Page 78 of The Assist
When I was sixteen, I made the mistake of telling my dad I wanted to go pro.
He didn’t laugh. He just said,“You’re good, Dylan. But not good enough.”
I remember the way the words landed. Heavy. Final. Like a door slamming shut on something sacred.
And he hated me for being what he couldn’t.
As far as I know, the only time he’s ever seen me play live was during a televised playoff game three years ago. I remember thinking,maybe this time.Maybe he’ll see what I’ve made of myself. Maybe he’ll be proud.
He texted me after the match. One line.
Could’ve passed the puck more. No wonder you didn’t make top line.
That was it.
I stare into my mug now, half-drunk coffee going cold in my hands, and wonder if Mia’s dad ever made her feel that small. You can hear it in the way she talks about him, the hurt laced in love.
I envy how hard she’s trying to hold on to him.
And I still crave my dad’s approval, I still want him to be proud of me. Part of mewantsto text him. Wants to tell him I’m starting. That the shoulder’s healed. That I’ve had the best two weeks on ice in months. That Mia…
Mia.
She stirs behind me and I turn to find her framed in thehallway, wrapped in one of her oversized jumpers and nothing else, her hair messy from sleep. My stomach flips.
She gives me a small smile. “You made coffee?”
“Figured I’d earn extra points.”
She pads over, takes the mug from my hands and sips without asking. “Points awarded.”
There’s something tentative in her eyes. Like she’s checking to see if I’m still here, not just physically, buthere. With her.
I reach for her waist, draw her in. “You slept?”
She nods into my chest. “A little. You?”
“Barely.”
“Why?”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Because you scare the shit out of me.”
That makes her laugh and its quiet, warm. Mia leans into me like the weight of last night’s vulnerability is still pressing down.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her. “I’m not walking away.”
“I believe you.” Her voice is soft. “I just don’t know how this is ever going to work.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
She tilts her head up. “Even if it means lying to everyone?”
“Only until we don’t have to.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt again. It’s becoming a habit, that move; like I’m an anchor, and she’s not sure how long I’ll stay grounded.
We sit on the sofa after that, the two of us curled up in a tangle of limbs and blankets. We don’t say much as she scrolls through her messages, her face tight again. I know it’s her mum so I don’t ask.
