Chapter 15 Quiet Hours
Quiet Hours
Laim
Ienjoyed watching Claire finish every last bite of the seafood risotto. Even I had to admit, it was good.
“Okay, Liam, let me make you a proposition.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Claire, where is this going?”
“Shush. You’re going to like it.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” I said, leaning back to give the food some room to settle.
She set her elbows on the table, fingertips together. “When you’re on the road, I can continue to microwave…”
I opened my mouth to object.
“Without any stink eye from you,” she continued, undaunted.
“Okay,” I said warily.
“And when you are home, I will allow you to cook for me.”
I laughed. “Um, Claire? What’s in this proposition for me?”
“Simple,” she said, laying her hands flat on the table. “You won’t have to watch me microwave anything.”
She stood, smug as ever.
I can live with that.
“Claire,” I said as she gathered the dishes. “One condition.”
She paused and looked at me.
“You eat with me.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”
Yeah. I could get used to her propositions.
Claire set her empty bowl in the sink, stretched, and let out a quiet yawn as she leaned against the counter.
“I can clean up,” she said, already reaching for the dish soap.
I shook my head. “You could, but then I’d be up all night re-seasoning my pans.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“These are seasoned tools. Years of perfectly nonstick surfaces. One wrong move, and it’s over.”
Claire crossed her arms, smirking. “That’s right. I forgot about your strange emotional bond with cookware.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She grabbed her medical journal from the counter and shook it at me. “Then don’t complain when I leave you to your pans and retreat to science.”
I lifted my hands. “No complaints here.”
She disappeared down the hallway, and I figured that was it. Lights out, journal reading, the usual retreat.
But a few minutes later, I heard her footsteps again. I looked up to find her easing onto the far end of the couch, flipping her journal open.
She didn’t say anything right away. Just tucked one leg under her and started flipping pages. I wiped the counter one last time, hung the towel, and clicked off the kitchen lights. I grabbed my book and headed into the living room.
She glanced up as I entered.
“Is it okay if I read out here?” she asked.
“Claire, of course it is,” I said, settling into the chair across from her. “I hope you didn’t think you needed to stay in your room all this time.”
She ducked her head a little.
“I didn’t want to intrude." She looked down.
Then she looked up at me, alarmed. "I didn't take your spot, did I?"
“No,” I said with a smirk, touching the back of the chair beside me. “This is the prime real estate. Sitting here would’ve landed you in dangerous territory.
She gave a mock-serious nod. “Noted. Next time I’ll bring a permit.”
We both smiled and fell into a quiet rhythm. Pages turning. The occasional rustle. The soft hum of the city through the windows.
At one point, I glanced up. Claire was holding the journal sideways, her mouth twitching in concentration.
I let out a short laugh.
She glanced over, brows raised. “What?”
“Looks like you’re mentally arm-wrestling the page.”
She looked at the journal, then back at me. “This article keeps switching table formats. I’m not the problem.”
“Mm-hmm.”
She grinned, then turned back to her page.
I looked down at my own book, but I wasn’t actually reading. Just watching her. Watching her settle.
“Have you always been this into reading?” she asked, still looking down.
I cleared my throat and closed my book. “Started with hockey travel, honestly. Long bus rides, flights, hotels. At some point, the brain rot from endless video games and highlight reels gets old.”
She looked amused. “So paperbacks and paprika fixed everything?”
“Let’s not go that far. I started with cookbooks and mystery thrillers. Needed something to keep me occupied when we weren’t playing or practicing.”
She nodded slowly. “And now?”
“Now I probably average two books a week.”
She tilted her head.
“How about you?” I asked. “No, let me guess. You’ve been reading a book a week since you were five.”
She laughed. “Not even close.”
I was on a roll. “I bet you had some ultra-organized system. Auburn August. Sapphire September.”
She threw a pillow at me. “You’re a menace.”
“You’re the one with the color-coded brain.”
