Chapter 7
ANNE
Iarrived at the training facility Tuesday morning.
Fifteen minutes early. Pathetic.
I sat in my car in the parking lot, gripping the steering wheel, trying to convince myself I could do this. That I could walk into that building and see Liam O'Connell and pretend yesterday hadn't happened.
Pretend I hadn't almost kissed him.
Pretend I hadn't lain awake all night replaying that moment—his hand on my cheek, his eyes dropping to my mouth, the way my name had sounded in his voice.
Pretend I wasn't terrified and desperate in equal measure.
My phone buzzed. Text from my mom.
Mom: Finn had a rough night. Kept asking when you're coming home. I told him Friday but he cried himself to sleep. Call when you can.
Guilt crashed over me like a wave.
I was a terrible mother. What kind of mother left her five-year-old for eight weeks? What kind of mother chose a job—a job that put her in daily contact with the man who could destroy everything—over being there to tuck her son into bed?
I texted back: I'll video call tonight at 7. Tell him I love him and I'll bring him something special Friday.
Another lie. Another promise I'd probably break because I'd be too emotionally destroyed from hours of touching Liam to function as a human being, let alone a mother.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Professional. Put together. No visible signs that I'd spent half the night crying and the other half staring at the ceiling wondering how I was going to survive this.
I couldn't sit in this parking lot forever.
I grabbed my bag and headed inside.
Liam was already in the training room when I arrived.
He was sitting on the table, shirtless, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when I walked in, and for a second—just a second—I saw something raw and vulnerable in his expression.
Then it was gone. Replaced by the same careful neutrality I was trying to project.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
Professional. We could do professional.
I set down my bag and pulled out my assessment forms, clipboard, everything I needed to maintain the illusion that this was just another client. Just another injury. Just another eight weeks of rehabilitation that would end with a handshake and a good luck in the playoffs.
"How's the shoulder feeling?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. Clinical.
"Better. The exercises you gave me helped."
"Good. That's good." I moved closer, keeping my eyes on his shoulder instead of his face. "Any pain overnight?"
"Some. Nothing I couldn't handle."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Three. Maybe four when I tried to sleep on that side."
I made notes. Focused on the injury. The injury was safe. The injury wouldn't break my heart.
"We're going to work on range of motion today," I said. "Gentle stretching, resistance bands, some isometric holds. I need you to tell me immediately if anything hurts."
"Okay."
I set down my clipboard and moved to stand in front of him. This was the part I'd been dreading. The part where I had to touch him.
"I'm going to examine the shoulder first," I said. "Check for any inflammation or?—"
"Anne."
His voice stopped me. I looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time since I'd walked in.
"We don't have to do this," he said quietly.
"Do what?"
"Pretend. We can just... acknowledge that yesterday was fucked up and move forward."
"There's nothing to acknowledge. We're professional?—"
"Stop." Not angry. Just tired. "We both know that's bullshit."
He was right. Of course he was right. But admitting it meant opening a door I needed to keep locked for the next eight weeks.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't know. The truth?"
"The truth is that I'm here to do a job. You need to heal. I need to get paid. That's it."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
He studied my face and I forced myself not to look away.
"Fine," he said finally. "Professional it is."
"Thank you."
I reached for his shoulder, and this time he didn't stop me.
The session went better than expected.
We fell into a rhythm—me giving instructions, him following them. Range of motion exercises that made him wince but he pushed through anyway because he was Liam O'Connell and he had been playing through pain since he was eight years old.
I tried not to think about how I knew that.
How I'd spent months rehabbing his sprained ankle at Cornell—6 AM sessions, balance boards, resistance bands, teaching him proprioception exercises he'd hated but done anyway because I'd asked him to.
How I'd known he'd broken his wrist in Pee Wee and hadn't told anyone for three days because they'd had a tournament.
How I'd known he had a scar on his ribcage from a skate blade and another on his left knee from surgery after college.
How I'd known exactly where to touch him to make him gasp.
Stop.
"Okay," I said, stepping back. "That's good progress. How does it feel?"
"Tight. But better."
"The tightness will ease as we continue treatment. You're doing everything right."
"You sound surprised."
"Hockey players aren't known for following PT protocols."
"I'm not most hockey players."
No. He was not.
