Chapter 5
ANNE
"Liam."
His name came out before I could stop it. Before I could remember that I was supposed to be professional, that I was supposed to introduce myself as Ms. Mitchell, physical therapist from Midwest Elite Sports Medicine, here to rehabilitate your torn rotator cuff.
Instead, I said his name like a prayer. Like a curse. Like the answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
Dr. Harrison was still talking—something about treatment protocols and my credentials—but I couldn't hear him over the rushing in my ears.
Liam.
Liam O'Connell.
My patient was Liam O'Connell.
He was staring at me like I was a ghost. Like I was something he thought he'd buried years ago that just clawed its way out of the ground.
"You two know each other?" Dr. Harrison asked, finally catching on to the fact that neither of us was breathing normally.
"We—" I started, but my voice cracked.
"We used to," Liam finished, his voice flat. Controlled. The same voice he had used when he told me he was leaving for Sweden. "A long time ago."
"Oh." Dr. Harrison looked between us, clearly sensing he was walking into something.
"Well. I'll leave you two to get started.
Anne has your file, Liam. She'll do an initial assessment today and develop a treatment plan.
" He backed toward the door like he was escaping a crime scene. "I'll check in later."
The door closed behind him.
Silence.
Liam was still sitting on the training table, shirtless, one shoulder heavily taped.
Even injured, he was beautiful. Broader than he had been, more muscular, the kind of body that came from years of professional training.
His dark hair was longer, pushed back from his face. His blue eyes were exactly the same.
Those eyes were currently looking at me like I was the last person on earth he wanted to see.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Professional. I needed to be professional.
"I was hired to rehabilitate your shoulder. Eight-week contract. I didn't know—they don't release player names until?—"
"You didn't know it was me."
"No."
"And if you had known?"
I met his eyes. "I would have turned down the contract."
Something flashed across his face. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. Or both.
"So we agree this is a problem," he said.
"Yes."
"Then we tell Harrison to find someone else. You go back to Chicago. I get a different PT. Problem solved."
It should have been that simple. It should have been exactly what I wanted.
Instead, I heard myself say, "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I signed a contract. Because if I back out now without cause, Midwest Elite loses the Blaze account and I lose my job. Because I have—" I cut myself off before I said a son to support "Because I have bills to pay and a reputation to maintain."
"So do I." He stood up from the training table, and I had to fight the urge to step back. He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe I'd just forgotten what it was like to be this close to him. "You think I want you touching me every day for eight weeks? Knowing what we—knowing what we were?"
"No." My voice was steadier now, falling into the professional mask I'd perfected over years of working with athletes I couldn't afford to see as human. "I think you want to get back on ice for playoffs. And according to your file, I'm your best shot at that."
His jaw tightened. "You're that good?"
"I'm that good."
We stared at each other across the training room, the silence and hurt and unfinished business were crackling between us like a live wire.
"Fine," he said finally. "Eight weeks. Strictly professional. You do your job, I do mine, and we don't talk about anything that happened before."
"Agreed."
"Good."
"Great."
Neither of us moved.
"I need to do an initial assessment," I said, forcing myself back into PT mode. "Range of motion, strength testing, pain evaluation. It'll take about forty-five minutes."
He didn't respond. Just sat back down on the training table and looked at the wall — not at me. The message was clear. We could do this. But he wasn't going to make it easy.
Fine. I didn't deserve easy.
I crossed the room, pulling on the professional armor I'd built of working with men I couldn't afford to want. I'd done this a thousand times. Assessed injuries, developed treatment plans, maintained boundaries with clients who sometimes forgot I wasn't included in their contract.
This should be no different.
Except my hands were shaking as I pulled out my assessment forms.
"Talk me through the injury," I said, clicking my pen. "How did it happen?"
"Hit from behind. Detroit defenseman. Three weeks ago." His voice was flat. Clipped. The voice of a man answering questions he'd already answered a dozen times and had no interest in answering again. "Something popped."
I made notes, keeping my eyes on the form. "Pain level at the time?"
"Eight."
"Now?"
