Page 52 of The Assist
My stomach is in knots, but I grab my lanyard and head out.
The smell of burnt toast and lukewarm scrambled eggs greets me first. Then, the boy’s loud, sleep-rumpled banter, and they’re already halfway through five different boxes of cereal like it’s some kind of Olympic event.
Murphy spots me and waves me over. “Clarke! Save me from these savages. They’re eating like they’ve never seen a buffet before.”
“You’re not exactly delicate with your Weetabix either,” I mutter, grabbing a coffee.
“True. But I chew with style.”
Danny, from the other side of the table, yells through a mouthful of bacon, “Oi Mia, remind Dylan thateggs aren’t a personality.”
That’s when I feel him.
Before I even turn, I know he’s there, leaning against the breakfast counter, plate in hand, eyes already on me.
He looks annoyingly well-rested. “Morning, Clarke,” he says, that voice already doing dangerous things to my bloodstream.
“Morning,” I say carefully, sipping my coffee like it can protect me.
He walks over, slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world to mess with me.
“Sleep well?” he asks, eyes narrowing like he already knows the answer.
“Sure.”
“Yeah? You look a little tired.” His forehead furrows as he studies my features. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
My jaw tightens. “Thanks for that.”
He smirks and leans in slightly. “I’m just saying, ifIkept you up all night I’d want to know.”
I nearly choke on my coffee.
Murphy whistles under his breath. “Jesus, it’seight-thirtyin the morning. Can we keep the foreplay to a minimum until after warm-up?”
I give Dylan a sharp look, but he’s unbothered, biting into his toast like he didn’t just casually light my insides on fire.
I sit at the far end of the table, partly to get away from the intensity of his presence, but mostly to gain some headspace and think. But it’s no use. He’s in my head.
God. Why does he have to be so impossible?
After breakfast, I follow the boys outside to the coach that will take us to the rink. The air’s already bustling with game-day energy. Players are stretching on the pavement, talking strategies, and complaining about the stiffness in their legs.
Dylan catches me as I’m about I step onto the bus. “You alright?” he asks softly. I nod, but my heart’s beating in double time. “Didn’t look like you slept much.”
“Neither did you.” I lie, he looks just as good as he always does.
“True.” He tilts his head. “But I’m not the one running away from it.”
My breath catches. “Running away fromwhat, exactly?”
He steps in closer. Just enough for me to feel the heat coming off his body, the electricity in the small space between us. “Youknowwhat.”
I shake my head, forcing a laugh. “You really need to stop flirting with your physio. It’s unprofessional.”
He grins. “You keep telling yourself that.”
I narrow my eyes, but my lips twitch despite myself. “You can’t keep doing this,” I whisper.
