Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Morning in the hospital never really came. At some point, the sky outside the waiting room windows had shifted from midnight black to a washed-out gray, but inside the waiting room everything had stayed the same.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The TV mounted in one corner played at a volume just low enough that no one had bothered to mute it. A coffee machine in the room sputtered every so often.
I had stopped checking the time.
My dad sat beside me, leaning forward with his hands clasped so tightly it looked like he might have been holding himself together by sheer force.
He hadn’t said much since they’d taken my mom back for surgery a few hours earlier.
Every now and then he’d clear his throat, like he was about to speak, but then he wouldn’t. I understood the feeling.
I leaned my head back against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment.
I listened to the sounds of the hospital waking up around us.
The distant roll of carts down the hallway.
The quiet murmur of nurses talking at the station just out of view.
The occasional chime of an elevator deeper in the building.
My mom was in surgery.
The words didn’t feel real, even now. Stable, the doctor had said. Routine, as far as broken hips went. But there was nothing routine about sitting in a hospital waiting room, waiting for someone you loved to come out of an operating room.
I shifted in my seat, pulling my sweatshirt sleeves down over my hands. I’d been wearing the same clothes since yesterday. At some point in the night, Dani had draped her jacket over my shoulders, and I hadn’t taken it off. It still smelled like her.
My brain kept circling back to one thought. She’d stayed.
After everything—the tension, the awkwardness, the way things had gotten complicated over the last few days—she hadn’t hesitated. She’d shown up and sat beside me like we were still us.
I exhaled slowly, pressing my lips together as I tried to keep my thoughts from spiraling.
Beside me, my dad leaned back for the first time in what felt like hours. His gaze drifted toward the TV in the corner. It had been running all night—first reruns, and then late-night infomercials, followed by early morning programming that no one was really paying attention to.
I followed his line of sight without thinking, more for something to look at than actual interest.
At first, it was just noise and color and movement—some morning sports recap show, highlights from last night’s games, a ticker running along the bottom of the screen with scores and breaking news. I barely registered any of it.
But then the graphics on the screen changed. Even with the volume low, I caught the shift.
“—breaking news this morning out of Boston,” the anchor said, her voice elevated just enough to capture my attention. “We’re going live now to a press conference with women’s hockey star, Dani Callahan.”
I sat up a little straighter before I even realized I was moving, my eyes locking onto the screen.
The cameras cut to a podium in a familiar press room. It was the media room in the practice facility. The green backdrop was tattooed with the team’s logos and sponsors. A cluster of microphones crowded the stand.
And then Dani stepped into frame. She looked like she’d come straight from morning skate. Her hair was messy and her cheeks were flushed. She’d ditched her shoulder and elbow pads, but she still wore the thin sweat-wicking shirt she wore beneath her upper-body pads.
“I know this wasn’t on the schedule,” she said, her voice clear even through the TV’s tinny, internal speakers. “But after the news that came out the other day, I felt like staying quiet wasn’t an option.”
I felt my dad’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look away from the screen.
“USA Hockey’s decision to ban trans athletes from competition is wrong,” Dani began. “It’s harmful, it’s exclusionary, and it goes against everything this sport is supposed to stand for.”
My stomach clenched. I hadn’t known about this. A flicker of something—confusion, maybe—moved through me, but I didn’t have time to unpack my reaction before she continued.
“Hockey is for everyone,” she said, more firmly. “That’s not just a slogan we put on banners or t-shirts when it’s convenient. It’s supposed to mean something. And if it doesn’t apply to everyone—if we start picking and choosing who gets to belong—then it doesn’t mean anything at all.”
I could feel the pressure building behind my eyes, the way my chest started to ache, but I couldn’t blink. I could hardly breathe.
On the television screen, Dani shifted slightly at the podium, her hands resting on either side of it.
“I’ve had the privilege of working with young players at camps and hockey clinics,” she went on.
“I’ve met kids who love this game more than anything.
