Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DYLAN
The door clicks shut behind me, and I move to head towards the locker room to collect my stuff.
My heart is punching at my ribs like I just took another hit. The scent of antiseptic and Mia’s shampoo is still clinging to my skin like the way her fingers did a few minutes ago, careful, and clinical, but charged. So fucking charged.
She was this close. I could’ve kissed her. Should’ve kissed her.
I rake a hand through my hair, as I trying to get my head on straight. It’s useless.
She’s in my head like a song I can’t shut off. Everything about her, from her hands on me, to the fire in her eyes, and the way she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s pretending not to care. It’s doing my head in.
One minute she’s pushing me away with that cool professional front, and the next she’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room who really knows her.
And maybe I am.
Or maybe that’s just the story I want to believe because I’ve made her into something bigger than she really is. Because I don’t know how to want something without needing it.
And I need her. That’s the problem.
Not in the casual way I used to need things. Not in the easy, low-stakes, strip-off-your-clothes kind of way. This is different. It’s like needing oxygen after holding your breath too long.
I drop onto the bench underneath my shirt number, elbows on knees, and head in my hands.
What the fuck am I doing?
I can’t keep doing this with her. Teetering on the edge. One minute I’m inches from her mouth, the next I’m pretending like I haven’t imagined what she’d sound like saying my name in the dark.
This isn’t about lust anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.
There’s something bigger pulling at me. Some part of me that wants to be seen by her. The broken shit, the messy stuff, the parts I keep locked down so tight it’s a miracle I can still breathe.
And I don’t know if I can handle that. I don’t know if she’d still want me if she saw the truth of what I’m carrying around.
The creak of the locker room door startles me.
I glance up, expecting our trainer, Jonno, or worse, Coach, but it’s Murphy. He’s got a six-pack in one hand and a paper bag in the other, like some twisted angel of mercy.
“Tried calling. You ghosting me or just brooding in peace?” he asks, strolling in like he owns the place.
“Both,” I mutter.
He sets the bag down with a dramatic sigh and pops open a beer, tossing one to me without asking. I catch it one-handed, crack it open, and take a long swig. It’s ice-cold, but it’s not enough.
“You were electric tonight,” he says after a beat. “But that hit you took in the second period? Jesus, mate. Thought Mia was going to leap over the barrier.”
My eyes flick up at her name, and of course he doesn’t miss it.
“There it is,” he says, grinning. “That look. The one where you’re trying not to think about her but your brain’s already halfway to a wedding Pinterest board.”
“Fuck off.”
“Not denying it, though.”
I shake my head and lift my beer to drink again.
Murphy drops down beside me, elbows matching mine, both of us hunched over like old men. “So what’s the damage? She treat you then give you the cold shoulder again?”
I blow out a heavy breath. “Worse.”
His eyebrows lift. “Worse than Mia Clarke and her wall of ice? Lay it on me.”
“She touched me, and we were close, so fucking close, and then nothing. She stepped back like she didn’t feel it. But I know she did.”
He nods slowly. “And?”
“And what?”
“And why does it matter so much?” he asks, his voice is a little too calm. “You’ve had women falling over themselves to get near you for years. Why’s this one got your head tied in knots?”
Because it’s not about her falling for me.
It’s about me falling for her.
And that terrifies the shit out of me.
I stare at the floor. “Because she sees past all the shit. The noise. The name on the jersey. She makes me feel like I’m more than just the guy who hits hard and smiles for the cameras. She looks at me like I matter.”
Murphy’s quiet for a beat. Then, he says, “Do you ever think maybe that’s what you’ve always wanted? Someone who sees you?”
I don’t answer. Because I know what he’s really asking. The stuff I don’t say out loud. Like how I’ve spent half my life trying to earn something I’m never gonna get from my old man. His approval. His pride. His goddamn love, if we’re being honest.
How I kept thinking maybe if I played well enough, big enough, maybe if I got just one more goal, one more contract, one more headline, he’d call. But it’s never happened. And it probably never will. And I’m sick of chasing ghosts that don’t want to be caught.
Mia doesn’t ask me to prove anything. She just sees me.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “She’s scared.”
“Of you?”
“Of us. Of what it could mean if we let this happen. She’s got a line, and she’s not ready to cross it.”
Murphy nods, thoughtful. “Then maybe you have to meet her where she’s at. Make her feel safe enough to want to cross it.”
I glance over at him. “Since when did you become an expert on relationships?”
He smirks. “Been watching too many romcoms. You know, for balance.”
We sit in silence for a minute, both drinking, letting it settle.
Eventually, Murphy claps a hand on my shoulder. “You want my advice?”
“Not really.”
“Too bad. You’ve got two choices; keep dancing around her until someone else sees what you see and makes a move, or grow a pair and tell her how you feel. Properly. Not this angsty eye contact and heavy breathing shit.”
I huff a laugh despite myself. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Just don’t be a dick about it. And maybe let her choose you, instead of cornering her into it.”
That hits something soft in my chest.
Let her choose.
The thought of her choosing me, not because I’m famous, or convenient, or persistent, but because she wants me? That kind of wanting? It’d ruin me.
But I’d welcome the wreckage.
Murphy stands and stretches, grabbing another beer. “Right. I’m off to charm that bartender at The Oak. You coming?”
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
“Didn’t think so.” He winks. “Try not to write any sad poetry while I’m gone.”
When he’s disappeared, I sit in the silence for a while.
My mind keeps circling back to her. Her hands.
Her voice. The way her eyes softened when I told her I was fine, and she didn’t believe me.
I want to tell her everything. About my dad.
About the pressure. About how fucking lost I feel most days, even with all the noise around me.
And maybe I will.
Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of acting like she’s just another girl.
She’s not.
She never was.
And sooner or later, something’s got to give.