Page 9 of The Assist
She nods back. “Don’t expect a cuddle next time.”
“No promises.” I leave the room, my shoulder still aching, but something in my chest feels a little less heavy.
And I realise, for the first time in a long while, I actually want to get better.
Not just to play.
But maybe to stay.
CHAPTER FOUR
MIA
Idon’t go soft.
Not for anyone. Not even for Dylan Winters and his haunted eyes and broken-boy charm.
But that conversation yesterday, what he said,howhe said it, it’s been rattling around in my head ever since. Like an echo in a quiet room. I keep replaying it in bits, like I’m afraid I missed something important. Or maybe I’m just trying to convince myself it didn’t get under my skin the way it did.
Because it did. And that pisses me off.
I’ve worked hard,bloody hard,to get to where I am. This job, this space, this authority I’ve carved out in a world full of arrogant men and locker-room ego. I don’t get flustered. I don’t get involved. And I sure as hell don’t get affected by some sulky, self-sabotaging winger with a tattoo for every mistake he’s ever made.
Except he might be more than that. And that’s a problem.
I’m standing in the treatment room at 7:30am sharp, just like I always am. Gloves on, table prepped, rehab schedule pinned to the wall. Controlled. Organised. Professional. The way it’s supposed to be.
But my mind keeps drifting.
I picture him again, sitting on the edge of the table, armsloose, voice low. The way he said,“People think I’m cocky. They think I don’t care.”
He meant it. And the worst part is, he’s probably right.
I’d thought that too, at first. Assumed he was just another loudmouth with a god complex and a rotation of interchangeable blondes. Maybe he is, partly. But there’s more to it. There’s pain under there. Real pain. The kind that doesn’t shout. The kind that waits around in the background.
And now I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it. I rub my temple, irritated. This isnotwhat I’m here for.
“Morning, Clarke.” Murphy walks in, sweat already clinging to his hairline. He’s early, which means something hurts.
“Don’t tell me you pulled something tying your laces,” I mutter, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer.
“Worse. Slept funny. My neck’s proper done in.” Murphy reaches up and rubs his hand along the back of his neck, twisting his head from side to side, as though he’s trying to loosen the knot that’s sitting tight there.
“Jesus, you’re twenty-eight, not eighty.”
“Yeah, well. Got a body like a Greek God and a spine like a pensioner.” He winks, and I throw a towel at his face.
As I work on him, checking alignment, massaging tension out of muscles he didn’t know he had, my brain keeps dragging me back to yesterday. To Dylan. His story. His voice.
I push it down and try to focus on the job. Focus on the part Icancontrol. That was my best friend’s advice when I called to talk it over with her last night. Well, that and to get under him so I could put it to rest and focus on the job in hand. But that’s a Sophie solution, not a Mia solution.
Later, once the morning sessions are done and most of the team are either lifting weights or stuffing their faces with protein bars, I head to my office to log my notes.
It’s not a glamorous space. Half the room stinks of staletape and shoe spray, the chairs creak, and there’s a damp patch on the ceiling that’s been ignored by maintenance for months. But it’s mine. It’s quiet. And right now, I need quiet.
I’m halfway through inputting data when there’s a knock on the open door. I look up, and of course, it’s him.
Dylan leans on the door frame, not quite crossing the threshold. He’s in joggers and a black hoodie, hood down, face clean for once. No sunglasses. No swagger.
