Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DYLAN
The post-game buzz is a familiar hum of low voices, mixed with the hiss of steam from the showers, along with the scrape of skates being unbuckled and tossed aside. But it barely cuts through the noise in my head.
We won. I should feel something. Relief, maybe. The crowd was loud, the boys were fired up, and we ground out a result that took grit and effort. The kind of win we’re proud of.
But it’s all white noise.
I sit at my stall, tape dangling from one hand, half-peeled off my wrist. My fingers are still curled around it like I’ve forgotten what I was doing.
I can feel Jonno watching me from across the room. Mia’s nowhere to be seen, she was talking to one of the rookies when I came off the ice, her hands were on his shoulder, probably checking range of motion or whatever. I didn’t hear what she was saying. Just the sound of her voice.
She hasn’t been mine at all. Not even close.
And that’s the problem.
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging my palm down until it rests on my mouth.
My lips still remember the feel of her skin under them.
That almost-kiss on the massage table. That breathless moment outside the hotel.
The electricity of her hand brushing mine.
It’s like her fingerprints are burned into my fucking bloodstream.
I don’t know how to turn it off. But I also don’t know how to be what she needs.
“You still breathing, Winters?”
Murphy drops down onto the bench beside me, towel slung over his shoulder, hair wet. He bumps my knee with his.
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
“You play like that every time you’re in a bad mood, I’ll start pissing you off on purpose. Jesus. You were brutal tonight.”
I shrug. “Just focused.”
“Yeah, okay,” he scoffs. “Focused. That why you nearly broke that guy’s ribs with that hit? Or because your face went blank when Clarke touched your arm during the second period?”
I look at him, my jaw tight. “You watching that closely?”
“Mate, you’re not exactly subtle.”
I let the silence stretch between us. He waits, because he always does. Murphy doesn’t push. He lets you sit in your own shit until you’re ready to crawl out of it yourself. “I keep thinking about what he’d say,” I say finally. My voice is rougher than I expect.
Murphy tilts his head. “Your dad?”
“Yeah.” I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. “Every time I make a mistake on the ice, I hear it. ‘Sloppy.’ ‘Lazy.’ ‘Could’ve made that shot if you weren’t showing off.’ Like he’s stood behind the bench with his arms crossed, waiting to pick me apart.”
Murphy’s quiet for a second. “He hasn’t seen a game in how long?”
“Ever.”
“Then fuck him, mate.”
I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Wish it was that easy.”
“It’s not,” Murphy says. “But that voice in your head? That’s not him anymore. That’s you. You’re the one keeping it alive.”
I stare at him.
“Look,” he says, nudging me again. “I know you think being angry is how you get better. But it’s not. You’re already the best player out there. Hasn’t got a damn thing to do with him.”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how to explain it; this twisting ache in my chest. The craving for something I’ll never get. Just once, I want to hear him say he’s proud of me without following it up with a ‘but.’
And then there’s Mia. I know what he’d say about her too. That she’s a distraction. That I should be keeping it professional. That no woman is worth losing focus over. But he’s wrong. She’s not a distraction. She’s a fucking lifeline. And I can’t seem to reach for her without screwing it up.
I pull off the last of my tape and toss it into the bin. Murphy watches me for a beat. “You going to talk to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should. Before one of you explodes from sexual frustration.”
“Thanks for the insight, Freud.”
He grins. “Anytime.”
The hotel room feels cold even though the radiator is on. I sit on the edge of the bed in a clean hoodie and joggers. The TV’s on mute. Somehow it makes the room feel a little less empty.
I’ve checked my phone a dozen times and there’s nothing from her, not that I blame her.
I was an arsehole before the game, short with her, snappy when I didn’t need to be.
I saw her pick up on it, that wrinkle of concern between her brows, the way she backed off.
I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t stop.
Because I wanted her too badly. Because I’m my father’s son, and what if I fuck this up like he did?
I run my hands through my hair and groan. This is torture. I should knock on her door. Apologise. Tell her she’s not the problem, I am.
But I don’t move. I just sit there, drowning in it.
There’s a knock at the door around ten. I shoot up too fast, my heart thudding, stupidly hoping. But it’s Murphy, holding two beers and a hotel bag of crisps.
“Sorry, I couldn’t get the key card out. Jesus, you look worse than earlier.” He huffs out.
“Thanks.”
“You gonna sulk the whole night or you gonna drink with me and pretend to be a normal person for an hour?”
I close the door and take the beer. “What’s your idea of normal?”
He drops onto the bed. “Not pacing around like a man about to declare war.”
We sit in silence for a while, the TV still on mute, both of us pretending not to watch it.
“She makes me feel like I can breathe,” I say suddenly.
Murphy turns to look at me. “Mia?”
“Yeah. But at the same time, I feel like I can’t breathe around her either. Like I’m waiting for the moment she realises I’m not worth it.”
“Diesel—”
“It’s not just about her. It’s about everything. Him. The pressure. The whole thing. I never really feel good enough. Even when I’m winning.”
Murphy nods. “Then you gotta figure out if you’re going to keep running from that, or let someone help you deal with it.”
I stare at the beer in my hand. “I want to be that guy,” I admit. “For her. But I don’t know if I know how.”
“You learn. That’s what being with someone is. It’s not about showing up perfect. It’s about showing up.” He picks up the TV remote from his bedside table and starts flicking through the channels silently. Like he hasn’t just set the world to rights.
He finally falls asleep around eleven thirty, and it’s nearly midnight when I finally leave my room. Making my way to the elevator I punch the button for the floor below and watch as the doors slowly slide shut. Minutes later, I’m staring at her door, trying to convince myself this is a good idea.
I finally knock and wait. There’s no answer the first time so I knock again, a little louder this time. I’m about to walk away when I hear the chain slip on the door and it opens a fraction. Just enough for her to see it’s me, and not some knife wielding maniac out to murder us all in our sleep.
The door pushes shut again briefly and then she opens it fully. And she’s standing there in the cutest PJs I’ve ever seen. “Dylan?” Her voice is sleep-laden and I’m struck with a little guilt that I’ve woken her up.
I take a deep breath before I lean in and slip my hand around the back of her neck, and pull her closer.
As she opens her mouth to protest, I bring my lips down on hers.
Silencing her with a kiss. It’s gentle at first but then I feel her relax into me.
Taking that as a green light, I deepen the kiss and bring my other hand in to rest on her hip.
Mia’s hands come to rest on my chest and I feel the burn right through my tee.
Pulling back a little, I look deep into her round, dark eyes. There’s confusion and lust all rolled into one.
“Goodnight, Mia,” I whisper. Then I turn and walk back to my room, knowing I’ll dream about her.
Knowing that whatever comes next, I’m already in too deep to walk away.