She rolled her eyes. Then, quieter, “You may find this hard to believe, but I was a terrible reader as a kid.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
She nodded.
“I always thought the kids who got those summer reading awards were weird,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine reading for fun. It felt like punishment.”
“So you chose medicine to get over your fear of reading?”
She laughed. “I know. Not the most logical plan. But once I had to read for school, I just… pushed through. Like everything else. It got easier with practice.”
I nodded. “That was the butterfly slide for me.”
She looked up.
I leaned back. “Probably logged ten thousand reps before it stopped feeling like punishment.”
She shifted slightly on the couch, turning a page. Then, after a pause, she looked up.
"So what kind of medicine did you practice?" I asked.
She blinked. "Cardiology. Mostly congenital and rhythm disorders. Kids and teens, mostly."
I nodded slowly. That made sense. Calm under pressure, precise. Like a surgeon, but warmer.
"Do you miss it?"
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the journal in her lap. "Yeah. I do."
I waited. Didn’t fill the silence.
Eventually, she kept going. "I had to stop practicing a few years ago. I started having reactions, breathing problems, hives, dizziness. It got worse whenever I was in the hospital."
"Allergies?"
"They think it was something airborne. Maybe sterilizing agents. Or latex accelerators. But no one could pin it down. I tried different hospitals, different roles. Nothing worked."
I swallowed. The idea of being forced out of the one thing you trained your whole life for. What do I even say about that?
"That's rough," I said quietly. It felt flat, but honest.
She gave me a small smile. "Yeah. It wasn’t exactly the five-year plan."
"So what did you do?"
"I pivoted. Research. Writing. Data analysis. Some consulting. At first, it felt like quitting. Like stepping down. But over time..."
She paused, then glanced back at me.
"It’s different. In the hospital, everything was immediate and high-stakes, nonstop chaos. Now, I get to pull back and actually see things. Patterns, trends, outcomes. It’s a different kind of impact, but it still matters. And I don’t feel like I’m drowning all the time."
I leaned back a little, studying her face. "You ever think about going back? If they figure it out?"
She shook her head. "I don’t think I can risk it. And I’ve made peace with that. Most days."
Then she went quiet.
I hesitated, then said, "When Maeve first called me, before we had answers... when I thought maybe I had it too.”
I looked right at Claire. “My mom died from it.”
Claire’s face softened. “Liam…”
I looked away. “I’d started thinking about what life would look like if it was Huntington’s. Not just for her, but for me. What if I had the gene too? What if the decision to stop playing was made for me?”
I’d never pictured a future without hockey. Couldn’t even imagine it.
She leaned in, her hand landing gently on my arm. "Liam... I can’t imagine how scary those few days were. I’m so sorry you and Maeve had to go through that."
I looked down at her hand. Then I placed mine on top of it.
"Thank you, Claire."
We sat like that, hands touching, eyes locked. The apartment was quiet.
Finally, I exhaled and eased my arm away. "I think I’m going to turn in."
She nodded. "Goodnight, Liam."
"Goodnight, Claire."
I brushed my teeth, lay down, and stared at the ceiling.
I couldn’t sleep.
At first, I thought it was the usual post-game noise in my head, but there hadn’t been a game. Just dinner. Talking. Her hand under mine.
I gave up trying to toss and turn my way out of it. Grabbed the book from my nightstand and walked out into the hallway. The living room light was still on.
Claire was on the couch, curled up on her side, her journal tucked under one arm. Fast asleep.
Her hair had slipped out of its tie and tumbled over the pillow. Her breathing was slow. Even.
I stood there for a second. Then I grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the couch and unfolded it. Carefully, I draped it over her. She didn’t stir.
I straightened up and looked down at her. No notes. No Post-its. No task list in her hand. Just peace. I’d never seen her like that.
I didn’t mean to linger. But I couldn’t help it.
She made things better.
Even like this.