He was the one who'd stayed late after practice to run extra drills. Who'd studied game film until 2 AM. Who'd called his dad after every game—win or lose—to talk through what had gone right and what had gone wrong.
He was the one who'd remembered my coffee order and brought me breakfast during exam week. Who'd learned all the muscles and bones and insertion points just so he could quiz me while I'd taped his ankles.
He was the one I'd fallen in love with.
Stop.
"Let's work on resistance," I said, pulling out the bands. "This is going to require me to be behind you, guiding the movement. Is that okay?"
Something flashed across his face. "Yeah. It's fine."
It wasn't fine.
I positioned myself behind him, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough to smell his cologne again—the expensive one that couldn't hide what was underneath.
"Okay," I said, my voice rougher than I'd intended. "Slowly raise your arm to the side. I'm going to apply resistance. Tell me when it starts to hurt."
He lifted his arm. I pressed against it, creating tension, watching the muscles in his shoulder work.
"Good," I murmured. "Just like that. Nice and controlled."
He made a sound—half grunt, half exhale—and I felt it vibrate through his back where it was pressed against my chest.
This was a mistake.
"Higher," I said, even though I should have stopped. Even though this was torture for both of us. "Just a little higher."
He pushed through the resistance, arm shaking slightly, and I could see the exact moment it became too much. His deltoid locked up. His breath hitched.
"Stop," I said immediately, dropping my hands. "That's your limit for today."
He lowered his arm slowly, breathing hard. "How much longer?"
"For the session? About twenty more minutes."
"No. I mean how much longer until I can play."
"If you keep progressing like this? You'll be cleared for light practice in three weeks. Full contact in five. Playoffs in seven."
"Seven weeks."
"Give or take."
"So I need you for seven weeks."
The way he'd said it—need you—made my stomach flip.
"You need physical therapy for seven weeks," I corrected. "I'm just the person delivering it."
He turned to face me, and we were too close. Way too close. I should have stepped back. Should have put professional distance between us.
I didn't move.
"Anne—" he started.
His phone rang.
We both froze.
He grabbed it off the table, glanced at the screen. "I need to take this. It's my agent."
"Of course. Take your time."
He stepped out into the hallway, and I could breathe again.
I sank onto the bench and pressed my hands to my face. Two sessions. I'd survived two sessions and I was already falling apart.
Fifty-four days to go.
I was never going to make it.
Wednesday morning, I did something stupid.
I stopped at the coffee shop on my way to the facility and ordered two drinks. His order. The complicated one he'd used to get at Cornell—venti americano, extra shot, oat milk, two pumps vanilla, one pump caramel, extra hot.
I told myself it was just being polite. Just a peace offering after the tension of Tuesday's session.
I was lying to myself and I knew it.
When I walked into the training room, he was already there. Already shirtless and waiting.
"Morning," I said, setting my bag down.
"Morning."
I held out the second coffee cup. "I brought you this. Wasn't sure if you'd had breakfast."
He stared at the cup like it might explode.
"You remembered," he said quietly.
"Remembered what?"
"My order. From Cornell." He took the cup, fingers brushing mine. "You remembered."
I should have lied. Should have told him I'd just guessed, that it was a lucky coincidence, that I didn't remember everything about him with painful clarity.
Instead I said, "Muscle memory."
His eyes met mine, and the air between us crackled.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome."
We stood there for a beat too long, both holding coffee cups, both pretending this was normal. Professional. Just a PT bringing her client breakfast.
"We should get started," I said finally.
"Yeah. We should."
The session went smoothly. Better than Tuesday. His range of motion had improved significantly overnight, and his pain level was down to a two.
"You're healing fast," I told him during a water break. "Faster than I expected."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good for you. Good for playoffs." I paused. "Bad for..."
I didn't finish the sentence. I didn't have to.
Bad for us. Because the faster he healed, the sooner this ended. The sooner I went back to Chicago and he stayed here and we went back to being strangers who'd shared a life years ago.
"Yeah," he said. "Bad for."
We worked in silence for the rest of the session. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was almost... peaceful. Like we'd found a rhythm. A way to exist in the same space without destroying each other.
When the hour was up, I was almost disappointed.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, packing up my equipment.
"Same time tomorrow."
I was at the door when he spoke again.
"Anne?"
I turned.
"The coffee," he said. "It meant something. Just so you know."