Kids who show up every day ready to work, ready to learn, ready to be part of something bigger than themselves.
And some of those kids are being told, now, that there isn’t a place for them.
That who they are disqualifies them before they even get the chance. ”
I saw her throat working and her jaw tighten.
“That’s not the sport I fell in love with.”
I blinked hard, my vision starting to blur.
Dani took a breath.
“And this isn’t just about speaking out against one decision,” she continued.
“It’s about accountability across the board.
Which is why I’m also calling on the women’s professional league to finally establish a clear, gender-inclusive policy—one that ensures trans women have the opportunity to compete at the highest levels. ”
A murmur rippled through the reporters in the room. Even through the TV, I could feel the shift in energy.
“This league has the chance to lead,” Dani finished. “To set a standard. And I think we owe it to the next generation of players to get this right.”
My chest felt like it was caving in on itself.
Because this—this was exactly who she was.
Not just the athlete everyone saw—the celebrity in the headlines or the highlight reels.
This was the part of her that had always mattered most to me.
The part that cared too much, that refused to stay quiet even when it would have been easier.
The part I’d been so afraid of getting tangled up in again.
A reporter’s voice cut in. “Dani, is this in response to the recent feature on NESN’s website that’s been gaining traction? The story about Charlotte—”
On screen, Dani didn’t hesitate. “I’ve read the piece,” she confirmed. “I think it’s an important story. And I think it highlights exactly why conversations like this matter.”
My pulse thudded in my ears.
Another reporter jumped in, not even waiting to be called on. “And does your personal connection to the author of that piece have anything to do with your decision to speak out today?”
There it was. The thing I had been bracing for.
I felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my chest, the same one that had taken root since the aftermath of our first public appearance.
I had spent days trying to navigate the fallout from that event.
Trying to figure out what it meant for my career, my credibility, and the way people would look at my work going forward.
At her press conference across town, Dani’s expression didn’t waver.
“I’m not going to speak about my private life in this setting,” she said evenly. “I’m here because I believe in what I’m saying. And because I think it’s important for people in my position to use their platform responsibly.”
The room on the screen buzzed with more questions, voices overlapping, all vying for Dani’s attention, but I didn’t hear any of them. I was too focused on the way my vision had gone watery, on the way I had to press my lips together to keep them from trembling.
Beside me, my dad reached over and rested a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, even though I had no idea if I was. “Yeah,” I managed, my voice thick. “I just—”
I stopped and swallowed hard. I didn’t even know how to explain it.
How did you explain the feeling of watching someone you loved stand up for something that mattered to you, knowing how much it could cost her? How did you explain the way it made everything else—the doubts, the fear, the distance between you—feel suddenly unimportant?
I let out a shaky breath.
“She handled that well,” my dad observed, the approval in his voice unmistakable.
“Yeah,” I rasped. “She did.”
On the TV, the press conference was wrapping up. Dani stepped away from the podium as reporters continued to call out questions. Eventually, the broadcast cut back to the studio. The anchors shifted into analysis, already starting to frame what it all meant.
Around us, the waiting room had remained quiet. A nurse passed by the doorway, her white sneakers silent on the linoleum floor. Someone cleared their throat and shifted in a chair across the room. Life kept moving, indifferent and unaware.
I instinctively reached for my phone, not to check the headlines or to see what people were saying online. I needed to text her.
I saw it.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen, before adding—
I’m really proud of you.
I hit send. My chest still felt tight, but it was lighter than it had been all morning. I leaned back in my chair, my eyes drifting back up to the TV even though the moment had already passed.
It hadn’t, though. Not really.
Because I could still hear her voice.
Hockey is for everyone.
The post-op wing was dimmer than the other hospital levels, the overhead lights softened, monitors beeping in steady, reassuring rhythms behind half-closed doors.
My mom’s surgery had gone well. They’d repaired her fractured hip with a metal plate and screws, something about stabilization and alignment that I only half processed because all I really heard was successful.
