Page 44 of The Assist
Mia: You’re covered. Row A, right next to the bench. Try not to heckle the players.
Sophie: No promises. If one of them falls in my lap, I’m keeping him.
Typical Sophie. She’s barely five foot two, with a voice like a foghorn and a wardrobe made up entirely of chaotic prints and questionable jumpers. But she’s loyal, ferociously. The only person I’ve told everything about Dad. About Dylan. About all the murky in-betweens I don’t know how to sort out.
I finish checking over Ollie’s knee, he tweaked it again in practice, overextending like he’s got something to prove, and then I slip out to find Sophie.
She’s perched exactly where I told her to be, front row, her phone already out to document the experience like she’s courtside at Wimbledon.
“Oh my God,” she says as I approach, eyes wide. “This is so much colder than I thought it would be. I’m wearing four layers and I still think my soul’s shivering.”
“That’s the point. It keeps the players cool.”
“And the physiotherapists frigid?” she smirks, jabbing me with an elbow. “How close is your emotionally stunted hockey prince going to be?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”
Too late.
She grins. “You said I could meet him. I brought my best mascara for this.”
“Sophie,”
“Relax. I’ll be good. Mostly. Swear on my novelty socks.”
Before I can respond, the arena lights shift. The team is announced and the crowd roars. And then he’s there.
Dylan.
Helmet off, hair a little wet, jaw set in that locked, determined way that does something unforgivable to my insides. He skates out like he owns the rink. Like he’s built from ice and iron and that impossible confidence that dares you to look away.
Sophie whistles low. “Well. Damn.”
I shoot her a glare.
“What?” she says, raising both hands. “I’m just appreciating the view. He looks like a Viking on skates.”
Dylan catches my eye as he glides toward the bench. His gaze flicks to Sophie, then back to me. He offers a small nod, barely more than a twitch, but I feel it. A spark in my chest. Recognition. A quiet question neither of us has the guts to ask out loud.
He settles into his spot, all composed edges and restless energy. And I’m frozen. Because for all the times I’ve told myself this is a bad idea, that I can’t cross that line… it’s getting harder to believe.
The puck drops and the game begins.
For a while, I lose myself in the flow, watching the movement, tracking the plays, keeping an eye on any stumbles, hits, or awkward landings. It’s easy to forget everything else when it’s just bodies moving across the ice and the occasional shout from the bench.
But then the hit happens.
Dylan’s got the puck, cutting through defenders like they’re cones in a drill. He’s fast, too fast, and then crack.
A brutal shoulder check slams into him from the side. His body twists mid-air before he hits the boards. The sound is sickening. My heart lodges somewhere in my throat.
I’m on my feet before I realise it.
He stays down for a second too long.
“Jesus,” Sophie mutters beside me. “Is he…?”
“He’s fine,” I say automatically, already moving toward the bench, toward the gate. But my stomach churns, bile rising.
