Page 3 of The Assist
She blinks, surprised by the tone. “Don’t get mushy on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She moves to the counter, and scribbles some notes on my chart, ignoring the way I’m watching her. She’s good at pretending she doesn’t notice me. But her ears flush slightly pink when I compliment her. Her jaw tightens when I flirt. She notices, alright. She just doesn’t want to.
I push myself off the table with a hiss, grab my shirt, and start to pull it back on.
“Careful,” she says without looking up. “You tear it worse, and you’ll be out the rest of the season.”
“I’ll behave.”
“Doubt that.”
I walk to the door, slow and limping. Before I leave, I pause. “You ever go out for drinks with the team?”
“No.” Her tone is abrupt and rather cutting.
“Why not?”
She looks up then, steady. “Because I don’t shit where I work.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline at the way she rolled that off her tongue. “Language, Clarke.”
“Don’t pretend you’re offended.” With her arms now crossed over her chest, she shakes her head in disbelief but I’m distracted by her tits. They’re now pushed up and resting above her arms, and I can see the swell of them through the thin fabric of her tee.
I smirk. “One drink. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“It never does with you, does it?”
And there it is. Sharp, straight to the gut. I don’t respond. Just hold her gaze for a beat too long, then nod once and step into the hall.
As I walk away, ankle screaming and shoulder stiff, I know I’m already in trouble.
Because she sees straight through me.
And I haven’t decided yet whether that’s terrifying or exactly what I’ve been waiting for.
CHAPTER TWO
MIA
Iwipe down the treatment table after Dylan leaves, a little more forcefully than necessary. Not because I’m angry. Not really.
I’m frustrated.
With him. With the way he smirks like he’s always two steps ahead. With the way he limps out of here, like he’s carrying the weight of the whole team on his back and refuses to let anyone help. With the way he looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle I never agreed to be part of.
I should be used to this by now. I’ve worked in men’s sport long enough to know the pattern. Loud, cocky blokes with more talent than sense. They flirt, they test boundaries, they push to see what you’ll tolerate. You push back harder, and they either back off or double down.
Dylan “Diesel” Winters doubles down.
And he does it with that bloody grin like he’s charming the pants off everyone in the room. Probably is half the time. But not me. Not today. Not ever.
He thinks I’m just another physio who’ll laugh at his jokes, and let him skate by on talent and bravado. He’s wrong. He can’t smile his way out of an injury, and I won’t let him flirt his way out of rehab.
Still.
There’s something underneath the cockiness. A flicker of something in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking. Tiredness, maybe. Or pain he won’t name. He’s not just the club poster boy with his face in magazines and too many tattoos. He’s complicated. Dangerous in a different kind of way.
