Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DYLAN
Mia’s still asleep when I wake.
Her arm is flung across my stomach, her face buried in the curve of my shoulder, one leg tangled through mine like she forgot to keep space between us.
I lie still, breathing her in. Vanilla shampoo and faint traces of lavender lotion. It’s stupid how easily I know that now. Like I’ve been memorising her in pieces and didn’t realise until she was wrapped around me like this.
There’s a thin shaft of sunlight slicing across her back, catching in the strands of her hair. I could stay like this all day. Pretend we’re not skating too close to something that could wreck us both.
But the truth settles in like a bruise under the skin.
She’s scared. She’s scared of what’s happening with her dad, scared of whatever this is between us, and scared that it could cost her everything she’s worked for.
And me? I’m scared I’ll screw it up. The way I always do.
Her breathing shifts, deepens. I slip out of bed slowly, careful not to wake her, and pad into the kitchen. I flick the kettle on and lean against the counter, rubbing a hand through my hair.
It’s too quiet in here.
I should be basking in the afterglow. I should be replaying last night with a smirk and a heartbeat too fast. But instead, my chest is tight and there’s a dull ache.
Because the second I felt that crack in her, that tremble in her voice; I’m scared, it hit something in me I didn’t even realise was still raw.
I know what it’s like to be scared of the people who are supposed to love you most.
When I was sixteen, I made the mistake of telling my dad I wanted to go pro.
He didn’t laugh. He just said, “You’re good, Dylan. But not good enough.”
I remember the way the words landed. Heavy. Final. Like a door slamming shut on something sacred.
And he hated me for being what he couldn’t.
As far as I know, the only time he’s ever seen me play live was during a televised playoff game three years ago. I remember thinking, maybe this time. Maybe he’ll see what I’ve made of myself. Maybe he’ll be proud.
He texted me after the match. One line.
Could’ve passed the puck more. No wonder you didn’t make top line.
That was it.
I stare into my mug now, half-drunk coffee going cold in my hands, and wonder if Mia’s dad ever made her feel that small. You can hear it in the way she talks about him, the hurt laced in love.
I envy how hard she’s trying to hold on to him.
And I still crave my dad’s approval, I still want him to be proud of me. Part of me wants to text him. Wants to tell him I’m starting. That the shoulder’s healed. That I’ve had the best two weeks on ice in months. That Mia…
Mia.
She stirs behind me and I turn to find her framed in the hallway, wrapped in one of her oversized jumpers and nothing else, her hair messy from sleep. My stomach flips.
She gives me a small smile. “You made coffee?”
“Figured I’d earn extra points.”
She pads over, takes the mug from my hands and sips without asking. “Points awarded.”
There’s something tentative in her eyes. Like she’s checking to see if I’m still here, not just physically, but here. With her.
I reach for her waist, draw her in. “You slept?”
She nods into my chest. “A little. You?”
“Barely.”
“Why?”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Because you scare the shit out of me.”
That makes her laugh and its quiet, warm. Mia leans into me like the weight of last night’s vulnerability is still pressing down.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her. “I’m not walking away.”
“I believe you.” Her voice is soft. “I just don’t know how this is ever going to work.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
She tilts her head up. “Even if it means lying to everyone?”
“Only until we don’t have to.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt again. It’s becoming a habit, that move; like I’m an anchor, and she’s not sure how long I’ll stay grounded.
We sit on the sofa after that, the two of us curled up in a tangle of limbs and blankets. We don’t say much as she scrolls through her messages, her face tight again. I know it’s her mum so I don’t ask.
I just hold her closer.
When she heads into the shower, I take a second and check my phone. There are two missed calls, one from Murphy, and one from Jonno.
And a message from my mum.
Mum: Saw the game. Looks like your shoulder’s holding up! So proud of you x.
Nothing from Dad. Classic.
I don’t know why I still expect anything else. So, I fire off a safe response instead.
Dylan: When are you gonna let me bring you down for a visit?”
I watch the screen as the bubbles bounce, then stop and start again.
Mum: We’ll figure something out soon x.
My finger hovers over the screen, trying to figure out how I respond to that. But the all too familiar feelings start to overtake me, so I close my screen and slip my phone back into my pocket.
Later, when we’re back at the rink for the afternoon recovery session, I’m quiet. Mia doesn’t push me to talk, but she glances over a few times like she knows I’m somewhere else entirely.
I want to tell her about my dad. About how he only ever reaches out to remind me that I’m not really worth much. About how every time I get close to something good, his voice is still in the back of my head, whispering that I’m going to fuck it all up.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because this thing between us is still fragile. And I don’t want to pour all my damage into her lap like a warning label.
Instead, when she comes to sit on the bench next to me as she watches the team on the ice I say, “After this, come back to mine?”
She blinks. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I need you there.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day.
She’s not been to my place yet, and I’ll be honest, I’ve never taken a girl back there in all the time I’ve been at the club.
Home is my sanctuary, and not somewhere I’ve ever wanted to share with anyone else.
But when she reaches over, and threads her fingers through mine, I feel something settle inside me.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to prove myself to a man who was never going to love me the way I wanted.
But with her I don’t have to prove a thing.