Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
MIA
The crowd is already buzzing when I take my place at rink side.
Friday night games always pull the biggest turnout of local families, and season ticket holders.
Half the city’s teenage girls and uni students are screaming from the stands like it’s a boyband concert instead of a pro hockey match.
The volume is a constant hum of anticipation, underscored by the rumble of skates slicing into ice and the echoing slap of pucks against boards during warmups.
And Dylan Winters, of course, soaking it all in like it’s air and he’s been underwater too long.
It’s his first game back since the injury.
The first time he’s fully suited up, helmet low, jersey clinging to shoulders that held too much tension for too many weeks.
There’s a swagger to him tonight. It’s not subtle or cautious.
He’s in full Diesel-mode. Head high, grin cocky, and hands light on the stick like he was born with it.
He circles past the bench with a wink toward the stands, where a group of girls wave a glittered sign with his number, #19, bedazzled like a disco ball. One even throws a kiss. He catches it theatrically, then presses it to his helmet. The fans lose their minds.
I roll my eyes so hard, it’s a miracle I don’t dislocate something.
“Subtle,” I mutter under my breath as he skates past me and flashes that lopsided grin.
He knows I’m watching. He always does. He skates like he’s performing for me and the crowd at the same time, and damn him, he’s good at it.
I glance down at my clipboard. Notes on mobility, shoulder load tolerance, post-game ice protocol. All of it clinical. All of it meant to keep my mind on the job.
None of it is working. Because no matter how hard I try to pretend otherwise, I’m not looking at the team tonight. I’m looking at Dylan. Every shift, every stride, every shot he takes. I’m tracking it like a second pulse.
“You alright?” Danny jogs past the bench and throws me a quick smirk. “You’re squinting at Winters like you’re trying to read his soul.”
“Or his MRI scan,” I shoot back, keeping my voice even. “Take your water and focus.”
But Danny’s already grinning as he skates off. Bastard knows too much.
The puck drops with a sharp clack and the game kicks off hard and fast. Our boys are quick on the attack, and Dylan’s leading the charge like he’s never been away. It’s reckless. It’s electric. He plays like he’s got something to prove.
Every time he takes a hit, my stomach twists.
Every time he throws himself into the corner for a puck battle, my fingers tighten around my clipboard.
I hate this part. The waiting. The helplessness.
The fine line between watching him shine and waiting for the other skate to drop. And yet, I can’t look away.
He looks strong. Controlled. But loose enough to remind the world why they call him Diesel. Once he’s moving, you don’t stop him; you just pray you’re not in his path.
He sets up two assists in the first period, nearly snipes a goal of his own, and heckles the opposing goalie so relentlessly I see the guy mouth a swear word in return. Dylan skates off with a smirk, tapping his stick to the ice like he won the lottery.
Between periods, I check in with the team. Jacko’s got a bruise forming on his jaw from a high elbow, Murphy needs his knee iced, and Ollie’s face lights up when I hand him a new mouthguard he left in the locker room. “Thanks, Mia,” Ollie says, cheeks flushed. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I smile. “Just keep that face intact, yeah?”
But my eyes drift back to the hallway in time to see Dylan coming off the ice, helmet under his arm, his dark curls damp with sweat. His grin is still in place, but there’s a flush in his cheeks, a light in his eyes I haven’t seen in weeks.
He looks alive.
“Hey, Clarke.” His voice is low, the kind of hoarse you get from yelling plays and laughing mid-sprint. “Miss me?”
“You wish.”
“Come on, admit it. You were watching.”
“You’re literally the only one playing like it’s a one-man show,” I say, arching a brow. “Hard not to notice when you’re trying to win the game and a modelling contract in one night.”
He chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “Just making up for lost time.”
I step closer, eyes flicking to his shoulder. “Any pain?”
“Nope.” He rolls it. “Feels good.”
I study him. His face, the way he stands, the way his weight shifts naturally from ankle to ankle. It’s not bravado. He’s not favouring it. He’s not guarding.
He’s actually okay.
“You sure?” I ask.
His expression softens. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
I give a tight nod, but I don’t move away. Neither does he. The air between us feels charged again. Too many things unsaid. Too many glances lingering too long.
Then the coach barks for them to huddle and the moment breaks. “Back to work,” Dylan says, but he brushes past me close enough that his hand grazes mine; accidental, maybe. But his eyes flick down like he felt it too.
And I feel it. All the way to my bones.
The second period is more brutal. Scrappy. Less flow and more grit. Dylan takes a hard check against the boards and I nearly shout out before I catch myself. He bounces back, jaw tight, but he’s up and moving.
I breathe again.
The crowd gets rowdier with every passing second, and the scoreboard flips back and forth. Tension mounts like a pressure cooker in overdrive. And still, my eyes keep tracking him.
I hate that I care this much. Hate that his shoulder isn’t just a rehab case anymore, it’s him. And I hate that the line I worked so hard to draw between personal and professional has started to blur like water on ink.
He scores with six minutes left in the third. A breakaway. Pure instinct and speed. He dangles the puck past two defenders, drops his shoulder to fake the goalie, and slides it in five-hole like he wrote the play in his sleep.
The whole arena explodes. People are on their feet. The goal horn screaming overhead. Dylan pumps his fist, grinning wide, basking in the chaos. He turns to the bench, slaps gloves with Murphy, and points toward the crowd.
But then, for a second, his eyes find mine and the noise fades. He looks at me like that goal was meant for me. Like I’m the one he wanted to see him at his best.
And I’m frozen.
When the final buzzer sounds, our team is up by two. Dylan’s still grinning like a kid at Christmas as they file off the ice, all backslaps and high-fives.
I’m waiting in the tunnel with the trainer when he peels off his helmet and pushes his hair off his forehead.
“You good?” I ask, voice tight with everything I’m not saying. Desperate to keep myself in check in front of Jonno. I have a job to do and nothing, not even Dylan Winters is going to jeopardise that.
“More than good,” he says. “Did you see that goal?”
“Unfortunately.” I cross my arms. “Your ego’s going to need its own dressing room.”
He laughs, low and bright, eyes shining. Then softly, he says, “Thanks. For everything.”
I swallow. “Just doing my job.”
He leans in slightly. Close enough that my breath catches. “You always say that.”
I should step away but I don’t. Because here’s the thing; I’ve spent weeks watching him fall apart.
I’ve seen the cracks and the quiet and the pieces he hides from everyone else.
And tonight, I saw the fire again. Not just Diesel.
Dylan, and I want more. But I also know where this road leads.
So instead, I give him the only safe answer I can manage. “Go celebrate with the team.”
His jaw ticks once. He knows I’m deflecting again. But he nods. “See you later, Clarke.” And then he’s gone, swallowed by the noise and the boys and the beer-drenched victory already brewing in the locker room.
I stay behind in the quiet. I don’t know what’s worse; that I want him to come back. Or that he might.