Page 91 of The Assist
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I hate this.”
“I know. But we’ll manage. Like we always do.”
After we hang up, I sit in the silence of my flat for a long time. The city hums outside. The night is still warm, the taste of red wine still on my lips. And all I can think is how strange it is, that life can give you something so beautiful and something so terrifying at the same time.
I want Dylan.
I want my job.
I want to be there for my family.
And none of it feels like it fits together.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Dylan.
Dylan: Can’t stop thinking about your face when you saw the terrace. You looked like someone gave you Paris.
I smile despite myself.
Mia: You were dangerously close to setting the bar too high for future dates.
Dylan: That’s the point. Make it impossible to replace me.
Mia: You’re very confident, Winters.
Dylan: Nope. Just very into you.
I clutch the phone to my chest and let out a small, helpless laugh. He’s impossible. Impossible and everything I want. Ona sigh, I push up from the sofa and head to the kitchen and grab my work laptop. I open the contract file on the desktop. It’s dense. Full of legalese and footnotes and dry HR terminology.
But maybe Sophie’s right. Maybe there’s something in here that gives me a chance.
A chance to be with him without hiding.
A chance to love him out loud.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DYLAN
The buzz of game day is like electricity in my blood, impossible to ignore. Morning skate has just finished, and I’m dripping with sweat, stripping off pads in the locker room while the rest of the team argue about pre-game rituals and who’s buying the next round of protein bars.
“Winters,” Jonno calls from across the room, clipboard in hand. “Physio room in ten. You’re tight through your shoulder again.”
“Told you it’s from carrying this bloody team,” I shoot back, smirking.
Murphy snorts from his stall. “It’s from carrying all that pent-up sexual tension, mate.”
I flip him off as I pull on my base layer and grab a towel. But I’m already halfway out the door, because I know Mia’s in there. And I’m not even trying to hide how fast I’m walking.
She’s at the counter prepping equipment, in that fitted black team shirt that somehow looks like sin and salvation all at once.
“Hey,” she says, not looking up.
But I don’t wait. I’m already behind her, arms slidingaround her waist, nose brushing her temple. “You planning to actually treat me today or just ruin me with those legs?”
She hums, amused but unshaken. “You’re very clingy when you’ve had a good skate.”
“I’m clingy when I haven’t had you in two days.”