"Five. Seven when I lift above shoulder height."
"Numbness? Tingling?"
"No."
Single-word answers. Maximum distance. He was giving me exactly what the contract required and nothing else.
I'd earned that too.
"I need to examine the shoulder," I said. "I'm going to touch you. Tell me if anything hurts."
He looked at me then — the first time he'd looked directly at me since we'd agreed to be professional. Something in his expression made me want to take a step back. Not anger exactly. Something quieter and more damaging than anger.
Disappointment.
He'd expected better from me once. A long time ago. And I'd spent years proving he was right to stop expecting it.
"Fine," he said. And looked back at the wall.
I placed my hands on his shoulder — professional, clinical, the way I'd done a thousand times before — and immediately regretted every choice that had led me to this moment.
His skin was warm under my fingers. Familiar. I had known this body. Every inch of it. The scar on his left ribcage from a skate blade in college. The tattoo on his right shoulder blade that hadn't been there before. The way his muscles tensed when —
Stop.
"Relax," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"I'm trying."
"You're not. Your deltoid is completely locked up. I can't assess range of motion if you're fighting me."
"Maybe if you'd give me some warning before you?—"
"This is warning. I'm a physical therapist. Touching you is literally my job."
"It didn't used to be."
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and dangerous.
"We're not talking about before," I reminded him, my hands still on his shoulder even though I should have stepped away. "Strictly professional, remember?"
"Right. Professional." His voice was tight. "So professionally speaking, what's the damage?"
I forced myself to focus. To see the injury instead of the man. "Torn rotator cuff. Probably a grade two tear based on your range of motion. The good news is it's not a complete rupture. The bad news is eight weeks is aggressive for this kind of injury."
"Can you do it?"
"If you do everything I tell you. No shortcuts. No playing through pain. No being a hero."
"I'm not a hero."
"You played an entire tournament on a sprained ankle in college. Don't tell me you won't try to rush this."
His eyes met mine. "You remember that."
"I remember a lot of things I wish I didn't."
The cold distance he'd been maintaining cracked — just slightly, just enough.
We were standing too close. His shoulder was under my hands, his bare chest inches from mine, and I could smell his cologne — different from what he'd worn in college, more expensive, but underneath it was something that was purely him.
Something I would have recognized anywhere.
"We should continue the assessment," I said, but I didn't move.
"Yeah," he agreed. But he didn't move either.
"Liam—"
"Don't." His voice was rough. Raw. "Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you used to. Like you still—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Just don't."
I should have stepped back. Should have reminded him we agreed to keep this professional.
Should have done literally anything except what I was doing, which was standing here with my hands on his bare skin, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to see the exact moment his eyes dropped to my mouth.
"This is a bad idea," I whispered.
"The worst," he agreed.
He leaned in.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
We both froze.
The spell broke. I stepped back so fast I nearly tripped over the equipment cart. He straightened, turning away, shoulders rigid.
"I—" I pulled out my phone with shaking hands. Text from my mom. "I need to take this."
"Yeah. Sure. Take your time."
I walked to the far corner of the training room, putting as much distance between us as possible, and opened the text.
Mom: Finn wants to know if you'll be home for dinner. I told him probably not but he's insisting on waiting up for you.
Finn.
My son.
Liam's son.
The son Liam didn't know existed.
Guilt crashed over me so hard I could barely breathe. What the hell was I doing? I almost kissed him. Almost let him kiss me. And he had no idea that every night I went home to a five-year-old with his blue eyes and his smile and his love of hockey.
I typed back quickly: Tell him I'll video call before bed. Don't let him stay up past 8.
When I turned around, Liam was putting his shirt back on. The moment was over.
"I need to go," I said. My voice sounded hollow. "We can finish the assessment tomorrow."
"Anne—"
"Tomorrow, Liam." I grabbed my bag, my clipboard, everything I needed to get out of this room. "Remember what we agreed. Strictly professional."
"Right. Professional." He paused, his shirt half-buttoned, eyes on mine. "Are you married?"
The question stopped me cold. "What?"
