Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MIA
Game days always feel like borrowed time. Like you’re holding your breath until the final buzzer, hoping no one breaks anything, or tears a ligament, or bleeds out on your table or worse still, on the ice.
It’s barely two in the afternoon and already the rink is a pressure cooker.
The low thrum of the crowd filters in from above while the team’s down here; half-taped, half-hyped, all full of testosterone and bravado.
There’s the usual buzz of team banter, scuffed skates, and the crack of sticks against concrete.
The sounds of routine; war paint and warmups.
And through it all, I’m meant to be focused, calm and professional.
Which would be easier if I hadn’t had Dylan Winters’ mouth on my neck less than twelve hours ago.
I’ve been jumpy all day. Every tap on my shoulder has me turning like it’s someone catching us. Every time his name’s mentioned, I feel like it’s written across my forehead with a love heart next to it. And the worst part?
I want more.
I keep thinking about the way he looked at me last night; like I wasn’t a quick fix or a complication. I was something he needed. And even now, I feel the echo of his hands on my skin like static. Warm and electric and absolutely not safe.
I’m at the medical bench, sorting out ice packs and strapping kits, when Murphy breezes past with a smirk and a knowing lift of his eyebrows.
“Morning, Clarke,” he chirps, way too chipper. “Sleep well?”
My eyes snap up. “Don’t you have a puck to shoot at someone’s head?”
“Oh, I do. But the drama backstage is way more interesting.” He throws me a wink. “Diesel’s been gliding round like he’s floating on post-coital bliss.”
“Jesus Christ, Murphy.”
He laughs and disappears into the changing room, leaving me red-cheeked and glaring at the ice wrap in my hands like it personally betrayed me.
Then Dylan appears.
Not the cocky, crowd-pleasing version of him, the quieter one. The version who glances around before walking over, shoulders set tight like he’s bracing for something. There’s a faint smudge of tape residue on his jaw, and sweat at his temple. My pulse flares.
“Hey,” he says, low and rough. Like it’s just for me.
“Hi,” I manage, trying very hard to look like I’m not undressing him with my eyes. It’s not easy, by any stretch of the imagination. Not now I know what’s underneath those pads.
He leans his elbows on the table, just close enough that I smell the clean scent of him; shower gel, fabric softener, and whatever it is that makes him him. “You okay?”
I nod, swallowing. “Fine. You?”
His mouth curves slightly. “Tired. Sore. Thinking about last night.” I don’t miss the wink in throws in just for me. Theres a warmness to his dark eyes that he rarely shows at the rink. And I know it’s just for me.
The world narrows. “I can’t think about that right now,” I say quickly, scanning behind him. “Jonno’s already circling like a hawk.” It’s suddenly very warm in here, and a little bit stifling.
He leans in half an inch, his voice warm and wicked. “I’m trying really hard not to grab you, and kiss you senseless.”
My breath catches. “You can’t say stuff like that.” Colour taints my cheeks and I feel it seeping all the way down my chest.
He smirks, he’s all slow-burning heat and confidence. “Then stop looking at me like you want me to say it again.”
I shoot him a look, my heart is hammering against my ribcage, but the grin he gives me is stupidly gorgeous, and I have to fight the tug at my mouth. I swear, this man could charm the pants off a nun in a snowstorm.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
Then the door bangs open and Jonno steps in, clipboard in hand, game face on. Dylan and I spring apart like guilty teenagers.
“Everyone good?” Jonno barks, eyes sweeping over the bench and gear. “Clarke, tape situation sorted?”
“Yep, all set.”
He nods, and doesn’t linger, and I fail to breathe properly until he disappears.
Dylan glances sideways at me, still amused. “Told you we wouldn’t get caught.”
“You’re a menace,” I mutter.
He shrugs, smugly. “You like it.”
And damn him, he’s right.
The game is brutal.
The kind where I keep one foot out of the physio room just in case.
Players slam into boards like car crashes.
The crowd is unrelenting. The other team plays dirty, and Dylan, God help me, plays dirtier.
He’s quick and clever and ruthless, but every time he throws himself into a check, I feel it in my spine.
He plays like he’s got something to prove.
Like he’s on fire, and I can’t help thinking it’s for me. Or maybe because of me.
I try telling myself I’m just doing my job. That if it were Murphy out there throwing his body around like that, I’d feel the same. But that’s a lie and I know it.
This is personal.
When he scores in the second period, he doesn’t even celebrate properly. Just turns and finds me across the boards like I’m the only person in the world.
It shouldn’t mean anything.
But it does.
And it’s not just Murphy who notices. Jonno glances between me and Dylan like he’s connecting dots. One of the assistant coaches gives me a look when I lean a little too close to the edge of the bench.
By the final whistle, my stomach is in knots, but the relief of a four-two win is drowned out by the sheer surge of noise as the crowd roars.
Dylan’s the last one off the ice, sweat-drenched and wild-eyed, his helmet’s off and he’s grinning.
I duck into the physio room to escape the chaos, but he finds me anyway.
This time he doesn’t knock.
He just slips in, closes the door behind him, and stands there like he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing.
I glance at the door. “Someone could…”
He’s already in front of me. “I don’t care.”
“Dylan.”
He kisses me.
Fast. Firm. Desperate. His hands frame my face, his mouth claiming mine like he needs the confirmation that I’m still his, that last night wasn’t some fever dream.
I melt into it. For a second, I let myself forget where we are. What this is, but only for a second. I pull back. “You can’t keep doing this. Not here.”
His eyes search mine. “Then tell me what I can do.”
And that’s the problem; I don’t know.
I’m packing up the medical bag and all my equipment when my phone buzzes.
Mum: Can you call when you get a moment? Dad’s been a bit worse today. Confused again. Might be time we talk about next steps.
My stomach drops.
The background hum of the rink blurs around me. Suddenly the place feels too loud, too cold. My fingers tighten around the phone.
I stare at the message, nausea creeping in. Dad. Not again. I thought maybe he was just having off days, but now… next steps. That’s not nothing. That’s everything.
I pocket my phone, already feeling the crack forming down the middle of me. But I don’t get to fall apart. Not here. Not now.
Not with Dylan watching me from across the room like he knows something’s wrong.