43. Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Three
AVA
I wake to the sounds of Miss Taylor’s calm voice drifting up from downstairs, punctuated by the boys’ excited chatter.
Sitting up slowly, I press a hand to my stomach. It’s tight and unsettled, like something’s coiled there. I swallow against the rising nausea. It’s not enough to send me running to the bathroom, but it sits there, uneasy.
I keep replaying last night in my head. The crack of Jackson hitting the boards, the way he didn’t get up right away, the wrap on his shoulder when I finally saw him again.
Quickly changing, I head downstairs and pause, catching another burst of laughter below.
“Liam, that cereal stays in the bowl,” Miss Taylor calls, her voice patient but firm.
“But the marshmallows fell out!” Liam insists.
A small smile tugs at my mouth despite the heaviness in my chest.
I make my way down and step into the kitchen doorway. The boys are already at the table: both elbow-deep in a bowl of cereal, faces smeared with milk. Miss Taylor hovers by the counter, smoothing her hair back like she’s already fought three small battles before sunrise.
“Morning,” I say softly.
Three heads whip toward me. Liam points a cereal spoon at me. “Miss Taylor said Dad got hurt after we went to sleep. Is he gonna be okay?”
The question lands heavy. Miss Taylor shoots me a gentle, sympathetic look, her hand pausing on a dish towel.
I clear my throat, moving closer. “He’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It’s just his shoulder. He went to get it checked this morning.”
Liam’s brow furrows. “Will he still play hockey?”
I crouch beside his chair, brushing a stray hair off his forehead. “He will. He just needs to rest a little while so it can heal properly.”
Noah nods solemnly, then offers, “I could bring him my dinosaur ice pack if it helps.”
That small, earnest offer slices right through me. “I think he’d love that.”
Miss Taylor sets a plate of toast on the table and gently nudges the boys to finish up. Then she catches my eye and tilts her head toward the hallway. We step aside as the boys argue over whose cereal has more marshmallows.
“You okay?” she asks, her voice low.
I press my lips together. “I didn’t really sleep. I keep replaying it. The hit… his face afterward…”
Miss Taylor nods slowly, her eyes softening. “He’s tough. And you’re tougher than you think.”
I look down at my hands, flexing them like I’m testing if they still work. “I just… I hate not knowing. Not being able to do anything.”
She touches my arm gently. “He’ll be okay.”
Before I can answer, Noah’s voice booms from the kitchen. “Miss Taylor! Liam stole my marshmallows!”
She rolls her eyes affectionately and turns to intervene.
I force myself to take a slow breath and step back into the kitchen, determined to keep the morning moving forward. Even if I feel barely stitched together.
When Miss Taylor shepherds the boys out the door, Noah’s still dramatically complaining about his missing marshmallows.
After they leave, I stand there for a moment, listening to the silence wrap around me like a heavy blanket, before finally turning to make some ginger tea.
While it steeps, I wrap my arms around my middle and lean against the counter. My phone sits on the table and I check it, hoping for a text. Anything.
Nothing yet.
He has an early MRI. I don’t want to be the person who hovers, who sends a million question marks, but my fingers itch to type something anyway.
Deep down, there’s a worry I haven’t said aloud, and neither has he.
What if he can’t finish the Final?
My chest clenches just thinking it, so I grab my phone and open social media. Anything to keep my mind from going there.
Bad idea.
The first thing that pops up is a slowed-down replay of the hit. I watch it once, then again, my breath stuttering in my chest. The comments underneath are a swirl of panic and sympathy:
Brutal hit, hope he’s okay.
Any update on Hart’s shoulder?
We need him back ASAP.
I lock my phone and push it face-down again, as if that can shove the images out of my mind.
I try to focus on the smell of the ginger tea steeping beside me, breathing in the warm, spicy scent. I pour it into a mug and sit, wrapping both hands around the warmth.
I take a sip, even though my stomach flips at the taste.
I tell myself it’s just stress and exhaustion. All of it. The fatigue, the queasiness, the dizziness.
I drift past the office door without looking in.
The test is still there.
But I can’t do it today.
Not when I’m already worried about Jackson’s injury.
One unknown at a time.
Instead, I focus on the kitchen: the faint hum of the fridge, the ticking clock on the wall. I force another small sip, telling myself that today is about Jackson. About waiting for his text, his call, his face walking through that door.
I think about starting work. Maybe I should answer emails, review grant proposals, or call the board chair who’s been asking about our next literacy event.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jackson.
MRI done. Not torn. Sitting with the trainer now. I’ll call you soon.
Relief pours through me so fast my knees almost buckle.
Maybe he can still finish the Final.
That’s amazing news. Can’t wait to see you.
I head into the kitchen, determined to focus on small, ordinary things: cleaning up breakfast dishes, wiping down counters, anything to avoid that test and all the questions it brings.
I’m halfway through stacking the dishes when Jackson calls.
“Hey, how are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady as I answer.
There’s a pause on the other end, just the soft shuffle of movement, maybe him shifting in his chair. Then finally, his voice, low and a little rough.
He exhales, like he’s trying to let something heavy go. “Sore. But it’s not as bad as it could’ve been. They think a week of rest, rehab. No surgery.”
I swallow hard, my fingers curling around the edge of the table. “That’s… that’s good news, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something behind it. Something quieter, like he’s not fully convinced yet.
“I should be home soon,” he adds. “They’re finishing taping me up again. Trainer wants me to start some movement today already. I’ll be home before dinner.”
When I hang up, I sit there for a minute longer, the phone still in my hand. Relief and worry mix in my veins like two incompatible currents.
My shoulders drop, tension finally beginning to slip away.
For now, he’s okay. And that’s enough.