Page 26 of The Assist
With serious eyes, I study him, trying to figure out my next move before I muster up the conviction to speak again. “It’s me being honest.”
He reaches out slowly and carefully tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek, and the contact sends a bolt of heat straight through me. His voice drops. “You make me want to be better.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So, I don’t say anything. I let it sit there between us, feeling raw and terrifyingly real.
By the time he leaves, my hands are shaking. I press them against the counter, watching the door swing shut behind him. This isn’t a crush. It’s not just heat or proximity or shared confessions. It’s something heavier. Something with roots.
And I’m terrified it’s already too late to pull them up.
That night,I sit in my apartment with a mug of peppermint tea gone cold and my phone open in front of me. My mum’s message from last week is still sitting in my inbox, unopened. So is the photo of Dad and the puppy.
I stare at it. Then click.
My dad’s smile is wide. Real. And for a second, I almost don’t recognise him. He looks lighter. Less like the man who forgot every dance competition, every birthday. More like someone who’s trying.
Like Dylan.
I press my fingers to my lips and close my phone.
There’s no perfect moment. No clean start. Just choices. Every day, to try to be better. To let people in.
And maybe it’s time I made one.
I unlock my phone again. My hands are still shaking, but this time, it’s not fear.
It’s hope.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MIA
The crowd is already buzzing when I take my place at rink side. Friday night games always pull the biggest turnout of local families, and season ticket holders. Half the city’s teenage girls and uni students are screaming from the stands like it’s a boyband concert instead of a pro hockey match. The volume is a constant hum of anticipation, underscored by the rumble of skates slicing into ice and the echoing slap of pucks against boards during warmups.
And Dylan Winters, of course, soaking it all in like it’s air and he’s been underwater too long.
It’s his first game back since the injury. The first time he’s fully suited up, helmet low, jersey clinging to shoulders that held too much tension for too many weeks. There’s a swagger to him tonight. It’s not subtle or cautious. He’s in full Diesel-mode. Head high, grin cocky, and hands light on the stick like he was born with it.
He circles past the bench with a wink toward the stands, where a group of girls wave a glittered sign with his number, #19, bedazzled like a disco ball. One even throws a kiss. He catches it theatrically, then presses it to his helmet. The fanslose their minds.
I roll my eyes so hard, it’s a miracle I don’t dislocate something.
“Subtle,” I mutter under my breath as he skates past me and flashes that lopsided grin.
He knows I’m watching. He always does. He skates like he’s performing for me and the crowd at the same time, and damn him, he’s good at it.
I glance down at my clipboard. Notes on mobility, shoulder load tolerance, post-game ice protocol. All of it clinical. All of it meant to keep my mind on the job.
None of it is working. Because no matter how hard I try to pretend otherwise, I’m not looking at the team tonight. I’m looking at Dylan. Every shift, every stride, every shot he takes. I’m tracking it like a second pulse.
“You alright?” Danny jogs past the bench and throws me a quick smirk. “You’re squinting at Winters like you’re trying to read his soul.”
“Or his MRI scan,” I shoot back, keeping my voice even. “Take your water and focus.”
But Danny’s already grinning as he skates off. Bastard knows too much.
The puck drops with a sharpclackand the game kicks off hard and fast. Our boys are quick on the attack, and Dylan’s leading the charge like he’s never been away. It’s reckless. It’s electric. He plays like he’s got something to prove.
Every time he takes a hit, my stomach twists. Every time he throws himself into the corner for a puck battle, my fingers tighten around my clipboard. I hate this part. The waiting. The helplessness. The fine line between watching him shine and waiting for the other skate to drop. And yet, I can’t look away.
