Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DYLAN
The morning sunlight slices through the slats of my blinds, spearing straight into my eyes like it’s got a personal vendetta. I groan, roll over, and bury my face into the pillow. Bad idea. It stinks of sweat and stale beer. I need to change the sheets.
I also need to stop thinking about how Mia’s leg pressed against mine last night and how neither of us moved.
It wasn’t a mistake. I know the difference.
I’ve spent half my life decoding signals from women, the bored glances, the flirty smiles, the one-night-only kind of looks.
But Mia? She’s nothing like that. When she touches me, even just a brush of her fingers, it feels deliberate.
Like she knows exactly how far she’s letting herself go.
Like she’s keeping herself in check, even while something’s unravelling.
And last night?
Last night, I swear I felt it fray.
I drag myself out of bed, run a hand through my hair, and blink at the clock.
10:14. Late for me. The team’s got the day off for post-game recovery, coach’s orders; but my body’s already itching for movement.
Maybe I’ll hit the gym. Maybe I’ll skate laps until my legs scream. Anything to quiet the noise in my head.
I check my phone. No new messages. Not from Mia. Not from my dad either, but that’s no surprise. I don’t even know why I keep checking.
The pub replayed in my head all night; the hum of the crowd, the clatter of pint glasses, Murphy’s god-awful storytelling, and Mia.
Always Mia. Her voice low, just for me. Her eyes not letting me look away.
You were enough tonight. She said it like a fact.
Which is insane. Because I don’t believe it.
I toss my phone on the bed and head for the kitchen, brewing the strongest coffee my machine can manage.
The house’s too quiet. Normally I’d blast music or flip the TV on for background noise, but today I want the silence.
Or maybe I deserve it. To sit in this weird emotional hangover and not run from it for once.
Because something’s shifting between us.
Me and Mia. And I don’t know what to do with that.
She’s not just someone who tapes my shoulder and tells me when to ice.
She’s the person I look for in the crowd now.
The one who sees through all the crap I hide behind; the swagger, the jokes, the showboating.
She knows the version of me most people don’t even realise exists.
And for some stupid reason, she hasn’t run yet.
The mug burns against my palm as I lift it. I lean against the kitchen counter and scroll through last night’s texts again.
Mia: Good game, Winters. Shoulder held up?
Dylan: Held up fine. Probably your expert taping.
I keep staring at the screen like something might magically appear. Something more than just the Yeah. Me too response she sent this morning after I told her I couldn’t stop thinking about last night.
I scroll to our older messages. The ones where she used to be all business. The ones that were about injury reports and rehab updates. There’s a shift somewhere in the thread, a point where things stopped being clinical and started being personal.
I think I know when it changed.
It was after that late night in the physio room.
The one where I let my guard down and she didn’t flinch.
When I told her about the fear, about being broken, and about not coming back the same.
She didn’t tell me I was stupid or weak or dramatic.
She just sat there, calm and steady, and told me I’d heal.
No one’s ever done that to me before. Not even my teammates. Not even my mum. Definitely not my dad.
I finish the coffee and rinse the mug, running cold water over my hands. The ache in my shoulder is faint; dull and deep, like a warning shot, but it’s manageable. Still, I reach for the band and do a few resistance stretches. Old habits and all that. Keep the muscles warm, and the doubt away.
I should message Mia again. Something casual and light. Except nothing about this feels casual anymore. Before I can overthink it, my phone buzzes with a new message. I snatch it up, stupidly hoping it’s her.
It’s not.
It’s Murphy.
Murphy: Brunch? Pub’s doing bottomless. I’ll pretend it’s for the eggs.
Dylan: Can’t. Might hit the rink.
Murphy: Bro, it’s SATURDAY. You just played a full game. Rest your bloody knees and come drink mimosas like a degenerate.
I smirk. But I don’t reply. I’m halfway through grabbing my gym bag when my phone buzzes again.
And this time, it is her.
Mia: Hope you’re not too sore. Let me know if you want to drop by the clinic. I can check the shoulder if anything’s off.
Professional. Neutral. Too neutral. I stare at the message, my thumb hovering. I want to say something that peels that layer back again. Something that gets to her, the version of Mia that teased me at the pub, who didn’t pull away when our legs touched.
Dylan: I’m good. Might skate later. Thanks for the offer though. You okay?
I add the last part before I can talk myself out of it. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Perhaps a sign that I’m not the only one still replaying last night.
The three dots appear, then disappear, then come back.
Mia: Yeah. Just tired. Bit of a weird morning, that’s all.
I frown. Something about that doesn’t sit right. Not with the way she looked at me last night. Not with the way her voice caught when she said “I don’t.” Like she wanted to say more.
I wait a second. Then type.
Dylan: Weird how?
There’s no answer. I stare at the screen for a full minute, then set the phone down like it might explode. Maybe I pushed too far. Or maybe she’s dealing with something else.
I remember what Murphy said once, that Mia always carries the weight of everyone else’s pain, but you’d never know unless you really looked. And now I’m starting to see it. The shadows behind her sarcasm. The way she always has her walls up unless you catch her off-guard.
Like last night.
I sit back on the couch and run a hand down my face.
There’s a voice in my head that I’ve trained myself to ignore, it’s saying don’t get involved. That I’m a mess. That I ruin things. That people don’t stay when the cracks start showing. But that voice sounds a hell of a lot like my dad. And I’m tired of listening to it.
I pull up her message again. Read it five times and then I make a decision.
I’m not going to pretend last night didn’t happen.
I’m not going to play dumb or brush it off.
If she needs space, fine, I’ll give it to her.
But if something’s wrong, I want to know.
I want to be the person she can lean on the way I leaned on her when everything was falling apart.
I tap out another message.
Dylan: If you need to talk, I’m around. No pressure. I meant what I said last night.
I hesitate, then hit send. It’s the most honest thing I’ve texted in a long time. And it feels terrifying. I set the phone down again, but this time I don’t wait for the reply like it’ll fix me. I grab my skates and head for the door. I need the cold. The ice. The rhythm.
But I also need to hold onto the memory of her voice. The way she said I was enough. Like maybe I could believe it, too.
Even if it scares the hell out of me.