Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MIA
It’s almost midnight when I see the message.
I should be asleep. I’ve got an early session tomorrow, a pile of paperwork I’ve been ignoring, and a fridge that only contains oat milk and disappointment. But none of that matters when I see his name light up my screen.
Dylan: You were right. I’m scared.
My breath catches in my throat, and I hover over the keyboard, unsure if I should be getting into this with him.
Not because I didn’t expect him to admit it, I’ve seen it in his eyes for weeks now, but because he actually said it. Typed it out and sent it to me. That means something. It has to.
My thumbs hover over the screen, then I write back without overthinking.
Mia: I know.
And then, after a beat.
Mia: You don’t have to be.
There’s silence after that. But it’s a different kind of silence. Not the cold distance he wraps around himself when he doesn’t want to feel; this one’s warmer. Like a held breath. A tether. A step forward possibly.
I place the phone face down on the bedside table, my heart still thudding, and stare at the ceiling.
What am I doing?
This is Dylan Winters. The team’s golden boy.
My patient. Off-limits in a dozen different ways.
Yet every time he walks into that clinic, something inside me shifts.
Gravity tilts subtly in his direction. It’s as though I’ve been balancing too long on a ledge and he’s the only one who sees how tired I am of holding on.
I don’t sleep much, instead I toss and turn most of the night. My mind looping through his voice, his words, the weight in his eyes when he said he didn’t want to screw this up.
Whatever this is.
By the time my alarm shrills, I’m already wide awake and bone-deep tired.
The clinic smells of Tiger Balm when I unlock the doors. It’s still dark outside, the kind of early morning that feels like the world hasn’t woken up yet. It’s peaceful except for the riot going on in my chest.
I bury myself in admin. Inputting rehab notes and scheduling follow-ups. Rechecking Murphy’s knee scans for the third time even though nothing’s changed. I keep my back to the door when I hear someone come in, my heart beating faster than it should.
But it’s only Ollie. His usual chipper self, cheeks pink from the cold, beanie halfway down his face. “Morning, Mia! You’re in early.”
“So are you,” I say, smiling despite myself.
“Yeah, trying to impress the coaches,” he says sheepishly. “You know, show initiative.”
I nod, trying to focus, but part of me is listening for heavier footsteps. The ones I know by heart now. The ones I feel before I even hear them.
But they don’t come.
And for some reason, that makes it worse. Like I’d braced for the fall, but now I’m stuck in the anticipation.
By noon, I’m restless. I’ve worked through three players, two stretching routines, and a full-strength circuit. I should be exhausted, but all I can feel is heat. Frustration. A quiet ache under my ribs I don’t know how to name.
I duck into the storage closet, pretending I need more resistance bands, and press the cool metal shelf against my forehead.
Get it together, Clarke.
I’m a professional. I’ve handled concussions, muscle tears, sprains in places people didn’t even know could sprain. I’ve dealt with egos and tantrums and actual grown men crying. I can handle Dylan Winters.
Except I’m not sure I want to handle him anymore.
I think I just want him.
There’s a difference, and it terrifies me.
He shows up an hour later. Not on the schedule. Not booked in. Just turns up. Like a storm cloud rolling in under a hoodie and an all-too careful smile.
“Mia,” he says, voice low, like we’re the only two people in the room.
We kind of are.
“Didn’t think I’d see you today,” I say, trying to sound casual, but my pulse is already betraying me.
He shrugs. “Didn’t think I’d come. But then I did.”
“So eloquent,” I mutter, turning away to hide my smile.
But I feel him watching me. As he always does. Like he’s not just seeing me, but cataloguing me. Noticing the way I tie my hair. The freckle on my jaw. The crack in my voice when I say his name.
He doesn’t sit on the table or take his shirt off. He leans against the wall like he’s afraid if he gets too close, something will snap. “I meant what I said last night,” he says finally.
I swallow. “I know.”
His brow furrows as if he’s waiting for something more. Some reassurance. Some invitation. But I don’t give it. I can’t. Not when the air between us is thick with whatever-the-hell-this-is.
“I don’t want to screw this up,” he says again, softer this time.
“I know that too.”
He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, slow and deliberate. Every step makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My hands stay still on the bench, but my whole body goes tense with anticipation.
He stops barely a foot away. “I don’t know what this is,” he admits, eyes searching mine. “But it’s not nothing.”
I nod. Because I feel it too. This charged, crackling thing that lives in every glance, every brush of skin, every near-miss.
“But it’s messy,” I whisper. “You’re my patient.”
“And you’re the only person I can talk to without pretending.”
“That doesn’t make it easier, Dylan.”
“No,” he says, eyes dark. “But it makes it real.”
I look at the circles under his eyes, the bruise of sleeplessness in his posture. The way he’s standing like he doesn’t trust the floor beneath him. And my heart twists.
He’s not just scared. He’s tired. And underneath it all, he’s trying. In his own broken, beautiful way, he’s reaching out. For me.
I take a breath and let it out slowly. It’s measured and full of thought.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Sit. Let me check your shoulder.”
He hesitates, surprised. Then nods, pulling off his hoodie.
The T-shirt beneath clings to him, damp at the collar.
He smells like effort and something unnameably him.
I keep my hands steady as I work. Thumb over deltoid, fingers along his scapula.
The muscle’s tighter than yesterday. He hisses through his teeth when I find the knot.
“You’re overcompensating again,” I say, pressing deeper. His recent scan shows his muscle is repairing well but it’s still fragile and I need him to keep that in mind when he skates.
His voice is rough. “Old habits.”
We fall into a rhythm. Touch, tension, release. He breathes in time with my movements, and for a moment, it feels like we’re in sync. Like the world narrows to this room. This moment.
Then I say, “What happens when you’re back on the ice full time?” I cleared him to skate last week but he’s not played a match yet. That’s his goal for the week, to play at the weekend.
He tenses under my hands. “Don’t know yet.”
“You’ll be focused. Pulled in a dozen directions. Media, pressure. Travel. What happens to this then?”
He turns to face me, and the vulnerability in his expression nearly undoes me.
“I don’t want this to be a distraction,” he says. “But I don’t want to let it go either.”
There it is. The choice we keep circling. I could shut it down right now. Draw the line, make it clear. Tell him this can’t happen. But instead, I say, “Then don’t screw it up.”
He blinks. “Is that you giving me a chance?”
With serious eyes, I study him, trying to figure out my next move before I muster up the conviction to speak again. “It’s me being honest.”
He reaches out slowly and carefully tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek, and the contact sends a bolt of heat straight through me. His voice drops. “You make me want to be better.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So, I don’t say anything. I let it sit there between us, feeling raw and terrifyingly real.
By the time he leaves, my hands are shaking. I press them against the counter, watching the door swing shut behind him. This isn’t a crush. It’s not just heat or proximity or shared confessions. It’s something heavier. Something with roots.
And I’m terrified it’s already too late to pull them up.
That night, I sit in my apartment with a mug of peppermint tea gone cold and my phone open in front of me. My mum’s message from last week is still sitting in my inbox, unopened. So is the photo of Dad and the puppy.
I stare at it. Then click.
My dad’s smile is wide. Real. And for a second, I almost don’t recognise him. He looks lighter. Less like the man who forgot every dance competition, every birthday. More like someone who’s trying.
Like Dylan.
I press my fingers to my lips and close my phone.
There’s no perfect moment. No clean start. Just choices. Every day, to try to be better. To let people in.
And maybe it’s time I made one.
I unlock my phone again. My hands are still shaking, but this time, it’s not fear.
It’s hope.