That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

32. CAL

CAL

Snap, Crackle, Career’s Popped

E mptiness had a new definition now—a vast, aching void carved out by painkillers and the cruel clarity they couldn’t quite dull. I glanced down at my leg, propped up in its bulky boot, a towering symbol of my failure. Back on the rink, when Wade’s hand had clasped mine, a rush of emotion had cracked through the haze of adrenaline and agony. But now, that flicker was long gone, smothered beneath the cold, relentless facts.

I’d known the moment my eyes had fluttered open: it was over.

The phrase “severed Achilles tendon” echoed endlessly in my mind, a grim mantra deepening the pit in my stomach. Somewhere between leaving the rink, arriving at the hospital, and slipping in and out of consciousness, the doctor had sat me down and explained everything. Diagnosis. Surgery. Recovery time. Prognosis. Their words barely penetrated the dull roar in my ears.

Because all I could hear was, Your skating career is over.

I turned my head away from the sight of my leg, wincing as strained neck muscles protested. Apparently, smacking your head on ice could do more than ruin your day—who’d have thought? A mild concussion was the cherry on top of my misery sundae.

“Hey, take it easy, Pretty Boy.”

Wade’s voice spilled over me like a balm, threatening to stir emotions I wasn’t ready to face. My throat tightened, and for a moment, the tears threatened to make a return. But I shoved them down.

“What are you doing here? You need to get back to the bar,” I snapped, my voice sharp, cold. The opioids dulled my feelings, but not enough to blunt my frustration.

Wade didn’t flinch. He just leaned closer, his expression soft, patient, and annoyingly persistent. “Because my boyfriend is here after—”

“Don’t,” I cut him off, glaring at the ceiling. “I know I fucked up. No need to rub it in.”

“Okay,” he said simply, leaning back in the chair. His voice remained steady, calm. “Then I won’t. But you know you won, right? Both divisions.”

I turned my head slightly, my brow furrowing. I won?

“All we have to do,” Wade continued, his tone lifting just slightly, “is get through six to eight weeks of rest, then rehab. You’ll be up again, showing the world your moves.”

A hollow laugh scraped its way out of my throat like sandpaper. “I won’t be ready for the Olympics. That was the goal. It’s over.”

“Darling,” he said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes pinning me in place. “People recover from this all the time. You can too. And if this is what you want, I’ll be here. Every step of the way. Through the asshole drug stage. The asshole pain stage. The asshole career-is-on-hold stage. All of it.”

I scoffed, finally dragging my gaze to him. He looked annoyingly perfect, even sitting in that uncomfortable hospital chair in his staple plaid shirt and worn jeans. His hair was a tousled mess, probably from running his hands through it too many times, and his tired eyes held a stubborn determination that made my chest ache.

“I won’t,” I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “My heart’s not in it.”

The truth hit me as soon as I said it aloud. I loved skating—but not like this. Not the constant grind, the relentless competition, the suffocating pressure.

Because the truth was, the only person I’d ever wanted to see in the crowd, applauding me, cheering for me, was never there.

Every time I scanned the audience, looking for her in the seat she used to occupy, I found nothing. Just years and years of an empty seat—or worse—a stranger’s face.

“Then I’ll still be here while you grieve the life you planned,” Wade said softly, his voice steady and unwavering. “I’ll help you through this recovery. And I’ll be there to support you in whatever endeavor you want to take on next—because God knows, whatever it is, you’ll succeed. You’re Cal Johnson. When you put your mind to something, you make it happen. Even skating on a torn Achilles for weeks until it snaps—and still winning.”

A laugh rasped its way out of me, the sound cracked and thin but real.

“You’re going to regret saddling yourself with me, Wade.”

“Mmm, maybe,” he teased, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “But I’d regret it more not having you in my life.”

My heart stuttered, a sharp kick against my ribs. Wade leaned closer, his presence warm cutting through the haze of pain and meds. His lips brushed mine, soft and tentative, like he was afraid I might shatter under the weight of it.

It was gentle. Reassuring.

And it wrecked me in the best way.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breath warm and steady as it mingled with mine.

“I know you’re going to fight me on this,” he murmured, his voice low and sure. “I know you’re going to doubt my intentions, my integrity, all of it. And that’s okay, Cal Johnson. Because as hard as it is to see you hurting, I’ll prove to you that I’m here. For all of it.”

His words hung in the air, wrapping around me like a lifeline I hadn’t known I needed. I wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t have to, that I wasn’t worth the effort. But the lump in my throat made speaking impossible, so I let the silence speak for me.

For once, I didn’t push him away.