Page 73 of The Assist
And I’m terrified of screwing it up, of someone else screwing it up. “Look, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’treally important, but I need you to keep this on the down low. Just for now at least, until I figure out if her job is at risk or if there’s some way around that.” I look at him with hopeful eyes. I’m basically begging.
Murphy takes another long pull of his beer before he sets it back on the table, he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth before he speaks. “Hey, I ain’t about to throw you under the bus. That’s not who I am, you know that,” he leans in a little closer to the table and rests his elbows. “But if I’ve seen it, you can bet your arse Danny has. If he hasn’t, if he’s too stupid to see what’s under his face, then I guarantee it won’t be long before he or one of the others puts two and two together.”
There’s a few minutes silence as we both drain the last of our beer.
“I wont breathe a word but maybe Mia needs to speak to Jonno first, before he finds out through the grapevine.”
Later,when I’m back home, I lie on the sofa, phone in hand, thumb hovering over her name.
I want to call her but I don’t. Instead, I type a message.
Dylan: Let me know when you’re free tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.
I stare at the screen until the dots appear.
Mia: Thanks. I’ll let you know. And thank you for last night. For staying.
My chest tightens. I type and delete three replies before landing on:
Dylan: Anytime.
I set the phone down and lean back, hands behind my head, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with her.
Because I’m in deep now, and I don’t know how to protect her from the fallout when everything else I touch turns to wreckage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MIA
Game days always feel like borrowed time. Like you’re holding your breath until the final buzzer, hoping no one breaks anything, or tears a ligament, or bleeds out on your table or worse still, on the ice.
It’s barely two in the afternoon and already the rink is a pressure cooker. The low thrum of the crowd filters in from above while the team’s down here; half-taped, half-hyped, all full of testosterone and bravado. There’s the usual buzz of team banter, scuffed skates, and the crack of sticks against concrete. The sounds of routine; war paint and warmups. And through it all, I’m meant to be focused, calm and professional.
Which would be easier if I hadn’t had Dylan Winters’ mouth on my neck less than twelve hours ago.
I’ve been jumpy all day. Every tap on my shoulder has me turning like it’s someone catching us. Every time his name’s mentioned, I feel like it’s written across my forehead with a love heart next to it. And the worst part?
I want more.
I keep thinking about the way he looked at me last night; like I wasn’t a quick fix or a complication. I was something heneeded. And even now, I feel the echo of his hands on my skin like static. Warm and electric and absolutely not safe.
I’m at the medical bench, sorting out ice packs and strapping kits, when Murphy breezes past with a smirk and a knowing lift of his eyebrows.
“Morning, Clarke,” he chirps, way too chipper. “Sleep well?”
My eyes snap up. “Don’t you have a puck to shoot at someone’s head?”
“Oh, I do. But the drama backstage is way more interesting.” He throws me a wink. “Diesel’s been gliding round like he’s floating on post-coital bliss.”
“Jesus Christ, Murphy.”
He laughs and disappears into the changing room, leaving me red-cheeked and glaring at the ice wrap in my hands like it personally betrayed me.
Then Dylan appears.
Not the cocky, crowd-pleasing version of him, the quieter one. The version who glances around before walking over, shoulders set tight like he’s bracing for something. There’s a faint smudge of tape residue on his jaw, and sweat at his temple. My pulse flares.
“Hey,” he says, low and rough. Like it’s just for me.
