Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DYLAN
Iknow I should focus on the cooldown, on keeping Jonno off my back. But every time I zone in, my brain drags me back to Mia. The way she looked at me before Danny burst in; like maybe she was finally going to let herself fall.
And then there’s my dad.
That’s the part that screws me up more than I like to admit. He hasn’t called after the game. Again. Not a text, not a thumbs-up emoji. Nothing.
It messes with my head.
I think about that night when I was fifteen, just before he left, when I got scouted for juniors.
I came home buzzing, still in my gear, and he didn’t even look up from the telly.
Just said, “Hope you don’t choke under the pressure.
” No congratulations. No pride. Just a warning, like success was something dangerous.
And yet, I still want it from him. That nod. That ‘you’re doing alright, son.’ As pathetic as it is, I still crave it.
Jonno always tells us pressure’s good; it makes diamonds. But sometimes, I think it cracks you wide open, especially when you never learned how to hold yourself together in the first place.
This week with Mia, it’s like whiplash. One minute, I want to kiss her senseless, and the next, I’m scared I’ll ruin everything if I try.
And that fear feels a lot like the one I used to get around my dad.
Like no matter what I do, it won’t be right.
Like getting too close will only invite disappointment.
There’s a version of me that knows what to say, what to do; charming, easy-going Diesel. But with Mia? That version doesn’t feel like enough. I want to be real with her. Raw. The kind of man who doesn’t have to earn affection like its performance-based.
But that’s not how I was built. I learned early that vulnerability didn’t get you jack shit.
And yet, here I am, aching for a second chance at that almost-kiss, wondering if Mia sees something in me worth staying for. Wondering if I can even be that guy.
Because what happens when she sees the mess behind the mask? Will she stay, or will she do what my dad did, pull away when it gets too real?
The gym’s half-empty now, only the usual few hardcore team members around. Jacko’s on the bench press, grunting through his last rep like it personally insulted him, and Ollie’s messing with a resistance band like it’s some exotic puzzle.
I should be stretching. Or at least pretending to do something productive. But I’m standing here, leaning against the mirrored wall, watching my own reflection and wondering when the hell I started looking so tired.
Everything feels like it’s hanging by a thread.
I want to skate like I did ten years ago; reckless, fast, invincible. I want my dad to call and say he’s proud of me, not proud of my stats or my pay check, but of me. I want Mia to look at me like she did in that treatment room and not pull away.
But wanting isn’t the same as having. And every time I get close, something cracks.
“Diesel,” Jonno barks from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “You done brooding or do I need to get Murphy to come slap you out of it?”
I force a grin. “Tempting offer.”
He walks over, gives me the once-over like he’s recalibrating his internal injury radar. “I’m serious. You’re pushing too hard.”
“Gotta stay sharp,” I shrug, picking up a kettlebell, mostly for show.
Jonno raises an eyebrow. “You don’t stay sharp by burning yourself out. You think I don’t see it? You’re compensating. Overtraining. Trying to prove something.”
I keep my eyes on the floor, jaw tight. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”
He folds his arms, clearly not buying it. “The job is playing smart. Knowing when to push and when to pull back. You want a few more years in this game or you wanna be done before you’re thirty?”
I say nothing. Because he’s right. And I hate it.
“I’ve seen it before,” he continues, quieter now. “Guys chasing ghosts. Carrying pressure like it’s a badge of honour. But it breaks them. You keep pushing like this, Dylan, and it’s not just your body that’s gonna go.”
I’m not chasing ghosts. I’m trying to outrun them.
Jonno claps me on the shoulder, firm but not unkind. “Take the afternoon off. Go clear your head.”
I nod, even though it feels like failure. Like permission to fall behind.
He walks off, scribbling something onto his clipboard, probably a note about my stubborn ass. I rack the weight, muscles buzzing with unshed tension, and grab my phone instead.
There’s a message from Mum. A photo.
She’s holding a mug of tea, her eyes creased in a tired smile. In the background, our old living room looks exactly the same, ugly floral couch, knitted blankets, the painting I did in Year Four still hanging like it’s worth something.
Mum: I rewatched the game again last night. You looked like you were flying out there. Wish I could’ve been there in person.”
Something about that hits harder than I expect. I type and delete a few replies before settling on something simple.
Dylan: You should let me fly you down for a game. I’ll get you decent seats, promise.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Then her reply comes in.
Mum: That’s sweet, love. But you’ve got enough on your plate without babysitting your mother.
I stare at the screen, teeth grinding together.
She doesn’t say it outright, but I can feel it between the lines. She doesn’t want to burden me.
But I need to see her.
I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to the treatment room.
Not for rehab.
Because all this pressure, all this need to be perfect, to be loved, to be enough, it feels like it only quiets when I’m near her. When she’s looking at me like I’m not just the guy with the slapshot or the swagger, but something more.
I peek through the window before I knock.
She’s alone again, sorting supplies like she always does when her brain’s running at full tilt.
There’s this crease between her brows, and I want to smooth it away with my thumb.
I want to lean in and kiss her like I almost did earlier. Like I’ve wanted to for weeks.
I knock, and she looks up. There’s a pause, then that guarded, professional expression slips into place like a mask. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen her face soften. Already felt the pull.
“Thought you were under orders to do your cooldown session,” she says, voice cool but not cold.
I lean against the doorway, trying not to look like I’m seconds away from unravelling. “Jonno kicked me out,” I say. “Apparently pushing myself into early retirement isn’t ideal.”
She gives me a look that says, No shit.
“I just…” I run a hand through my hair, words failing me for a beat. “I wanted to see you.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You don’t have to check up on me.”
“I know,” I say. “But I wanted to.”
Silence stretches between us like a live wire.
Finally, she speaks, softer now. “You ever feel like you’re trying so hard to hold everything together, you don’t even notice when you start falling apart?”
I laugh. It’s not a happy sound. “Every damn day.”
She looks at me then, and I see something in her expression shift. Like maybe she sees it too. The cracks. The boy beneath the man. The one who just wanted his dad to say, you did good, kid.
I take a step toward her. Then another.
And she doesn’t back away.
“We almost kissed,” I say, voice low. “Earlier.”
Her breath catches. “Yeah,” she whispers. “We did.”
I reach out, slowly, giving her time to stop me. My fingers brush her wrist, light and tentative.
“I wanted to. Still do.”
She doesn’t move. But her eyes are on my mouth. And that’s all the permission I need. I lean in, heart pounding, just a breath away, and she whispers, “Dylan, wait.”
I stop, forehead resting against hers.
“We can’t,” she says, eyes closing. “Not yet.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay.” But I don’t step back. Not yet. Because whatever this is between us, it’s real. It’s the first thing that’s felt solid in weeks. And even if we’re not ready to cross that line, I’m not letting go of the rope.
Not now.
Not when everything else feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.