Page 8 of The Assist
“Right. You moonlight as a therapist?”
“I deal with damaged men every day. Comes with the job.”
I tilt my head. “And you’ve put me in that box already?”
She looks at me then. Like she’s trying to see past the version of myself I sell to the world. “You put yourself there, not me,” she says quietly.
I glance away.
She’s not wrong.
We sit in silence for a while after that. She doesn’t rush me out. Doesn’t fill the space with awkward small talk. Just lets it be.
I should leave.
But something keeps me anchored to the table. “My dad played hockey,” I say suddenly.
It comes out before I can decide if I want it to or not. Her head tilts slightly, interest sparked but she doesn’t push. She doesn’t pounce; she just waits.
“He played at university,” I add. “Was good, apparently. Could’ve gone pro, maybe. But he didn’t. Went into financeinstead. Met my mum. Had me. I started playing, and he got all weird about it. Like it was his dream, not mine.”
She watches me without speaking.
“When I was little, he used to shout a lot. Never liked how I did things. Said I was too wild and undisciplined. That I’d never make it unless I played like a ‘thinking man.’ Whatever that means.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her posture softens slightly. Not pity, but something closer to understanding.
“He left when I was fifteen,” I say, shrugging. “Didn’t even say goodbye. Just…gone. Took a job in Dubai. Or maybe New York. Mum never said. Doesn’t really matter.”
Mia says nothing and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want her to fix it. Just want it out of my head for a bit.
I lean back on my elbows, stare at the ceiling. “People think I’m cocky,” I say. “They think I don’t care. That I screw around and smile through everything.”
She doesn’t argue but she doesn’t confirm it either.
“I figured out early that being the loudest in the room was better than being invisible.”
Mia shifts forward. “And is it working?”
I look at her, long and hard. “I don’t know.”
She studies me for a long moment, then stands and walks to the counter, busying herself with something. Or maybe just giving me space. The air feels heavier now. But not in a bad way. I sit up slowly, and test the weight on my ankle. “Feels better.”
“Still not cleared.” She states firmly, but she doesn’t turn around to look at me.
“I know.” I move toward the door, slower than usual. I reach for the handle, then stop. “You ever think about quitting?”
She turns to me. “Quitting what?”
“This job. Dealing with us.”
“Every bloody day.”
That makes me laugh, properly this time. “Then why stay?”
She pauses, then shrugs. “Because someone’s got to keep you idiots from falling apart.”
I nod. Then, in a softer tone I say, “Thanks for today.”
