Page 89 of The Assist
The second I unlock the door to my flat and step out of my heels, my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter like it’s possessed. Sophie. Of course she doesn’t give me a chance to enjoy the post-date bliss Dylan has left me in.
I pick it up, and before I even say hello, her voice blasts through the speaker.
“Tell me everything. And don’t you dare skip the part where he kissed you senseless outside your door like some slow-burn Netflix romance.”
I laugh, collapsing onto the sofa and stretching my sore feet across the cushions. “Hi, Sophie. Lovely to speak to you, too.”
“Don’t deflect, Clarke. Spill.”
I let out a dreamy sigh. “It was perfect. Better than perfect.”
“Iknewhe had it in him. He gives that brooding, ‘I’ll ruin you in bed but also fold your laundry’ energy. Where did he take you?”
I smile. “A rooftop place. Overlooking the river. Very understated, very romantic.”
She groans like I’ve just slapped her with a dozen redroses. “Ugh. I’m living for this. Was there wine? Candlelight? Tiny portions with edible flowers?”
“Check, check, and double check,” I say. “And conversation. Like actual, real stuff. No hockey talk. Just him.”
There’s a pause, like she’s recalibrating. “Wait. You’re not just into him because he’s hot, are you?”
I frown. “What? No! I mean yes, he is, obviously, but it’s not only that. He listens. He makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.”
Another pause. “Mia Clarke. You’re in trouble.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Big, hard, hockey-player-shaped trouble.”
I snort. “You make it sound like a porno.”
“Don’t tempt me. Speaking of which, was there… dessert?” I’m almost certain I hear her snort a little at her innuendo.
I laugh, hard this time. “Nope. Not that kind. He didn’t come in.”
“He didn’t!? Wait, back up. You’ve already had sex, scandalously hot sex, I might add, and now he’s courting you? Like in the old-fashioned sense.”
“Apparently.”
“Okay, no, I need to get to know this man properly. Immediately. He’s either a unicorn or plotting a proposal. Does he have a brother, because you know, I’d be down for double-dating with a hot brother.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Also,” she says slyly, altering the mood slightly, “I’ve been thinking. About that contract of yours. You know, the one with the ‘no fraternising with players’ clause.”
My stomach knots a little. “What about it?” I’ve spent weeks trying not to think aboutthatclause.
“Drag it out. Dust it off. There might be a loophole.”
“Soph,”
“I’m serious! These things are full of vague wording and HR waffle. ‘Fraternising’ could mean anything. Maybe it only applies during working hours or doesn’t coverconsensualrelationships.”
I chew my lip. “You sound like a lawyer.”
“I sound like someone who wants her best friend to have her happily-ever-afterwithoutgetting fired. And I have friend who works in HR, I could also run it by her if you find the actual wording.”
I sigh. “I’ll look. But even if there is a loophole, there’s still how it looks. Gossip. And Coach wouldn’t exactly throw us a party if he found out.”