"Married. Someone waiting at home. Are you?"
"No." I turned to face him fully. "Are you?"
"No." His gaze dropped to my left hand, noting the absence of rings. "Dating anyone?"
"I've been very busy," I said. "You? How is it that a handsome hockey star hasn't found Ms. Right?"
Something moved across his face. "I date. But I have very high standards."
The subtext was so loud it might as well have been screaming.
"That's not an answer," I said.
"Neither was yours." The corner of his mouth moved — barely, not quite a smile. "Goodnight, Anne."
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I'm sorry."
I didn't ask what he was apologizing for. I didn't want to know if he meant leaving all those years ago, or almost kissing me today, or the fact that we were both trapped in this nightmare for the next eight weeks.
"Me too," I said.
And then I left before he could see the tears in my eyes.
I was halfway down the corridor when I passed the equipment room — door open, jerseys hanging in neat rows, each one with a name and a number on the back.
I stopped.
O'CONNELL. 17.
I stood there staring at it.
Seventeen.
I'm going to tell everyone I'm a Mite and I'm going to be a famous hockey player. Number seventeen.
Finn had picked his number two months ago because of a friend's father. A coincidence. A five-year-old's hero worship of a man he'd never met.
I pressed my hand flat against the wall and made myself breathe.
He didn't know. Finn didn't know. He couldn't know. He had no idea his father existed, let alone what number he wore. It was just a number. Just a jersey. Just the universe being extraordinarily, devastatingly cruel.
I made it to my car before I completely fell apart.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition. I sat in the parking lot of the St. Louis Blaze training facility, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, trying to remember how to breathe.
I almost kissed him.
I almost kissed Liam O'Connell — the father of my child — and he didn't even know Finn existed.
What the hell was wrong with me?
My phone buzzed again.
Another text from my mom: Finn drew a picture at school today. It's three people holding hands. He told his teacher the tall one is his daddy who lives far away. I told him you'd be home Friday. Was that okay?
A sob escaped before I could stop it.
Soon.
What did soon even mean? Eight weeks from now when this contract was over and I never had to see Liam again? When Finn was ten? Fifteen? Never?
I'd spent years convincing myself I'd made the right choice. That keeping Finn a secret was protecting both of them. That telling Liam would trap him, force him into a life he didn't choose, make him resent us both.
I'd built a life. A good one. I had my career, my mom, friends who were doing the same thing — raising kids alone, making it work, proving every day that a child didn't need two parents to be loved completely.
I knew women who had done it with far less than I had.
I told myself Finn was thriving. I told myself I was enough.
And Liam — Liam had chosen his career over us.
Not cruelly, not maliciously, but clearly.
He'd signed that contract without a word to me.
He'd chosen Sweden, chosen hockey, chosen the dream he'd been chasing since he was five years old.
I hadn't wanted to be the person who took that from him.
I hadn't wanted Finn to grow up knowing his father had sacrificed everything for a child he'd never planned for.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
Maybe I'd been protecting Liam. Maybe I'd been protecting Finn.
Maybe I'd just been protecting myself from having to find out which one of those things Liam would choose if I gave him the chance.
But sitting here in this parking lot, my lips still tingling from the almost-kiss, I was starting to wonder if I'd been lying to myself all along.
Maybe I hadn't kept the secret to protect Liam.
Maybe I'd kept it to protect myself.
Because telling him meant facing what I'd done. Meant admitting that I'd chosen fear over honesty. Meant risking that he'd look at me the way he'd looked at me today — like I was the last person on earth he wanted to see — but with even more reason.
He'd hate me for keeping his son from him. For watching Finn grow up without a father. For making a choice that was never mine alone to make.
And he'd have every right to.
I texted my mom back: Yes, that's fine. Tell him I love him. I'll call at bedtime.
Then I sat in my car and cried for everything I'd lost, everything I was about to lose, and everything I was too scared to fight for.
Tomorrow, I had to go back to that training room and pretend my entire world wasn't about to implode. I had fifty-six days to figure out how to tell him about Finn before it all came apart.