Page 6 of The Assist
“More like a stab.”
“Stop.”
He obeys without arguing. And that, more than anything, tells me he’s actually worried. I crouch beside him, palpating the shoulder gently. His skin’s warm under my hands, and his muscles twitch beneath the surface.
“Ice again after this. We might need imaging sooner than I first thought.”
He watches me while I check his range of motion, quieter than usual. I pretend not to notice. “You always this calm?” he asks after a moment.
“Only when I’m resisting the urge to kill someone.”
He grins, but it fades quicker this time. “You like working with people like me?”
“People like you?”
“Broken.”
For a second, I’m caught off guard. The way he says it isn’t flirty or cocky or teasing. It’s quiet. Real.
I meet his eyes. “You’re not broken. You’re just not very good at asking for help.”
He holds my gaze a second too long. Then he says quietly, “What if I asked now?”
“Then I’d help, Diesel. Because it’s my job.”
“Right,” he says. And he smiles. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. And for the first time, I wonder how long it’s been since anyone looked at him and didn’t want something in return.
CHAPTER THREE
DYLAN
They say you should listen to your body.
Mine’s screaming.
Everything aches; my ankle’s stiff, shoulder feels like it’s full of broken glass, and I haven’t slept more than three hours in two nights. But I still show up to morning training, brace on one leg, strapping on under the gear I’m not even supposed to wear yet. I just need to feel like a player, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Even if I’m just standing at the edge of the rink, watching.
Jonno spots me near the bench and narrows his eyes. “Thought Clarke benched you.”
“She did.” My answer is nonchalant and dismissive.
“Then what the hell are you doing in skates?”
I glance down. “Felt weird not putting them on.”
He sighs and walks off muttering, “Bloody idiot.”
I don’t argue. He’s not wrong.
There’s something about being near the ice, though. The smell, the sound of blades carving into it, the echo of pucks slamming off the boards. It’s church, in its own weird way. Familiar. Sacred. The only place where my head ever shuts up.
I grip the boards and lean on them, watching the boys run drills. Fast pace, quick passes, shouting across the rink.Murphy scores one top shelf and whoops like he’s just won gold.
The envy hits hard. I hate being on the outside. I hate standing still when everything inside me is wired to move. To fight. To win.
It’s not just about the game. It’s about needing something to hold onto when everything else slips.
Always has been.
