Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MIA
Idon’t sleep, and it’s not because of the lumpy hotel mattress or the weird humming sound from the mini-fridge. It’s not even Ollie and Jacko shouting through the paper-thin walls at three in the morning over a card game they insisted wasn’t competitive.
It’s Dylan. More specifically, it’s Dylan sitting far too close on the bus last night. The way he mouthed talk to me. The way I wanted him to kiss me.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow. This isn’t sustainable. I’m meant to be his physio, not a hormonal disaster around him. Every look, every touch, every smart remark wrapped in a smile is starting to feel like a test I’m seconds away from failing.
I check my phone but there are no new messages. Of course there isn’t. He’s probably sleeping like a log, oblivious to the emotional hurricane he’s stirring up inside me.
I drag myself out of bed, splash cold water on my face, and tie my hair up into a high ponytail with shaky hands. The hotel breakfast room is on the ground floor, and judging by the echoing voices bouncing up the hallway, half the team is already headed down there.
My stomach is in knots, but I grab my lanyard and head out.
The smell of burnt toast and lukewarm scrambled eggs greets me first. Then, the boy’s loud, sleep-rumpled banter, and they’re already halfway through five different boxes of cereal like it’s some kind of Olympic event.
Murphy spots me and waves me over. “Clarke! Save me from these savages. They’re eating like they’ve never seen a buffet before.”
“You’re not exactly delicate with your Weetabix either,” I mutter, grabbing a coffee.
“True. But I chew with style.”
Danny, from the other side of the table, yells through a mouthful of bacon, “Oi Mia, remind Dylan that eggs aren’t a personality.”
That’s when I feel him.
Before I even turn, I know he’s there, leaning against the breakfast counter, plate in hand, eyes already on me.
He looks annoyingly well-rested. “Morning, Clarke,” he says, that voice already doing dangerous things to my bloodstream.
“Morning,” I say carefully, sipping my coffee like it can protect me.
He walks over, slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world to mess with me.
“Sleep well?” he asks, eyes narrowing like he already knows the answer.
“Sure.”
“Yeah? You look a little tired.” His forehead furrows as he studies my features. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
My jaw tightens. “Thanks for that.”
He smirks and leans in slightly. “I’m just saying, if I kept you up all night I’d want to know.”
I nearly choke on my coffee.
Murphy whistles under his breath. “Jesus, it’s eight-thirty in the morning. Can we keep the foreplay to a minimum until after warm-up?”
I give Dylan a sharp look, but he’s unbothered, biting into his toast like he didn’t just casually light my insides on fire.
I sit at the far end of the table, partly to get away from the intensity of his presence, but mostly to gain some headspace and think. But it’s no use. He’s in my head.
God. Why does he have to be so impossible?
After breakfast, I follow the boys outside to the coach that will take us to the rink. The air’s already bustling with game-day energy. Players are stretching on the pavement, talking strategies, and complaining about the stiffness in their legs.
Dylan catches me as I’m about I step onto the bus. “You alright?” he asks softly. I nod, but my heart’s beating in double time. “Didn’t look like you slept much.”
“Neither did you.” I lie, he looks just as good as he always does.
“True.” He tilts his head. “But I’m not the one running away from it.”
My breath catches. “Running away from what, exactly?”
He steps in closer. Just enough for me to feel the heat coming off his body, the electricity in the small space between us. “You know what.”
I shake my head, forcing a laugh. “You really need to stop flirting with your physio. It’s unprofessional.”
He grins. “You keep telling yourself that.”
I narrow my eyes, but my lips twitch despite myself. “You can’t keep doing this,” I whisper.
He leans in, voice low and steady. “The other night wasn’t a one-off. You feel it too, Clarke. I know you do.”
My mouth opens and then closes. I can’t lie to him. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m something he wants and means to have.
“We’re at work,” I say finally.
“Right now, we’re standing outside a coach in the middle of nowhere.”
