Chapter 62
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
MIA
I’m back in my childhood bedroom, and nothing feels smaller than this bed.
The same worn duvet I once buried myself under during GCSE meltdowns is now wrapped around my legs as I sit, staring at the wall like it might hand me answers.
Mum brought up tea an hour ago. I haven’t touched it.
I feel guilty, she has enough on dealing with Dad and the dementia right now, and I’ve just added to that.
The silence here is thick with memory, soft and safe, but too quiet. Like I’ve stepped out of the fire into the snow. There’s comfort in coming home, but it doesn’t solve anything. It just gives you space to hear your own thoughts louder.
And mine won’t shut up.
I keep replaying the fact I didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t give him a chance to talk me out of it. I couldn’t. If I’d looked him in the eyes, I would’ve stayed.
And I couldn’t afford to stay.
Not when everything I’ve built, my career, my integrity, my sanity, feels like it’s hanging by a thread.
The press storm hasn’t slowed. My phone still vibrates every few minutes, even though I’ve muted most notifications.
Social media is a war zone. The official team statement was released about thirty minutes ago; short, formal, and non-committal.
“We are aware of the situation and conducting an internal review.” Classic PR tap-dancing.
Mike didn’t say much when I asked for time off. Just looked tired, then nodded.
I wanted to scream. This isn’t a holiday. It’s damage control. And I’m the one cleaning up a mess I didn’t make. Well. Not entirely. My chest pulls tight because I did choose this. I chose him, and I still would.
Even now.
A soft knock breaks through my spiral. It’s Ben, my older brother. Former annoying teen menace turned overqualified lawyer and self-appointed protector of the Clarke name. “You decent?” he says, already pushing the door open.
“I’m in my childhood pyjamas, Ben. There is nothing decent about that.”
He smirks and drops onto the bed beside me with his laptop. “Mum says you haven’t eaten.”
“I haven’t vomited either. So that’s progress.”
He nudges my shoulder. “You’ve been home twelve hours and already going feral. Proud of you.”
I manage a weak smile. “Is this where you tell me I’ve ruined the family legacy?”
“Please. I’m still the golden child. You can’t ruin anything.”
I laugh, even if it’s brief. Ben always knew how to push buttons and defuse bombs at the same time. “Actually,” he adds, opening a folder on his phone screen, “I came bearing legal vengeance.”
I blink. “What?”
“Your GM. Mike, was it? He referenced the no-fraternisation clause, right?”
“Yeah. Implied I might’ve breached it. Even though the actual rule is vague and never directly enforced.”
Ben turns the screen toward me. “So, I’ve drafted a formal response. Not aggressive, but assertive. Clarifies the timeline, the lack of direct supervision or conflict of interest, your proactive disclosure, and that there’s no actual breach based on how the clause is written.”
“You drafted that in, what, an hour?”
He shrugs. “You’re my sister. And it pissed me off. They’re punishing you for being human.”
I swallow hard. “Thanks, Ben.”
“You want me to send it?”
“I…” I hesitate. “Let me sit with it. I’m not sure what I want yet.”
He nods like he understands. “Well, it’s ready if you do.”
When he leaves, I sit staring at my phone, at the letter he forwarded for me to read, for a long time.
The legalese is comforting in a way, it’s structured, clean, and solid.
Proof that someone has my back. That I have options.
But it still doesn’t fix the hollow ache under my ribs. It doesn’t make me feel less alone.
It’s nearly nine when I finally open my messages again.
There’s one from Dylan. I hesitate as my finger hovers.
Then I tap and read.
“I know you said not to come after you, so I won’t. Not with cars or flowers or grand speeches.
But I’m here, Mia.
I’m here in every way I know how to be.
I get it now; the pressure. The noise. The way it feels like the walls are closing in and everyone’s waiting for you to mess up.
I used to think I was used to it. That it didn’t touch me.
But watching you get dragged through it?
Watching them twist this thing between us into something ugly? That wrecked me.
Because what we have isn’t ugly.
It’s the only thing in my life that feels real.
I love you.
Not in a flashy, “shout it from the stands” kind of way. I love you in the way I breathe. Quiet, constant, necessary.
You make me better. Not just at hockey. At everything. At being a man I can live with.
And if this is where we fall apart, if this is the line you need to draw, I’ll respect it. I won’t come knocking.
But I’ll still be here.
Still loving you.
Still rooting for you.
Because that’s what you do for people who save you.
D
I don’t cry. I sob. Right into my pillow, shaking and messy, every word of his a balm and a blade. Because this is the Dylan no one sees. The one beneath the swagger and the headlines. This is the man who shows up when it matters, even if he doesn’t know how.
I clutch the phone like it’s him. Like I could will him into the room and throw my arms around him and tell him I love him too. Because I do.
I was just too scared everything was falling apart.
When the tears subside, and my chest feels wrung out like an old cloth, I make the mistake of opening the internet again. I brace for more poison. But what I find isn’t what I expect.
A fan site, one of the big ones, with way too much time and dedication to the team, has posted a thread titled “Let’s Talk About Dylan Winters and Mia Clarke (Without Being Jerks)”.
And for once, the comments aren’t fire and brimstone. They’re kind and supportive. Thoughtful even.
“So what if they’re together? She’s a professional, and he’s clearly serious about her.”
“She’s been with the team for YEARS without a single scandal. People need to chill.”
“You can literally see the change in Dylan this season. The guy has matured. That’s what love does.”
“I’m just saying… if someone looked at me the way Dylan looks at her, I’d risk it all too.”
“If they break her heart we riot.”
There are hundreds of comments. Maybe thousands. And they’re not all perfect. Some still grumble, still question. But the overwhelming tone is shifting. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until now.
Because for the first time in days, I don’t feel like the villain in my own story.
I feel seen and heard. Defended to some extent.
Maybe not by the club. Not yet. But by the people who actually watch.
Who notice the way he softens when he looks at me.
The way I check his shoulder, not just because it’s my job, but because I care.
They see it.
They see us.
And that’s enough for tonight.
I curl into the duvet, Dylan’s message still open on my phone, the fan site still glowing on my laptop, and for the first time since I left, I think we might actually survive this.