Page 27 of The Assist
He looks strong. Controlled. But loose enough to remind the world why they call him Diesel. Once he’s moving, you don’t stop him; you just pray you’re not in his path.
He sets up two assists in the first period, nearly snipes a goal of his own, and heckles the opposing goalie so relentlessly I see the guy mouth a swear word in return. Dylan skates off with a smirk, tapping his stick to the ice like he won the lottery.
Between periods, I check in with the team. Jacko’s got a bruise forming on his jaw from a high elbow, Murphy needs his knee iced, and Ollie’s face lights up when I hand him a new mouthguard he left in the locker room. “Thanks, Mia,” Ollie says, cheeks flushed. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I smile. “Just keep that face intact, yeah?”
But my eyes drift back to the hallway in time to see Dylan coming off the ice, helmet under his arm, his dark curls damp with sweat. His grin is still in place, but there’s a flush in his cheeks, a light in his eyes I haven’t seen in weeks.
He looks alive.
“Hey, Clarke.” His voice is low, the kind of hoarse you get from yelling plays and laughing mid-sprint. “Miss me?”
“You wish.”
“Come on, admit it. You were watching.”
“You’re literally the only one playing like it’s a one-man show,” I say, arching a brow. “Hard not to notice when you’re trying to win the game and a modelling contract in one night.”
He chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “Just making up for lost time.”
I step closer, eyes flicking to his shoulder. “Any pain?”
“Nope.” He rolls it. “Feels good.”
I study him. His face, the way he stands, the way his weight shifts naturally from ankle to ankle. It’s not bravado. He’s not favouring it. He’s not guarding.
He’s actually okay.
“You sure?” I ask.
His expression softens. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
I give a tight nod, but I don’t move away. Neither does he. The air between us feels charged again. Too many things unsaid. Too many glances lingering too long.
Then the coach barks for them to huddle and the moment breaks. “Back to work,” Dylan says, but he brushes past me close enough that his hand grazes mine; accidental, maybe. But his eyes flick down like he felt it too.
And I feel it. All the way to my bones.
The second period is more brutal. Scrappy. Less flow and more grit. Dylan takes a hard check against the boards and I nearly shout out before I catch myself. He bounces back, jaw tight, but he’s up and moving.
I breathe again.
The crowd gets rowdier with every passing second, and the scoreboard flips back and forth. Tension mounts like a pressure cooker in overdrive. And still, my eyes keep tracking him.
I hate that I care this much. Hate that his shoulder isn’t just a rehab case anymore, it’shim. And I hate that the line I worked so hard to draw between personal and professional has started to blur like water on ink.
He scores with six minutes left in the third. A breakaway. Pure instinct and speed. He dangles the puck past two defenders, drops his shoulder to fake the goalie, and slides it in five-hole like he wrote the play in his sleep.
The whole arena explodes. People are on their feet. The goal horn screaming overhead. Dylan pumps his fist, grinning wide, basking in the chaos. He turns to the bench, slaps gloves with Murphy, and points toward the crowd.
But then, for a second, his eyes find mine and the noise fades. He looks at me like that goal was meant for me. Like I’m the one he wanted to see him at his best.
And I’m frozen.
When the final buzzer sounds, our team is up by two.Dylan’s still grinning like a kid at Christmas as they file off the ice, all backslaps and high-fives.
I’m waiting in the tunnel with the trainer when he peels off his helmet and pushes his hair off his forehead.
