Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MIA
Game days always carry a charge.
Even before I get to the rink, there’s a buzz in my chest, a hum beneath my skin. It’s partly adrenaline, and partly professional alertness. And part Dylan Winters.
The arena is already loud when I step inside. The chill hits immediately, curling under the hem of my coat and sinking into my bones. I like it though. It sharpens me. Keeps me focused on the task in hand.
I head straight for the treatment room, where everything is already prepped; ice packs stacked, compression wraps ready, the ultrasound machine humming softly in the corner. Everything in its place. Unlike my brain.
I check my phone and there’s a message.
Sophie: At the gate. My name better be on that list or I’m climbing the boards.
I grin.
Mia: You’re covered. Row A, right next to the bench. Try not to heckle the players.
Sophie: No promises. If one of them falls in my lap, I’m keeping him.
Typical Sophie. She’s barely five foot two, with a voice like a foghorn and a wardrobe made up entirely of chaotic prints and questionable jumpers.
But she’s loyal, ferociously. The only person I’ve told everything about Dad.
About Dylan. About all the murky in-betweens I don’t know how to sort out.
I finish checking over Ollie’s knee, he tweaked it again in practice, overextending like he’s got something to prove, and then I slip out to find Sophie.
She’s perched exactly where I told her to be, front row, her phone already out to document the experience like she’s courtside at Wimbledon.
“Oh my God,” she says as I approach, eyes wide. “This is so much colder than I thought it would be. I’m wearing four layers and I still think my soul’s shivering.”
“That’s the point. It keeps the players cool.”
“And the physiotherapists frigid?” she smirks, jabbing me with an elbow. “How close is your emotionally stunted hockey prince going to be?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”
Too late.
She grins. “You said I could meet him. I brought my best mascara for this.”
“Sophie,”
“Relax. I’ll be good. Mostly. Swear on my novelty socks.”
Before I can respond, the arena lights shift. The team is announced and the crowd roars. And then he’s there.
Dylan.
Helmet off, hair a little wet, jaw set in that locked, determined way that does something unforgivable to my insides. He skates out like he owns the rink. Like he’s built from ice and iron and that impossible confidence that dares you to look away.
Sophie whistles low. “Well. Damn.”
I shoot her a glare.
“What?” she says, raising both hands. “I’m just appreciating the view. He looks like a Viking on skates.”
Dylan catches my eye as he glides toward the bench. His gaze flicks to Sophie, then back to me. He offers a small nod, barely more than a twitch, but I feel it. A spark in my chest. Recognition. A quiet question neither of us has the guts to ask out loud.
He settles into his spot, all composed edges and restless energy. And I’m frozen. Because for all the times I’ve told myself this is a bad idea, that I can’t cross that line… it’s getting harder to believe.
The puck drops and the game begins.
For a while, I lose myself in the flow, watching the movement, tracking the plays, keeping an eye on any stumbles, hits, or awkward landings. It’s easy to forget everything else when it’s just bodies moving across the ice and the occasional shout from the bench.
But then the hit happens.
Dylan’s got the puck, cutting through defenders like they’re cones in a drill. He’s fast, too fast, and then crack.
A brutal shoulder check slams into him from the side. His body twists mid-air before he hits the boards. The sound is sickening. My heart lodges somewhere in my throat.
I’m on my feet before I realise it.
He stays down for a second too long.
“Jesus,” Sophie mutters beside me. “Is he…?”
“He’s fine,” I say automatically, already moving toward the bench, toward the gate. But my stomach churns, bile rising.
He’s up. Skating off like it’s nothing. But I see it; the stiff movement, the slight favouring of his left side. Not the shoulder again. Not now.
“Winters!” I call as he slides onto the bench. He hears me, glancing back with that same cocky half-smile, like don’t worry, Clarke, I bounce, but it’s hollower than usual.
I beckon him over. He leans forward, resting his stick against the wall.
“You alright?”
“Peachy,” he says, but there’s a tightness in his jaw.
“Don’t lie to me.”
He doesn’t. Not right away, anyway. His eyes flick to Sophie, who’s now staring openly. “That your friend?”
I nod. “Try not to charm her. She bites.”
“Looks like she could bench press me.”
“She teaches a spin class and is currently assessing your glutes.”
He snorts. “Great.”
Sophie waves from behind the plexiglass, mouthing something that looks suspiciously like He’s hot.
I clear my throat, stepping into his space to check his shoulder. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away. My hands move over familiar territory; muscle, tendon, joint. The tension beneath his skin feels electric.
“You need to come see me after the game.”
