He’s already in front of me. “I don’t care.”
“Dylan.”
He kisses me.
Fast. Firm. Desperate. His hands frame my face, hismouth 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 Icando.”
And that’s the problem; I don’t know.
I’m packingup 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 heknowssomething’s wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DYLAN
She looks like someone just unplugged her.
I’m halfway across the room, post-game adrenaline still buzzing through my veins, when I see the shift in her. One second, she’s focused and snapping the lid closed on her kit bag. The next, she’s still. Like the breath’s been yanked out of her.
Mia Clarke doesn’t freeze. Not like that.
I hang back a beat, watching the way she squeezes her phone tighter in her hand, the way her shoulders lift slightly, like she’s bracing for a blow. She slips the phone into her pocket like it’s nothing, but it’s not. I know it’s not.
She doesn’t notice me watching her at first. She’s moving automatically, zipping up bags, and stacking ice packs like her brain is on a five-second delay. She doesn’t look up until I’m standing right in front of her.
“You okay?”
It’s a soft question. A loaded one.
She jumps slightly, her eyes flicking to mine like she forgot I was even here. “Yeah,” she says too quickly. “Just tired.”
That’s a lie.
It sits between us, obvious and sour, but I don’t push her on it. I’ve seen Mia retreat into herself before, seen that littlewall come up. And if I’ve learned anything these past few weeks, it’s that you don’t tear down Mia Clarke’s walls, you wait for her to open the door.
So I keep my voice low. “Come back to mine?”
There’s a flicker in her eyes. She wants to. I can see it. But she hesitates.
“I need to check on a few things,” she says, distracted, glancing toward the door like she’s already halfway out of the building.
I don’t touch her, but I want to. Every nerve in me is lit up like a fuse box. “You want me to follow you home?” I ask.
