Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
MIA
Iwipe down the treatment table after Dylan leaves, a little more forcefully than necessary. Not because I’m angry. Not really.
I’m frustrated.
With him. With the way he smirks like he’s always two steps ahead. With the way he limps out of here, like he’s carrying the weight of the whole team on his back and refuses to let anyone help. With the way he looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle I never agreed to be part of.
I should be used to this by now. I’ve worked in men’s sport long enough to know the pattern. Loud, cocky blokes with more talent than sense. They flirt, they test boundaries, they push to see what you’ll tolerate. You push back harder, and they either back off or double down.
Dylan “Diesel” Winters doubles down.
And he does it with that bloody grin like he’s charming the pants off everyone in the room. Probably is half the time. But not me. Not today. Not ever.
He thinks I’m just another physio who’ll laugh at his jokes, and let him skate by on talent and bravado. He’s wrong. He can’t smile his way out of an injury, and I won’t let him flirt his way out of rehab.
Still.
There’s something underneath the cockiness. A flicker of something in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking. Tiredness, maybe. Or pain he won’t name. He’s not just the club poster boy with his face in magazines and too many tattoos. He’s complicated. Dangerous in a different kind of way.
And worse, he knows it.
I toss the used empty tape roll in the bin and go back to writing my notes in his chart.
Shoulder instability, likely subluxation, with acute pain.
Recommend MRI. Ice, compression, no on-ice activity until cleared.
Ankle sprain, grade two at best. He shouldn’t be walking on it, let alone making jokes about “rattled rib meat.” God help me.
I glance at the clock, and it’s nearly midnight.
The halls are quieter now. Most of the team have either gone home or out drinking somewhere.
I could be, too. I’ve had lots of offers.
“Come out with us, Clarke. Just a few pints. Don’t be boring.
” But I didn’t take this job to be liked.
I took it to be respected. To be taken seriously. That means keeping the lines clear.
Especially with someone like Dylan, because he makes it hard to breathe when he looks at me like that.
I close the file, lock the cabinet, and sit for a moment on the edge of the table, elbows on knees. My hands are still but my thoughts are not.
Dylan Winters is going to be a problem.
A knock on the door makes me jolt upright. For a split second, I wonder if it’s him again, with some cheeky excuse about forgetting his water bottle or needing help with his “rehab exercises.” But it’s not. It’s Jonno, the trainer.
“You still here?” he asks, stepping inside with a bottle of sports drink in his hand.
“Obviously.”
He grins. “You always hang around this late, or are you hoping Diesel comes back with another dislocated ego?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not judging. Just keep your guard up, yeah? He’s a good player. Bit of a mess, though. And not someone I’d recommend spending any time with outside of the job. His reputation precedes him, and for once it’s not fabricated by the press.”
“A bit of a mess? That’s an understatement if ever I heard one.” Jonno doesn’t miss the sarcastic tone in my voice.
“He’s not a bad bloke,” Jonno adds, more thoughtful now. “Just got his walls up. You can’t fix that with tape and ice packs.”
“Good. I’m not planning to.” The only fixing I’ll be doing for or with any member of this team is that of the medical kind. I’m not a psychologist, nor do I intend to nanny any of them.
Jonno nods briefly, accepting my answer, and leaves without pushing it any further. One of the few on this team who actually respects boundaries. Most days, I’m grateful for that.
I pack up my bag, flick off the lights, and head into the corridor. My steps echo off the tiles. I’ve walked this path a hundred times already and it still feels slightly surreal. Premier League team. Big stadium. Big pressure. All eyes are on everything I do, waiting for me to slip up.
So I have to make sure I don’t.
Ever.
Outside, the night air is cold enough to make my fingers sting.
I pull my jacket tighter and walk toward the car park.
My old hatchback sits under a flickering streetlamp, looking painfully out of place next to the players’ sleek black Range Rovers and other souped-up German machines.
I don’t care. I didn’t take this job to impress anyone with my wheels.
As I climb in and start the engine, I catch sight of Dylan’s car parked two spots down. He’s sitting there with his engine and lights off, head bowed slightly like he’s thinking too hard about something.
I should drive away but I don’t.
Instead, I sit there with the heater humming, watching the outline of him in the darkness. Not moving. Maybe he’s icing his shoulder. Maybe he’s hiding. Either way, it’s none of my business.
But still.
I reach for my phone and text him before I can talk myself out of it.
Mia: You shouldn’t be sitting in your car like that. Go home. Ice. Rest.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Dylan: Spying on me, Clarke?
Mia: You’re not that hard to spot.
A pause.
Dylan: Can’t sleep after games. Brain won’t shut off.
Mia: Try reading a book.
Dylan: You offering to come read it to me?
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.
Mia: You’re unbelievable.
Dylan: You like it.
I don’t reply. I throw my phone in the passenger seat, grip the steering wheel a little tighter, and finally pull away.
But the worst part is, I do like it.
Not the cocky texts or the endless flirting. Not really.
It’s the honesty underneath all that, the quiet moment he didn’t mean to show me. The stillness in the car, the weight he never admits to carrying. That’s the part that sticks.
And I hate that I notice.
Because the second I let myself feel something, I lose control of the situation. And I can’t afford that. Not here. Not now.
Not with him.
The next morning, I’m back at the stadium by 8am. Early rehab schedule, mostly voluntary. Dylan is, predictably, not here yet. I expected as much.
The rest of the team filter in; some hungover, some half-asleep. I run through stretches, check on lingering injuries, assign exercises.
Then, at 8:47, he appears.
Hood up, sunglasses on, ankle brace visible under his trackies.
“Look who’s finally decided to turn up,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Morning, sunshine,” he replies, voice gravelly and low. He walks like he didn’t play forty-five minutes on a dodgy leg last night. Stupid, stubborn idiot.
“You’re late.”
“You’re bossy.”
“I’m the one keeping your shoulder in its socket, Winters.”
He smiles, slow and dangerous. “Clarke, if I’d known you liked tying me up, I’d have injured myself weeks ago.”
I don’t rise to it because he feeds off reactions. I just hand him a resistance band and gesture to the mat.
“Ten reps, then we move to wall walks.”
“Slave driver.”
“Whiner.”
He lowers himself with a quiet groan, muttering something about this being “more painful than losing playoffs.” But he does the reps and he doesn’t cheat. But he watches me from the corner of his eye like he’s waiting for me to flinch. I don’t.
Halfway through the routine, he winces and pauses.
“Sharp pain?”
“More like a stab.”
“Stop.”
He obeys without arguing. And that, more than anything, tells me he’s actually worried. I crouch beside him, palpating the shoulder gently. His skin’s warm under my hands, and his muscles twitch beneath the surface.
“Ice again after this. We might need imaging sooner than I first thought.”
He watches me while I check his range of motion, quieter than usual. I pretend not to notice. “You always this calm?” he asks after a moment.
“Only when I’m resisting the urge to kill someone.”
He grins, but it fades quicker this time. “You like working with people like me?”
“People like you?”
“Broken.”
For a second, I’m caught off guard. The way he says it isn’t flirty or cocky or teasing. It’s quiet. Real.
I meet his eyes. “You’re not broken. You’re just not very good at asking for help.”
He holds my gaze a second too long. Then he says quietly, “What if I asked now?”
“Then I’d help, Diesel. Because it’s my job.”
“Right,” he says. And he smiles. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. And for the first time, I wonder how long it’s been since anyone looked at him and didn’t want something in return.