Page 29 of The Assist
Dylan: Held up fine. Probably your expert taping.
It’s not enough, but I don’t know how to say the rest. That I played like a maniac because I knew she was watching. That every cocky move, every stupid grin I threw at the fans, was a cover for the way I wanted to look at her instead.
Murphy drops down onto the bench next to me, knocking his helmet into my shoulder. “You all right, mate?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just soaking it in.”
“Bullshit,” he says, too casually. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The‘I scored a goal, but it doesn’t mean jack because something’s crawling around in my brain’look. You always get it when you’re thinking about the old man.”
I don’t answer. Just unclip my skates and start tugging at the laces. He lets the silence stretch, then adds, “He’s a prick for what he did, you know. Not saying anything. Never showing up.”
“It’s not that simple,” I mutter.
“Isn’t it?”
I don’t know how to explain it. That weird cocktail of resentment and longing. The part of me that wants to scream at him, and the part that wants him to finally see the real me.
“He used to be good,” I say. “When he talked about it, hewas always a game away from being scouted. A call away from being drafted. But it never came.”
Murphy shrugs. “That’s on him. Not you.”
“Yeah, well. I think every time I got closer to what he never had, it made it worse.”
Murphy leans back, folds his arms behind his head like he’s sunbathing in the middle of the chaos. “Still doesn’t give him a right to dim your light because he couldn’t spark his own.” I give him a look. “What? I read. Got a quote-of-the-day app now. I’m evolving.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth twitches. Fucker always knows how to break tension like it’s a game. He claps a hand on my shoulder and pushes himself up. “Shower, beer, and then the pub. You in?”
“Yeah,” I say, slower than usual. But I am. I need to shake this off. The ghosts. The ache. The self-doubt. And maybe I’ll message Mia again.
Maybe I’ll tell her the shoulder’s fine but the rest of me is still catching up. That her checking in meant more than she knows. That when I was on the ice tonight, it wasn’t the crowd or the goals or even the win that pulled me through. It was the memory of her voice telling me I wasn’t broken. That I’d heal.
Maybe I’ll tell her that she was right.
The pub is already buzzingwhen we get there; same place, same booths, same post-game rituals. Jerseys swapped for jeans and hoodies, pints in hand, laughter bouncing off the exposed brick walls like we won the championship, not just a regular Friday night game.
I’ve got a beer in front of me, untouched. Murphy is in his element, holding court at the end of the booth, retelling mygoal in increasingly exaggerated detail every time someone new arrives. Jacko’s at the bar ordering shots for no reason other than “it’s tradition,” and Ollie’s trying to sweet-talk the bartender into free nachos.
And then the door opens.
Mia walks in like she’s not sure if she should be here, keys clutched in one hand, her hair slightly wet from the drizzle outside. Black jeans, grey coat, her dark eyes scanning the room and land right on me.
My chest tightens.
She doesn’t smile. But there’s something there, a flicker. She lifts a hand in a hesitant wave, and Murphy immediately spots her. “Well, well, well. Look who finally crawled out of the clinic!”
He jumps up and makes a dramatic show of dragging her over. “You here to make sure Diesel doesn’t injure himself doing shots?”
“Someone has to keep you all in one piece,” she mutters, but there’s warmth in her voice. Even a hint of a smirk. She slips into the booth opposite me. Doesn’t ask if it’s okay, but then she doesn’t need to. The space shifts around her like it always does. It’s calmer. Sharper.
I finally lift my beer and take a long pull, just to have something to do with my hands.
“You looked solid out there,” she says after a beat, low enough that it’s just for me.
“‘Solid? That all I get?” I arch a brow. “Not even a ‘great game, Dylan’?”