He nods once. “You gonna kiss it better?”
My eyes snap to his, but he’s already turning back to the ice.
The rest of the game blurs. I watch, but I don’t see. My focus is narrowed to one thing, one person, and the irrational need to keep him in one piece.
When the final whistle blows, I exhale, blowing out the tension I’ve been holding for hours.
The team filters off the ice, adrenaline still running high. Sophie’s on her feet, clapping enthusiastically.
“Okay, I get it,” she says as I join her. “He’s all broody and bleeding charisma. But also, maybe fix him first, and then climb him like a jungle gym?”
“Sophie.”
“What? I’m just saying, there’s tension. Anyone with eyes could see it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Dylan appears, sweaty and flushed, helmet in one hand.
“This her?” he asks, nodding toward Sophie.
“Guilty,” she beams, offering her hand. “You’re shorter than I expected. But in a strong, capable kind of way.”
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “Uh. Thanks?”
Sophie shrugs. “Just keeping it honest. Mia’s a fan, but don’t get cocky.”
He glances at me, amused. “She always like this?”
“Worse, usually.”
“I like her.”
“Obviously,” Sophie says, already pulling out her phone. “Smile for the ‘we survived game night’ selfie.”
I groan as she snaps the picture.
But later, when Dylan disappears back toward the locker room, and Sophie wraps an arm around me, the smile fades from her face.
“You looked terrified when he went down.” The concern in her voice is evident.
“I wasn’t.” It’s a blatant lie. I’ve never been more scared in my life.
“You were,” she says gently. “You care about him.”
I stare at the ice, now empty and slick with streaks of colour. The team logo now projected onto the wet surface. “I can’t do this. Not with him. It’s messy. Complicated.”
“It’s life,” she says. “It’s always messy. But you’re allowed to want things, Mia. You’re allowed to have something good.”
I press my lips together, emotions threatening to spill over.
“I don’t know if I can survive wanting him.”
Sophie squeezes my hand. “You already are doing.”
The low whirr of the fridge hums in the corner of the treatment room, and the air still emits antiseptic and muscle rub. I’ve laid out everything I need, but I keep double-checking anyway. I don’t want to admit I’m stalling.
The door swings open, and Dylan steps inside, hair still damp from the post-game shower, T-shirt stretched over shoulders that should come with a warning label. His gaze sweeps the room before landing on me, and something in his expression softens.
“You came,” I say, trying for professional. It comes out breathier than I’d like.
He closes the door behind him with a casual flick of his wrist. “You said to.”
I gesture toward the table. “Shirt off. Sit up.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s how you ask?”
“Do you want the treatment or not?”
His lips twitch. “Bossy.”
I don’t dignify it with a reply, just turn my attention to prepping the ultrasound gel.
When I glance back, he’s shirtless and perched on the edge of the table, shoulder angled toward me. There’s a blooming bruise already forming, it’s angry and dark.
I step between his knees and focus on the joint, hands gliding over warm skin, checking for inflammation, tension, signs of deeper damage. He smells of that subtle, clean cologne he always wears. The one that lingers long after he’s gone.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” I murmur, keeping my tone even. “You need to stop playing like you’ve got something to prove.”
“I do have something to prove.”
“To who?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Everyone.”
My fingers still for a second, then move again. “You scared me tonight,” I admit, softer than I mean to.
He looks up at that, eyes searching mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His hand comes up, brushing against my hip, it’s the lightest touch. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
His thumb hooks into the pocket of my joggers, barely. “You were watching me.”
“I always watch the game.”
“You don’t look like that when anyone else gets hit.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
“You’re distracting me. Sit still.”
But I don’t move away. I stay between his legs, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him.
“You looked good out there,” I say, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“I always look good.”
Cocky, as ever. But when I glance up, there’s something softer in his eyes. Less bravado and more want. “I didn’t think you’d come in,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because we keep doing this; getting close, then pulling back.”
“I’m not pulling back now.”
I swallow hard. He leans in, slowly, testing the space between us. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. But just before our mouths meet, I turn my face slightly, so his lips brush my cheek instead of my mouth.
He pulls back a fraction, and his eyes search mine. “Why?”
Because it’s too much. Because it’s him. Because I’m scared. “I can’t,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
He nods slowly, and for once, he doesn’t push. He just slides off the table, still too close, still too tempting.
“Next time,” he says quietly, grabbing his shirt. “You won’t stop me.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left with a heart pounding like I’ve just run sprints across the ice. I press a hand to my chest, cheeks flushed, breath uneven.
Next time.
God help me.