“You’re still Dylan Winters. I’m still your physio.”
He gives me that slow, infuriating smile that makes my knees weak. “Yeah, next time, you won’t get away.”
I stare at him, completely unable to speak. Then Murphy pokes his head out the bus door. “Oi, lovebirds. Can we go? Some of us need our ritual pre-game nap.”
Dylan steps back with a wink and boards the bus. I watch him go, my heart still racing. I’m not sure whether to scream, laugh, or kiss him.
Maybe all three.
This rink feels colder than ours. Or maybe that’s the drop in Dylan’s mood.
By the time we’re inside, the flirty ease of the morning has shifted. He’s still going through the motions of taping his stick, tossing banter back at the boys, but there’s a heaviness to it. A disconnect. Like his body’s here, but his mind’s somewhere else.
I catch him sitting on the bench, staring at the ice like it taunts him. I linger near the med kit a few feet away, pretending to sort out muscle spray and resistance bands, but mostly I’m watching him.
His jaw’s clenched. His knuckles are white around the tape roll. And when Ollie cracks a joke loud enough to echo through the changing room, Dylan doesn’t even blink.
Okay. Something’s wrong.
I cross the space between us and crouch next to where he’s sitting. “You alright?” I ask gently.
His eyes flick to me, then away again. “Yeah.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Didn’t realise I needed to.” His tone is clipped. I can see the anguish taking over, the self-doubt creeping back in. It’s all there on show for anyone who’d take the time to look at him.
I lean back on my heels. “You don’t have to be a wall all the time, you know.”
“I’m not.”
“You kind of are.”
His gaze snaps to mine then. That frustration in his eyes is sharp and unguarded but I know it has nothing to do with me, but I’m the one here. The one close enough to see it.
“You want me to say I’m nervous?” he mutters.
“That my shoulder still aches when I shoot from the top of the circle? That I’ve got my dad’s voice in my head telling me I’ll screw this up like he always said I would?
” The words fall out before he can stop them.
And immediately, I see the regret hit his face like a wave. “I didn’t mean—” he starts.
“No, it’s okay,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to take it back.”
He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s angry at himself for letting anything slip. “When he realised I was better than him, he hated it. Pulled away. Said I was getting too cocky. Said I’d crack under pressure one day, and he wouldn’t be there to clean up the mess.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “You’re not him, Dylan.”
“Doesn’t stop him living rent-free in my head every time I lace up.”
I sit down beside him. Close enough for our knees to brush. “You know what I see when you’re on the ice?” I say. “I see someone who makes it look effortless. Who plays like it’s part of him. Like the ice belongs to you.”
He snorts. “That’s just muscle memory.”
“No,” I say firmly. “It’s you. You’re good, Dylan. You’re great. You’ve earned every bit of it.”
He exhales through his nose, like he wants to believe me but doesn’t know how.
I nudge his knee with mine. “Also, if you let that head noise ruin your game, I’ll personally chase your dad down and slap him with a frozen skate.”
That pulls a laugh out of him. A real one. Low and rough and surprised. “Jesus, Clarke.”
“What? I’m small but scrappy.”
He turns his head slowly, looking at me with that unreadable expression again. “I don’t know what this is,” he says softly. “You and me. But I know it’s the only thing that shuts the rest of the noise off.”
My chest tightens. I want to say something. I want to tell him he does that for me, too. That in the middle of all the chaos with my dad, the job, the lines I keep drawing and redrawing, he’s the one thing I want to hold onto.
But the team’s being called to warm up.
He stands, offering me a hand without thinking, and I take it. Just for a second. Just long enough for the heat to surge between us again.
“I’ll see you after,” he says, voice lower now, steadier.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“No promises.”
He smirks again, but this time, it’s tempered by something rawer underneath. A vulnerability I don’t think he shows anyone else. I watch him skate onto the ice, and as the gate shuts behind him, I press my fingers to my lips.
We’re not okay.
But for once, maybe we don’t have to be.