Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MIA
The thud of pucks against boards echoes through the walls of the treatment room, from the steady rhythm of training beyond the door.
A low drone of voices and skate blades carving into the ice hums in the background.
It’s somehow a comforting soundtrack to my Monday morning.
It should feel routine by now. Familiar even.
But there’s an itch under my skin that won’t settle.
I tape down a fresh ice pack, adjusting it on Murphy’s bruised thigh. “You need to stop throwing yourself into the boards like it’s a dating tactic,” I mutter.
He grins through the wince. “Jealousy, Clarke. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Jealous of what? Your limp?” With my eyebrows raised, I give him my best ‘seriously’ look.
The sound of Murphy’s laugh rattles through my room, and it makes me smile.
Murphy’s one of the good guys on the team.
He was the first team member I treated when I joined The Raptors, and I’ve been icing him weekly since.
He loves to tease me but he never oversteps the mark.
“Of my raw animal magnetism. Obviously.”
I roll my eyes, but the banter helps. It lets me pretend everything is fine. Normal even. That the messages from Mum this weekend aren’t still sitting like stones in the pit of my stomach. Involuntarily, my hand goes to rest on my tummy, rubbing at the psychological ache that won’t leave me.
Murphy slides off the table and gives me a mock bow. “My compliments to the miracle worker.” It’s enough to bring my focus back to my job.
I doff my pretend cap in his direction before I warn him, “Don’t make it worse or I’m cutting you off from the good ice packs.”
“Brutal. I love it.” He heads back to the rink, whistling some out-of-tune melody as he goes.
I move to tidy up, tossing used tape into the bin, and wiping down the table, but I let my mind drift for a second. Mum’s latest message replays in my head. “He forgot my name today. Just for a moment. Then he laughed like it was nothing. Said he was just tired.”
My fingers tighten around the roll of bandage in my hand. I haven’t replied yet. Not because I don’t want to, but what can I say to make it better? Nothing. We all know this is the beginning of a slippery slope, yet none of us are willing to verbalise it.
The door clicks behind me. I turn, expecting another player or maybe Jonno, with a list of injuries and players he wants me to work on.
It’s Dylan.
He’s in a navy hoodie with the team logo emblazoned on the chest, and a pair of pale grey joggers, they’re loose and comfortable but no less distracting. There’s always this sharp awareness I feel when he walks into a room, like my senses go on high alert to accommodate the space he takes up.
“You’re not due in here,” I say, trying for professional and firm. My default shield.
He shrugs, a crooked half-grin pulling at his mouth. “Skipped my post-skate stretch. Thought I’d come see you. Strictly medical, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmur, turning back to reorganise the drawer that really doesn’t need reorganising.
He leans against the counter, his arms folded across his too-wide chest. Watching me. I don’t need to be facing him to know his gaze is fixed on my back as I busy myself doing nothing. I can feel it, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. My body is vigilant whenever he’s in my space.
“You didn’t respond to my message. The one from Saturday morning. You okay?”
I pause. My hands still. Of course he brings it up. Of course he notices.
“Fine,” I say too quickly.
“Mia.” He says my name like it matters. Like it means something.
I exhale slowly, not looking at him. “It was just a rough morning. Family stuff.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.” That stops my fake reorganisation of the drawer. I glance up, and our eyes meet. Something shifts. The room feels smaller and somehow warmer.
He crosses the space between us, slowly, like he’s giving me time to tell him not to. But I don’t. I’m too caught up in the way his steely grey eyes are softer now, the way his usual bravado is stripped back to something real.
“If you want to talk about it...” he offers.
I swallow hard. Being close to Dylan does strange things to my brain and I can’t help but spill my worries.
“There’s not much to say. My dad’s not been great recently and he’s getting worse.
He’s more forgetful and distant. Angry even, at Mum and everyone else.
We’re still waiting for a proper diagnosis, but the signs aren’t good. ”
He nods, cautious with his reactions. “That’s heavy.”
I huff out a sarcastic laugh, but it breaks halfway through. “Understatement of the year.” His hand comes up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger for a second longer than they should and I freeze.
So does he.
His thumb grazes my cheek, and my breath catches.
We’re too close; there’s merely inches between us now, and I can feel his breath on my cheek.
The air between us is charged, crackling with something we’ve both been pretending isn’t there.
But it is. It’s always been there, bubbling underneath the surface.
He leans in, slow, and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. My heart is thudding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. I tilt my face upwards, my lips parting slightly, and then right on cue, the door bangs open and we jump apart.
Danny pokes his head in. “Oi, Diesel, Jonno says if you’re not on the bike in sixty seconds, he’s confiscating your protein powder.”
Dylan sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Tell him I’m hydrating.”
Danny smirks. “You look like you’re about to hydrate all over Mia’s face.”
“Get out, Danny,” I snap, my cheeks flaming and my palms sweaty. Seconds later and we’d have been busted. He winks and disappears.
Dylan turns back to me, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “Saved by the bell.” His hands are now safely tucked into the waistband of his joggers.
I clear my throat, heart still racing. “You should go.”
He nods. But before he turns to leave, he pauses. “I meant what I said. You don’t have to go through it alone.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the scent of his cologne and the ghost of almost in his wake.
I press a hand to my chest. Shit. What the hell are we doing?