The Assist (The Raptors #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DYLAN

The final horn blares, loud and sharp, and the crowd roars like they’ve seen war and we’re the ones crawling out of the rubble. We’ve won. Four-two. Another one for the books.

But I can barely stand.

My right ankle’s throbbing like a bitch, and my shoulder…

don’t even get me started. I took a hard check halfway through the third; the guy came in late and caught me high.

Shoulder popped, then snapped back in. I finished the shift because I’m stubborn like that, but I knew the second I skated back to the bench, I was fucked.

“Diesel!” Murphy yells, catching up to me as I limp off the ice. “You alright, mate?” Murphy and I joined the team around the same time. We’ve had each other’s back ever since.

“Feel like someone ran me over with a Zamboni. Other than that, peachy.”

He laughs, slaps my good shoulder, and I grimace. Bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. My teammates are still hyped, shouting and throwing gloves and sticks, buzzing on adrenaline and victory. Me? I want to sit down and not move for a week.

But of course, our trainer, Jonno, is waiting for me the second I hobble into the tunnel. “You’re not going near the showers,” he says, arms crossed, no room for argument. “Straight to Clarke.”

I groan. “Come on. Can’t I just ice it and pretend I’m fine?”

“You can try,” he says, stepping aside and gesturing like a bloody bouncer. “But you’ll be explaining to Mia why you think you know better than she does. I’ll grab popcorn. This should be interesting.” He smirks.

Fantastic. Exactly how I wanted to end the night; getting lectured by the team’s new physio, who’s got a mouth on her like a sailor and eyes that could strip paint off a wall. Mia Clarke. She’s been here three months and already has half the team terrified of her. Not me, though.

Well. Not terrified.

I limp down the hall toward the physio room, each step jarring my ankle. I’m sweaty, bleeding a bit from my knuckles, and I smell like the locker room after we’ve played a game. She’s going to love this.

The door’s half open. I push it open and lean against the frame, taking the weight off my ankle for a second. The slight reprieve only makes it throb more.

“Got time for a broken man?”

She looks up from her clipboard, one brow already raised.

Her dark hair is tied back in a messy bun, wisps escaping and clinging to her cheeks.

She’s in joggers and a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with The Raptors logo, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

No-nonsense. Clarke always looks like she’s about to wrestle a grizzly bear and win.

“You’re early,” she says flatly. “Didn’t even give me a full hour of peace.”

I step inside, dragging my foot a little more dramatically than necessary. “Missed you.”

“Mm.” She doesn’t look amused. “Which bit’s falling off?”

“Shoulder’s gone dodgy. Ankle’s not right either.”

She waves at the table. “Top off. Sit down.” Mia has her back to me, busying herself with whatever paperwork her clipboard holds.

“Buy me a drink first.” There’s a slight chuckle to my voice, despite the pain that’s currently wracking my body.

She shoots me a look that could curdle milk.

“Fine, fine.” I pull off my shirt with a hiss and drop onto the treatment table. The room’s cold. Or maybe that’s just her. Leaning on my good arm, I push up onto the table and wriggle backwards, so I’m sitting comfortably.

Her eyes scan me clinically, like I’m a project she didn’t ask for. Then her fingers press against my shoulder and I flinch.

“Jesus, Clarke. Your hands are like bloody vices. Give a man a break, for fuck’s sake.”

“Stop squirming.” Mia doesn’t give me a break, not for a second. She continues to try and manipulate my shoulder, moving it from one position to another without remorse for the pain she’s inflicting.

“You’ve got a real gentle touch, don’t you?” I wince as she allows my arm to drop back down to my side.

“I save it for people who don’t flirt like a teenage boy.”

I grin. “You wound me.”

She doesn’t respond. Just keeps working, probing the joint, and testing the range of motion. Her face stays neutral, and focused, but her eyes flick to mine every so often. She’s not unaffected. I can tell. There’s a tension here, something electric, and not just the pain shooting down my arm.

“How bad?” I ask, quieter now. There’s concern etched on her face and I’m afraid she’ll bench me for longer than necessary.

