Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
MIA
The clinic is quiet this morning. The kind of quiet that lets thoughts creep in where they’re not wanted.
I should be reviewing treatment plans or updating player charts, but instead I’m sitting on the padded bench in the corner, staring at the spine of the rehab manual like it might blink first.
Spoiler alert; it doesn’t.
My phone buzzes again. Another message from Mum.
Another photo of Dad. This time he’s holding the neighbour’s new puppy, and smiling like nothing ever fractured between us.
I don’t open it; I text Sophie instead, to see if she’s free for a drink later.
She’s always the voice of reason, and that’s exactly what I need right now.
Then I get up and busy myself doing things that don’t need doing. Reorganising tape rolls by colour. Refilling the ice packs even though the freezer’s full. Anything to keep my hands moving and my mind still.
But he’s there. Dylan. In the corner of my thoughts. In the silence he left behind yesterday when he walked out of my office, dragging that invisible weight behind him. He looked like he was holding himself together by a thread. And the worst part is, I know that look. I’ve worn it.
The door opens with a creak, and my heart stutters for half a second. But it’s not him. It’s Callie from reception, holding a clipboard and a too-sweet smile. “Morning! Got the massage roster for next week, figured I’d bring it by.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it and trying not to let the disappointment show. It’s ridiculous. It’s been less than twenty-four hours.
She hesitates, giving me that look people do when they want to say something personal but are trying to find the least invasive way in. “You okay, Mia?”
I nod automatically. “Fine. Just a long week.”
Callie doesn’t press, bless her. Just gives me a small smile and leaves me alone with my ghosts.
I glance at the clock. Dylan’s not due in for another hour, but he’s unpredictable lately. Sometimes early, sometimes not at all. Depends on the shoulder and his mood. I should stop thinking about him like this.
He’s a player. A damn good one. And I’m his physio. Which means there are lines I can’t cross. And not to mention the no fraternisation clause in my contract.
Except when he looks at me like I’m the only person in the world who sees past the noise in his head. Except when he talks to me like it costs him something. Like it matters.
I hate that I understand him. I hate that I want to.
I’m in the middle of wiping down the treatment table when I hear his heavy footsteps. They’re confident, even when they shouldn’t be. My pulse kicks up. Idiot.
“Morning, Clarke,” he says.
I don’t turn. “You’re late.”
“Technically, I’m early. Just for tomorrow.”
I glance over my shoulder. Dylan leans in the doorway, hoodie slouched over broad shoulders, eyes still tired from the night before. His smile is lopsided. It’s easy. False.
I toss the cloth in the bin and gesture for him to sit. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Still attached.”
“Don’t get cheeky. I’ll put you on the elliptical for an hour.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Rehab is not supposed to be fun.”
He sits on the table, wincing as he shifts his arm. I take his wrist gently, rotating the joint, testing range. I can feel the tension under his skin, but he doesn’t complain. Not out loud.
“How’s the pain?”
“Manageable.”
“Translation, it’s worse than yesterday, but you don’t want to admit it.”
He huffs a laugh, then goes quiet. I press the heel of my hand gently against his deltoid. “You were out last night.”
“Yeah.” His voice is low now. “Team pub night.”
“You drink much?”
He shrugs. “Enough to forget I’m not on the ice.”
I glance up at him. His jaw is clenched, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. The same distance he disappears into when things get too real.
“You don’t have to lie about it,” I say quietly. “Not here.”
Something flickers across his face briefly, but then it softens.
“I thought it’d help,” he says. “Being around them. Laughing. The banter. You know. Normal shit.”
“And did it?”
He looks at me then. “Not really.”
I nod, not because I have a solution, but because I understand.
That floating feeling. Like your body’s present, but your mind never quite lands.
We move through the stretches in silence after that. It’s professional and efficient. Except every time I touch him, his arm, his shoulder, the line of his collarbone, there’s a current under my skin. An awareness I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
He watches me closely. As though he’s searching for something.
“I meant what I said yesterday,” he murmurs suddenly. “About you.”
My hands still. “What part?”
“That you don’t look at me like I’m full of shit.”
I meet his eyes. “That’s because you’re not.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You ever get tired of holding it all together?”
I blink. “All the time.”
He nods like he already knew the answer. “Then why do you keep doing it?”
“Because someone has to.”
Dylan’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “I think we’re the same.”
I shake my head. “No, Dylan. We’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you still think breaking makes you weaker. I already know it doesn’t.”
He exhales slowly, chest rising and falling like he’s weighing that up.
The air between us goes still. It feels heavy. And something unspoken passes between us, acknowledgement, maybe. Or the edge of something more dangerous.
I step back, breaking the moment.
“Keep doing the shoulder mobility,” I say, voice firmer than I feel. “Twice a day. No skipping.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move. “Mia.”
I freeze. My name sounds different in his voice. Softer.
“I don’t want to screw this up,” he says.
I pretend not to know what he means. “Your recovery?”
He doesn’t correct me. Just lets the lie sit there, polite and unfinished.
When he leaves, he looks back once before the door shuts behind him.
And I stand there alone in the quiet again, heart beating way too fast, wondering if this is still just a job or the start of something else entirely.