Page 38 of The Assist
Because what happens when she sees the mess behind the mask? Will she stay, or will she do what my dad did, pull away when it gets too real?
The gym’s half-empty now, only the usual few hardcore team members around. Jacko’s on the bench press, grunting through his last rep like it personally insulted him, and Ollie’s messing with a resistance band like it’s some exotic puzzle.
I should be stretching. Or at least pretending to do something productive. But I’m standing here, leaning against the mirrored wall, watching my own reflection and wondering when the hell I started looking so tired.
Everything feels like it’s hanging by a thread.
I want to skate like I did ten years ago; reckless, fast, invincible. I want my dad to call and say he’s proud of me, not proud of my stats or my pay check, but ofme. I want Mia to look at me like she did in that treatment room and not pull away.
But wanting isn’t the same as having. And every time I get close, something cracks.
“Diesel,” Jonno barks from the doorway, clipboard inhand. “You done brooding or do I need to get Murphy to come slap you out of it?”
I force a grin. “Tempting offer.”
He walks over, gives me the once-over like he’s recalibrating his internal injury radar. “I’m serious. You’re pushing too hard.”
“Gotta stay sharp,” I shrug, picking up a kettlebell, mostly for show.
Jonno raises an eyebrow. “You don’t stay sharp by burning yourself out. You think I don’t see it? You’re compensating. Overtraining. Trying to prove something.”
I keep my eyes on the floor, jaw tight. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”
He folds his arms, clearly not buying it. “The job is playing smart. Knowing when to push and when to pull back. You want a few more years in this game or you wanna be done before you’re thirty?”
I say nothing. Because he’s right. And I hate it.
“I’ve seen it before,” he continues, quieter now. “Guys chasing ghosts. Carrying pressure like it’s a badge of honour. But it breaks them. You keep pushing like this, Dylan, and it’s not just your body that’s gonna go.”
I’m not chasing ghosts. I’m trying to outrun them.
Jonno claps me on the shoulder, firm but not unkind. “Take the afternoon off. Go clear your head.”
I nod, even though it feels like failure. Like permission to fall behind.
He walks off, scribbling something onto his clipboard, probably a note about my stubborn ass. I rack the weight, muscles buzzing with unshed tension, and grab my phone instead.
There’s a message from Mum. A photo.
She’s holding a mug of tea, her eyes creased in a tired smile. In the background, our old living room looks exactlythe same, ugly floral couch, knitted blankets, the painting I did in Year Four still hanging like it’s worth something.
Mum: I rewatched the game again last night. You looked like you were flying out there. Wish I could’ve been there in person.”
Something about that hits harder than I expect. I type and delete a few replies before settling on something simple.
Dylan: You should let me fly you down for a game. I’ll get you decent seats, promise.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Then her reply comes in.
Mum: That’s sweet, love. But you’ve got enough on your plate without babysitting your mother.
I stare at the screen, teeth grinding together.