She’d be in the hospital for a few more days—three to five, depending on how she handled the pain and how quickly she could start moving with assistance. After that, it would be weeks of recovery. Physical therapy. No stairs for a while. No driving. No pretending she was fine when she wasn’t.
There had been other injuries, too. Deep bruising along her ribs from the seatbelt. A mild concussion they wanted to monitor overnight. Cuts along her forearm from shattered glass that had needed stitches. Manageable, they’d said. All of it manageable.
My dad had nodded through the explanation like he was committing every word to memory. I’d just stood there, arms wrapped around myself, trying to imagine my mom—my always-moving, never-sit-still mom—being forced to slow down.
He’d left not long after that.
“She’s going to need things,” he’d said, already halfway into problem-solving mode. “Clothes, her phone charger, that pillow she likes. I’ll be back in a couple hours,” he’d told me, his hand squeezing my shoulder before he left. “Stay with her.”
So I had.
Eventually, I fell asleep in a chair beside her hospital bed. My body was exhausted in a way that went beyond sleep—like every ounce of adrenaline had finally burned off, leaving nothing but the aftermath.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept, but eventually a nurse had gently roused me. They needed a little time to finish up her post-op checks and get her fully settled.
I blinked awake, disoriented for a second, my neck stiff from the awkward angle of the chair. My mom hadn’t moved much, still groggy from the anesthesia, her breathing slow and even beneath the steady beep of the monitor.
“I’ll come get you in a bit,” the nurse had said softly.
I nodded, pushing myself to my feet, my legs protesting after being curled up for so long.
I stepped out into the hallway, the door to my mom’s room clicking softly shut behind me.
For a second, I just stood there, letting myself breathe. The air felt different out here. Cooler. Less clinical somehow, even though it was the same building.
The world felt different, too. My mom had made it through surgery, and even though she still had a long road ahead of her, I knew she’d be okay.
And for the first time in many long days, I knew that I was going to be okay, too. I was starting to see things more clearly. The headlines, the pressure, the fear—it was all still there. But I wasn’t going to let it dictate my life anymore. I wasn’t going to let it ruin what I had with Dani.
When I found her sitting outside my mom’s room, I stopped in my tracks. She was sitting on a plastic chair along one wall, scrolling through her phone, looking like she had just stepped out of a magazine—effortlessly beautiful and so damn strong.
As soon as she saw me, her expression turned to concern.
“Hey,” she said, standing up. “How’s your mom doing?”
“She’s out of surgery,” I said. “She’s going to be fine. She’ll stay a few more days,” I added, “and then she’ll come home. But she’s not going to be able to do much on her own for a while.”
I let out a small breath. “Which she’s going to hate.”
Dani nodded, her eyes meeting mine. Instead of relief, however, I saw vulnerability and uncertainty reflected in them.
I took a step closer, suddenly nervous and unsure of how to move forward. “I saw your press conference.”
Dani visibly flinched. “I know what you’re going to say,” she prefaced, “but I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Charlotte.”
“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out in an inadequate rush. “For everything. For pulling away when things got hard. I shouldn’t have let the outside noise distract me from us.”
Dani didn’t respond right away. I could see the conflict in her eyes.
“You hurt me, Reese. You were so ready to walk away because of a few headlines. You made me feel like we weren’t worth fighting for.”
My heart pounded in my chest. “I know. And I’m sorry. I don’t want to be scared anymore. I don’t want to push you away. I’ve spent too much time running from what we could be.”
I grabbed onto her hand, and I took it as a good sign when she didn’t pull away. “I need you in my life, Dani. More than I’ve ever needed anyone.”
Dani looked at me, her lips curving into the smallest smile. “It’s not going to be easy,” she said. “But I’m willing to try if you are.”
“I am,” I said without hesitation. “I’m willing to try.”
It wasn’t a grand gesture or a sweeping declaration. It was small and quiet. And maybe that was all we needed.