Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DYLAN
The bus smells like stale protein bars and half-washed gear.
Murphy is sprawled across two seats near the back, headphones in, mouthing the words to some throwback rap song he definitely doesn’t know all the lyrics to.
Ollie’s trying to start a poker game no one wants to play.
And Danny’s already asleep, mouth open like he’s auditioning for dental school.
And I’m stuck halfway down the aisle, one headphone in, tapping a restless rhythm against the seat with my thumb, pretending I don’t keep glancing down the aisle every few minutes.
Mia’s sitting near the front, beside Jonno. Her laptop’s open on her knees, but she hasn’t typed anything in a while. Every so often, she tucks her hair behind her ear or shifts like she can feel me looking.
That’s because I am watching her like a fucking idiot.
I haven’t stopped thinking about her since that post-game treatment session where things almost crossed the line again. It’s like something cracked open and now I can’t put it back. I can’t pretend she’s just the physio or part of the staff or just anything.
She’s Mia. And she’s everywhere in my head. And I have no idea what the hell to do about it.
I stretch my legs into the aisle, shifting to get a better angle of her face. She catches me looking this time, and lifts one brow like she’s daring me to come over. But then she goes back to her screen without a word.
So yeah. She’s still trying to pretend nothing happened.
Murphy pops one earbud out. “You gonna make heart eyes at Clarke all the way to the venue, or you wanna join us for a game of ‘Who Farted’?”
“Classy,” I mutter.
He grins. “C’mon, mate. You look like someone kicked your dog.”
I ignore him, but he shifts forward and lowers his voice. “You talked to her since the other night?”
“No.” I mutter.
“Why not?” he asks incredulously.
“Because I don’t know what to say.”
Murphy shrugs like it’s simple. “You like her, she clearly likes you. You’re both dancing around it like it’s a bomb.”
“It is a bomb.”
“Only if you’re planning to self-destruct.”
I shake my head, looking out the window. Trees blur past, intermingled with the occasional service station or field. I don’t even care where we’re going. The game feels like background noise now. Like static under the bigger thing happening within me.
“Mate,” Murphy says again, quieter this time. “What are you so scared of?”
That’s the thing. I don’t even know if it’s fear or something worse.
I’ve had plenty of girls before, they literally throw themselves at me since I turned pro. But none of them ever made me feel like this. Like if I screw it up, I’m not just losing a hook-up, I’m losing something important. Something that matters.
And I don’t do well with things that matter.
I don’t trust myself not to mess them up.
Because somewhere in my head, there’s still a version of my dad telling me I’ll never be more than a show pony.
That I peaked at seventeen, or I think I’m better than I am.
Every time I get close to someone that voice shows up.
I lean back in my seat, and let my head hit the window. I don’t know how to shut the voice down.
We stop at a motorway service station an hour later, and everyone piles off to stretch their legs and grab snacks. Mia heads toward the coffee kiosk with Jonno, and I hang back, lingering by the vending machines, letting Murphy do the talking.
Then, like it’s fate or dumb luck, or maybe just me finally pulling my head out of my ass, I catch her alone by the bottled drinks fridge. “You’re gonna need more caffeine if you’re stuck with us all weekend.”
She doesn’t turn her head. “I’m trying to cut down.”
“You said that last week.”
“This time I mean it.”
I let a beat pass. “Mia.”
She finally looks at me, and it’s not cold. Just guarded.
“I know things have been weird. And I’ve been giving you space, but…”
“Is that what you’re calling it now?” she cuts in. “Space?”
I exhale. “I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re not. It’s me. I’m making things harder for myself.”
I blink. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “No. But it’s honest.”
That thread of tension’s still there, pulled tight between us. I want to grab it and reel her in. I want to say screw the consequences. But I know I can’t, not like this.
“We’ve got hours on that bus,” I say, softer now. “You gonna keep pretending I don’t exist?”
She picks up a bottle of water and finally looks at me with something that’s not irritation or confusion.
“We’ll see,” she murmurs before she walks away.
As we pile back on the bus, I end up across the aisle from her this time. Jonno’s taken a seat at the back to talk with Jacko about shoulder strapping, and Mia’s got her legs curled under her, earbuds in, and a notebook open in her lap.
I try not to stare. Really, I do. But when she glances up and meets my eyes again, I mouth, Talk to me. She gives me the tiniest shake of her head, and goes back to making notes, essentially ignoring me for the rest of the journey.
It’s well past dark when we pull into the hotel car park.
The place is nothing fancy, two-star at best, but it’s clean and close to the rink, and everyone’s too tired to complain.
Jonno heads to the reception desk to get us all checked in and rooms assigned.
Murphy and I end up being paired together as usual.
Not that I’m complaining but just once, I’d like a room on my own.
Mia’s at the front desk when I pass her. She doesn’t look at me, but her fingers drum against the counter, restlessly. I linger for half a second longer than I should, but she doesn’t say anything.
But when she turns to leave, she hesitates long enough for me to know she’s thinking about it too. Thinking about me. Thinking about us.
Later that night, Murphy’s passed out with one leg off the bed and his phone still playing YouTube videos.
I’m lying awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Mia’s awake too.
Wondering if she’s alone in her room on the floor below ours, thinking about the way I almost kissed her.
The way I still want to. I want to tell her I get it. I want to tell her that I’m scared too.
But I also want to tell her that she’s the only thing that makes me feel steady lately. That when she looks at me like I’m not a mess of expectations and injuries, I feel like I could be more than what my dad said I’d be.
I pull out my phone, stare at her name in my messages. I don’t type anything, just stare. Because if I say the wrong thing, I might lose whatever fragile thing this is. And right now, I’d rather stay restless and full of unsaid words than risk breaking it.