I stand there alone in the quiet again, heart beating way too fast, wondering if this is still just a job or the start of something else entirely.
CHAPTER TEN
DYLAN
There’s something about walking into that physio clinic that feels like stepping into a goddamn confessional booth.
The lights are always too bright. The air is full of antiseptic and eucalyptus. And then there’s Mia, always so composed and professional, like she’s carved from stone and iron. I tell myself I don’t notice the way her ponytail swings when she moves, or how her eyebrows scrunch when she’s focused on a file. But I do. I notice everything about her. And that’s the problem.
She’s the one person on this whole team who sees past all my shit. Doesn’t buy into the Diesel Winters persona. Doesn’t care about the goals, the fanfare, the women, or the headlines. She treats me like I’m just another guy with a busted body and a worse attitude.
And for some reason, I can’t stay away.
“Morning,” I mutter as I step into the clinic. My shoulder twinges as I roll it, the ache sharp and familiar. It’s nothing new. Nothing I can’t play through. But Mia will make me lie down and poke at it anyway. She always does.
She glances up from her notes, eyes flicking to me like she already knows I’ve only slept for about two hours andpowered through the rest with caffeine and stubbornness. “You’re late.”
“You’re early.”
That earns me a look. Not quite a smile. Not quite a glare. Just that neutral, unreadable expression she’s mastered so damn well. She gestures toward the treatment table. “Shirt off. Let’s get started.”
It’s not the first time she’s said those words to me, and yeah, in any other context, I’d be grinning like a bastard. But right now, there’s something a little fragile in the air between us. I’m not sure if I’m about to break it or if it cracked days ago.
I sit on the edge of the table and peel off my T-shirt. The movement pulls at my shoulder again, it’s sharp enough to make me wince.
“Still bothering you?” Mia asks, stepping closer, her hands already reaching for me.
“Just a twinge.” I try to downplay it. “Probably slept funny.”
“Dylan.” Her voice is low, and steady. She knows bullshit when she hears it. “I saw the pain in your face, don’t fob me off.”
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah. It’s tight. Worse after practice.”
She nods and begins her assessment, fingers firm as she moves across my upper back, testing the tension. The contact sends goosebumps racing across my skin, and I hate that I feel them. Hate that her hands can make me feel anything right now.
Because if I let myself feel too much, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
“How’s the head?” she asks, gentler now, like she knows something’s off.
I hesitate. “I’ve had worse. I didn’t drink that much, Murphy was way worse than me for once.”
She presses into a knot beneath my scapula and I hiss, biting back a curse. “I’ll clear you to skate, but that doesn’t mean this is fine,” she says evenly.
“You sound like Murph.”
“Murphy’s smarter than he lets on.”
I snort. “Don’t tell him that. His ego’s big enough.”
There’s a brief pause. Her fingers still. And then she steps around to meet my eyes, her expression unreadable. “You’ve been different this week.”
Shit.
I look away, focusing on a speck of dust on the floor. “Just tired.”
“Dylan.”
I hate how she says my name. Like it means something.