“Rotator cuff’s angry. Maybe a partial tear. Can’t tell for sure until you stop being dramatic and let me finish.”

“Drama’s half the charm.” It’s a cheeky shot but a man’s gotta try.

“You’re a walking PR crisis. That’s your charm.”

I laugh. Or try to. It hurts.

She wraps my shoulder with precision, tight enough to restrict movement, loose enough to let me breathe. Her fingers are fast, and efficient. She’s done this a thousand times, no doubt. Just maybe not on someone like me.

“You’re not going back on the ice until I say so,” she says firmly.

And there it is. I’m benched for the foreseeable. “I figured as much.”

“And you’re not self-diagnosing on X again. That was embarrassing.” Mia fixes me with a stare, almost daring me to challenge her.

“Come on, it was one post.”

With a shake of her head, she responds, “You said you’d ‘rattled your rib meat.’ What the hell even is that?”

“I was concussed. Cut me some slack.”

She rolls her eyes, then grabs my ankle and I wince as she rotates it slowly. “Swelling already. You iced it?”

“Only with sarcasm and alcohol.” I can’t help but wink when she looks at me with disdain.

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming.” I counter.

“Nope.”

“Sexy?”

“Like a wet sock.” She deadpans like a pro.

I grin again, even as she presses into the joint, and I grunt. “You do enjoy hurting me.”

“You think this is bad, try skipping rehab. I’ll make your life hell.”

I watch her work, jaw tight, focused entirely on the job.

She’s not like the others. I’ve had physios wrap me up with smiles and flirty chatter, bat their lashes and ask for tickets for friends and family.

Not Mia. She’s all business. She’s not impressed by goals or fame or the fact that half the city’s got my poster above their bed. That just makes me more determined.

I don’t do attachments. Not real ones. I’m great at the start with all the flirting, touching, and whispering things I don’t mean.

But when it gets real, I’m already out the door.

Call it damage control, or maybe instinct.

Either way, Mia’s the kind of woman you don’t mess with unless you’re serious. And serious isn’t my brand.

She finishes taping my ankle, then stands back. “You’re officially broken,” she says. “Congratulations.”

“Still prettier than Murphy, though.” My ribs hurt when I try to quash the laughter that bubbles in my chest.

“Low bar.”

I look at her, and for a second, the banter drops. She’s got lines of tiredness around her eyes, tension in her shoulders like she’s holding up the world. I wonder how much she’s had to prove to get here. How many Diesel Winters she’s had to push back against.

“Thanks,” I say, softer this time.

She blinks, surprised by the tone. “Don’t get mushy on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She moves to the counter, and scribbles some notes on my chart, ignoring the way I’m watching her. She’s good at pretending she doesn’t notice me. But her ears flush slightly pink when I compliment her. Her jaw tightens when I flirt. She notices, alright. She just doesn’t want to.

I push myself off the table with a hiss, grab my shirt, and start to pull it back on.

“Careful,” she says without looking up. “You tear it worse, and you’ll be out the rest of the season.”

“I’ll behave.”

“Doubt that.”

I walk to the door, slow and limping. Before I leave, I pause. “You ever go out for drinks with the team?”

“No.” Her tone is abrupt and rather cutting.

“Why not?”

She looks up then, steady. “Because I don’t shit where I work.”

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline at the way she rolled that off her tongue. “Language, Clarke.”

“Don’t pretend you’re offended.” With her arms now crossed over her chest, she shakes her head in disbelief but I’m distracted by her tits. They’re now pushed up and resting above her arms, and I can see the swell of them through the thin fabric of her tee.

I smirk. “One drink. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“It never does with you, does it?”

And there it is. Sharp, straight to the gut. I don’t respond. Just hold her gaze for a beat too long, then nod once and step into the hall.

As I walk away, ankle screaming and shoulder stiff, I know I’m already in trouble.

Because she sees straight through me.

And I haven’t decided yet whether that’s terrifying or exactly what I’ve been waiting for.