Chapter 22
The chapter opens in the biting cold of the university ice rink.
The familiar sounds—the scrape of blades, the sharp crack of a puck hitting the boards—surrounded Liam.
It’s his first official practice back, a moment he’s dreamed of for months.
But instead of triumph, a hollow ache permeated the air, a silence in his heart that a roaring crowd couldn't fill.
The bright lights felt harsh, and the ice, once his sanctuary, felt like a lonely expanse.
Liam skated through drills with flawless, mechanical precision. His teammates cheered and clapped him on the back, but he felt completely disconnected, his mind replaying his last conversation with Harper. I can’t be your cheerleader, Liam. The words echoed in his head with every stride.
Coach Donnelly clapped him on the shoulder, his voice booming over the rink’s sound system. “Alright, Hayes! Back in the game, huh? Lookin’ good, kid. Like you never left.”
Liam managed a tight smile. “Thanks, Coach.”
"You're a machine out there," chimed in Benji, a defenseman, slapping Liam's helmet. "Seriously, dude, you're gonna be scoring hat tricks before you know it."
Liam offered a short, monosyllabic answer. “Maybe.” His distracted gaze repeatedly drifted towards the empty spectator seats where Harper used to sit. He'd imagined her there, a splash of color in the bleachers, her eyes sparkling with pride, even if she was faking it.
Another teammate, Mark, skated up, grinning. "Hey, we're all going to grab pizza after this. You in? Celebrating the prodigal son's return."
"Can't," Liam mumbled, already pushing away. "Gotta... gotta study."
The lie tasted like ash in his mouth. He didn't have to study. He just couldn't bear the thought of celebrating when the one person he wanted to celebrate with was actively pushing him away.
He completed another lap, the whistle blowing to signal a water break. He gulped down the cool liquid, but it did nothing to quench the burning questions in his mind. Why? What had he done wrong? Had he been so blinded by his own relief that he hadn't seen how much he was hurting her?
He thought back to the parking lot, to the vulnerability of that kiss. Had he misread everything?
He had to talk to her. He needed to fix this.
His entire recovery journey was mentally intertwined with Harper.
The victory of returning to the ice felt meaningless without her to share it with, shifting his goal from personal achievement to a desperate need for reconciliation.
It wasn't about hockey anymore; it was about her.
At home, Harper ignored her mother’s reminders about physical therapy. She stared blankly at the brace on her leg, a familiar anchor to a reality she desperately wanted to escape, feeling the crushing weight of her decision to push Liam away.
“Harper, honey,” her mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “Dr. Reese is expecting you. You don’t want to be late.”
Harper didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the intricate stitching of the brace. Each thread felt like a tiny, mocking reminder of her brokenness.
Her mother, sensing her mood, appeared in the doorway, her expression soft with concern. “Sweetheart, you’ve been making such good progress. Don’t let one bad day derail you.”
Harper finally met her mother's gaze, her eyes filled with a storm of emotions she couldn't contain. She wanted to scream, to shatter the fragile optimism her mother clung to so fiercely. But instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a hollow smile. “I know, Mom. I’ll get ready in a minute.”
But she didn't move. She couldn't. The thought of facing Dr. Reese, of going through the motions of exercises that felt increasingly pointless, was unbearable. Every step forward seemed to be followed by two steps back.
After a tense silence, Harper finally confronted her mother in the living room and declared she was quitting physical therapy for good.
Her mother’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Harper, what are you saying? You can’t just give up now.”
Harper stood, her voice trembling slightly, but her resolve firm. “Yes, I can. And I am.” She walked over to the window, her back to her mother, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But all the progress you’ve made… all the sacrifices we’ve made…” Her mom's voice cracked with emotion.
Harper whirled around, her voice rising in a crescendo of frustration and pain. “Sacrifices? Mom, please don’t make this about you. This is about my life, my body, my pain. And I can’t do it anymore.”
Her mother took a step closer, her eyes pleading. “But you were doing so well! Liam said…” She stopped, realizing her mistake.
Harper’s expression hardened. “Liam? So now you’re getting progress reports from my hockey-playing buddy? That’s just great, Mom.”
“That’s not what I meant, honey. I just… I thought he was good for you. He seemed to bring out a spark in you that I hadn’t seen in a long time.”
“A spark? More like a spotlight on everything I’ve lost.” Harper turned away again, unable to bear the weight of her mother’s gaze. “It’s not working, Mom. I’m not getting better. I’m done.” A tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek.
Her mother reached out, her hand hovering hesitantly in the air before gently resting on Harper’s shoulder. “Harper, you’re not a quitter. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Harper shrugged off her mother’s touch, her voice laced with bitterness. “Maybe I was. But that was before. Before the accident, before the brace, before I realized that my life is never going to be the same again.”
Her mother’s voice softened, filled with a grief that mirrored Harper’s own. “That’s not true, sweetheart. It will be different, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be good. You just need to find a new path, a new dream.”
“A new dream?” Harper laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. “And what exactly is that supposed to be, Mom? Competitive wheelchair ballet? I don’t think so.”
Her mother flinched, but her voice remained gentle. “There are other things you’re good at, Harper. You’re smart, you’re creative…”
“But I’m not a dancer anymore,” Harper interrupted, her voice thick with tears. “And that’s all I ever wanted to be.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken grief. Harper had hit a new low, allowing her insecurity and fear to overwhelm her. By quitting PT, she actively chose to give up, convinced that she was a burden and that recovery was an impossible dream she no longer deserved.
Her mother stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Harper, holding her tight. “Oh, honey,” she whispered, her own tears flowing freely. “I’m so sorry.”
Harper buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, finally allowing herself to break down completely. The sobs racked her body, each one a release of the pain and frustration she had been holding inside for so long.
Alone in the quiet of the locker room, the sounds of his teammates' departing chatter fading away, Liam sat slumped on a bench.
The cold metal pressed against his skin, mirroring the chill in his heart.
He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, the events of the past few days replaying in his mind like a broken record.
He’d been so focused on getting back on the ice, on proving to himself and everyone else that he wasn’t finished, that he’d completely ignored the person who had been his biggest supporter, his fiercest competitor, his… his something more.
He thought of Harper’s face when he’d told her he was cleared to skate, the fleeting flash of happiness quickly replaced by a shadow of pain. He’d seen it, but he’d been too caught up in his own excitement to truly understand it.
He knew he’d messed up. He knew he’d hurt her. And he knew he had to do everything in his power to fix it.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his gallery until he found it: a photo of him and Harper laughing by the lake, their faces flushed with sun and shared amusement.
It was taken after one of their therapy sessions, before everything had fallen apart.
The image was a painful testament to a joy he can't reclaim on his own.
In the picture, Harper's eyes sparkled with genuine happiness, a far cry from the haunted look she'd had in the parking lot.
He closed his eyes, the weight of his hollow victory settling in his chest, knowing he has to fight for more than just a spot on the team. He had to fight for her.