Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
MIA
There’s something about small towns that unsettles me.
The way everyone seems to know everyone. The way they stare a little too long at unfamiliar faces, like they’re trying to figure out where you’ve come from, or what you’re hiding. And maybe I am hiding something.
Not something scandalous or dark exactly, just mine.
Something I don’t talk about. Not to the players.
Not to Jonno. Definitely not to Dylan bloody Winters, no matter how close he’s getting to seeing parts of me I’ve spent years learning how to guard.
I came here because I needed a reset. A clean start.
That and my best friend, Sophie. Somehow, we managed to secure gainful employment in the same town, go figure.
Sophie works at the local children’s hospital in the finance department.
She actually works for the trust but that’s where she’s based now.
So, there’s no redemption arc. No dramatic escape. Just something different. Somewhere far enough from home that people stopped asking me when I was coming back. Somewhere I could be who I am without always being compared to who I used to be.
But no matter how far I go, some parts of me refuse to stay buried.
It starts with a text.
Mum: Are you coming home for your dad’s birthday next weekend? Haven’t heard from you in days. Please don’t ignore this one.
I stare at the message while sitting alone in the staff break room, kettle half-boiled and forgotten. My thumb hovers over the screen as I contemplate ignoring it.
I’ve done it before. But I won’t. Not this time.
Mia: I’ll try. Depends on the schedule.
It’s a lie. The schedule’s clear. But the thought of going back and walking into that house, into that version of myself I worked so hard to outgrow, makes my skin itch.
I tuck the phone away and shove the kettle back on. When I look up, Dylan’s standing in the doorway.
Of course he is.
He’s wearing a black thermal shirt that clings too well to every sharp edge of muscle, and faded grey sweats that should not look as good as they do. His hair wet from a post-rehab shower. And he’s smirking, as usual. But it fades when he sees my face. “You alright?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Liar.”
I shoot him a glare. “Bit rich coming from you.”
He holds his hands up like he’s innocent, but he doesn’t back off. He comes into the room, grabs a protein bar from the stash in the cupboard, and leans against the counter opposite me like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Family drama.”
I pause, halfway through pouring the tea. “Why would you guess that?”
“Because you looked like someone punched you in the ribs after reading that message.”
I snort. “You’re annoyingly observant.”
“It’s a gift.” I sit down with my tea, cradling the mug more for comfort than warmth.
Dylan doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t leave either. “Go on then,” he says. “Give me the tragic backstory.”
“There’s nothing tragic about it.”
“Just messy?”
I sip my tea. “Yeah, messy.”
He doesn’t press, which surprises me. He merely nods and unwraps his protein bar with a crinkle of foil.
“I moved here from London,” I say eventually, my voice low. “Lived there my whole life. Grew up in East Finchley. My family’s still there.”
“What made you leave?”
I shrug. “A lot of things. Needed a change. Got offered the job here and figured, why not?”
He watches me closely, chewing slowly. “You don’t sound like you’re close with them.”
“We’re complicated.” I run my finger along the rim of the mug. “My dad’s a retired lawyer. My mum was a teacher. Both very traditional and proper. They weren’t thrilled when I told them I wanted to work in sport. Thought it was a phase. Something I’d grow out of.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? You?”
I smirk. “I know. Shocking. Apparently, having hands-on access to sweaty athletes wasn’t in the Clarke family’s vision board for their daughter.”
“Sounds like they need to lighten up.”
“They’re not bad people. Just different. My brother’s a solicitor. I was always the odd one out.”
“And now?”
I lean back, exhaling through my nose. “Now I’m the one who doesn’t come home much. The one who always has an excuse.”
Dylan doesn’t respond right away. He finishes the bar, dusts off his hands, and looks at me like he actually gets it. Like he’s been there too. “You ever think about going back?” he asks.
“Sometimes. Then I remember how many times I had to fight to be heard in that house.”
“That’s why you’re so bloody terrifying,” he says, almost affectionately. “You’ve been going twelve rounds your whole life.”
I look at him, caught off-guard by the softness in his voice. “Is that what you think I am? Terrifying?”
He grins. “Absolutely. But in a good way.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Better than invisible.” I don’t know why that lands the way it does. Maybe because I know what it feels like, too, being in a room full of people, and still feeling like no one sees you. Not the real you, anyway.
Dylan sees more than I want him to. And for some reason, I’m letting him.
That afternoon, I sit on the edge of the rink, watching the younger players run drills with the assistant coach.
The air is cold, my breath fogging in front of me.
I like it here, in the quiet corners of the building, when it’s not filled with noise and testosterone and banter. Just stillness and focus.
I think about home. About how different things were.
My dad never shouted. He didn’t need to. One look could cut you down. Everything about him was measured and precise. And everything I did seemed like the opposite of that. I was loud, messy and overly curious. I wanted things he couldn’t understand.
I remember the first time I told him I wanted to study physiotherapy. He barely blinked.
“That’s sports massage, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s actual science, Dad.”
He never came to my graduation. Said he had a court hearing scheduled. I never asked if that was true. I didn’t tell Dylan that. There was no need to spill any more beans.
That night, I stay late in the gym. Running through paperwork. Updating rehab logs. Busywork, mostly. Just to stay moving.
At some point, Dylan comes in again. Says nothing, and limps over to the far bench, straps on an ice pack, and lies back with a soft groan. “You’re pushing too hard,” I say without looking up.
He grunts. “Says the woman who’s still here four hours after her shift.”
“Touche.”
The silence that follows is easy this time. Not awkward. Just quiet and comfortable.
“Hey, Clarke?” Dylan says into the quietness.
“Yeah?”
“You ever wish you’d picked something easier?”
I think about all of it. The arguments, the long days, the pressure to prove myself. The way people look at me like I don’t belong here. As though I’m temporary. The way I have to be five steps ahead, all the time, to keep the room. “Every day,” I say honestly.
“Me too.” I glance over at him, lying on the bench with his eyes closed, ice strapped to his shoulder. Vulnerable, in his own way. But still here. Still trying.
And for some reason, so am I.