Chapter 17 Home, Almost
Home, Almost
Liam
Irubbed a hand over my face and stared at the window. For a moment, I didn’t move. Just listened to the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional pipe knock, the hush before morning got started.
I sat up slowly and blinked at the narrow blade of light cutting through the curtain. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and planted my elbows on my knees. The last few days had been... a lot. I ran the tape—Maeve’s call, dinner with candles, the hug, the churro sugar on Claire's lips.
I stood, tugged on a T-shirt, and headed for the kitchen. Coffee. That was a good place to start.
As the machine sputtered to life, I leaned against the counter and let my eyes roam the room. Claire’s mug was on the drying rack. The one with the chip on the handle she never seemed to mind.
I opened the fridge. Neat rows of leftovers. Labeled, of course, in her tidy handwriting.
I exhaled through my nose. Right. Back to normal.
I grabbed the yogurt, peeled it open, and stared at it like it might give me a blueprint for the rest of the day.
The hug. I didn’t want to let go. And she hadn’t pulled away.
I took a bite of the yogurt. Vanilla. Too sweet. I finished it anyway.
A door creaked behind me. Light footsteps headed down the hallway.
“Morning,” Claire said, her voice still soft from sleep.
"Morning."
I turned. She wore a loose hoodie and leggings. Hair tied up. No makeup. And somehow, she looked more composed than I felt.
"Hey," I said. "Can you explain what’s going on with Maeve? I mean, I know you said the diagnosis was good, but what does that actually mean? I should’ve asked yesterday. I too overwhelmed to hear any more.”
Claire tilted her head, walking slowly toward the counter. "It means she’ll be okay. Overactive thyroid can mess with a lot, mood, energy, even muscle control, but it’s manageable. She’ll probably need meds and regular monitoring. I plan on calling her today."
I nodded, setting the spoon in the sink. Claire reached for the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. Without asking, she set a second mug in front of me. My usual one.
I took it. "Thanks."
She took a slow sip. So did I.
Claire leaned back against the counter, both hands wrapped around her mug. I took another sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch for a beat.
“I’ve got a road trip coming up,” I said finally. “Three games. We leave tomorrow.”
She glanced over. “How long will you be gone?”
“Five days. Montreal, Detroit, Pittsburgh.” I tapped the rim of my mug. “It’s not exactly a vacation.”
She nodded, eyes thoughtful. “That’s a tough stretch.”
But this time, it wasn’t just three cities, three hotels, many bus rides, multiple flights.
I was going to miss this. The quiet mornings. The chipped mug. The way she looked half-asleep until her first sip. Not that I was going to say that out loud.
“Yeah, but... I figured you’d like the upside.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You’ll be free to microwave at will,” I said, deadpan. “No judgment. No eye rolls. No unsolicited culinary interventions.”
She gave me a fake, slow gasp. “You mean I can defile gourmet leftovers without the Kitchen Police knocking down my door?”
“Exactly. Your microwave kingdom awaits.”
She smirked. “I might go wild. Heat something up at eighty percent power instead of full blast.”
“Reckless,” I said. “Completely unhinged behavior.”
She laughed softly, then took another sip of coffee. “I’ll try not to burn the place down.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
She wrapped both hands around her mug, then glanced up at me. “I’ll miss hearing your pans clanking,” she said lightly. “And the smell of garlic hitting the skillet.”
My chest tightened, just a little. She held my gaze, then added, softer this time, “Stay locked in.”
I smiled, one corner of my mouth tipping up.
“Always.”
Coming into the second stop of a road trip after a win always felt lighter. The guys were loose, the coaches less grim, and I didn’t have to mute the group text.
I sat on the team bus, legs stretched in the aisle, earbuds in, half-reading the same paragraph for the third time. Outside, the skyline rolled past in winter gray. Slush lined the curbs. A few fans had recognized us at the last red light and started taking selfies with the bus in the background.
My phone buzzed. Once. Then again.
Claire.
Sorry for the interruption. The girls are doing a cooking show. You’ve been unanimously elected as judge.
Then came the photo, Emma, Sophie, and Claire laughing in the background. Emma had a colander on her head. Sophie was wrapped in aluminum foil like a baked potato with limbs.
Filming has begun. You’re the judge. Chef Sparkles, that's my stage name, and her crew await your verdict.
A second photo arrived, Sophie pointing dramatically at a lopsided cupcake, frosting sliding off the side, rainbow sprinkles clinging for dear life.
We call this one Disaster Soufflé. Thoughts?
I smiled before I could stop myself.
I may have to deduct points for uneven sprinkle distribution.
Across the aisle, someone snorted. I looked up. "Who's got you grinning like an idiot?" Dex said. Rookie forward. Too observant.
I locked my phone and dropped it facedown on my leg. "I’m just amused."
Dex raised an eyebrow, clearly hoping I would elaborate. I didn’t answer. Just put my earbuds back in. But when the next light hit the window and my screen lit up again, I tapped it back on. Just to look.
The girls want to thank you
A selfie this time, Claire holding the phone, just her arm in frame. Emma mid-smirk. Sophie flashing jazz hands in her foil armor. Claire in the middle, grinning like she’d already lost control of the kitchen, and didn’t mind one bit.
Utter chaos. And all three of them looked like they wouldn’t trade it for anything. I stared at the picture. Then saved it.
***
I woke before the alarm. Years of road trips trained my body to know when it was time. The hotel room was quiet, dim, the blackout curtains doing their job. I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling.
Game day.
I sat up, cracked the curtain and looked out. Gray skies. A few early risers on the sidewalk. The arena just visible down the block.
Downstairs, the lobby was quiet. A few guys were already there, earbuds in, nodding silently. No one talked much on game mornings. Not until after the skate.
I stuck to what worked: two eggs, a slice of whole grain toast, and my smoothies. I mixed up my usual, banana, oats, almond milk, and a scoop of vanilla whey. The shaker bottle had seen more cities than most passports.
After breakfast, I headed back up to my room. The team bus wouldn’t leave for another hour. I pulled out the book Claire had recommended, and settled into the armchair by the window. She’d said the pacing was slow at first. She was right.
When my phone buzzed with the team alert, I packed up, grabbed my gear, and made my way down. The bus was already idling out front, players filing in with the same quiet focus.
The ice was fresh, untouched. I stepped out of the tunnel and onto the surface, the familiar crunch of blades underfoot. No fans. Just the team, the coaches, and the quiet rhythm of pre-game movement.
I took a few slow laps, stretching out the stiffness. No hard drills. Just line rushes, light shots, a few crease movements to get my angles right.
Chappy was buzzing, chatting with the goalie coach, trying to soak up every second. I let him. That hunger was good. Necessary. But I’d earned my calm.
A few shots came in, low blockers, quick wristers from the slot. I absorbed them cleanly, no rebounds. Just enough to feel the puck. Just enough to remind my body what it was here to do.
After twenty minutes, I skated off, towel around my neck, nodding to the equipment manager. I was locked in.
The bus pulled into the loading dock just before five. I stepped off into the concrete hush, that always settled around visiting teams. No fans, no music, just the low rumble of gear carts.
Different locker room. Same routine. Stick first, fresh tape, blade curve checked. Pads laid out in order. I changed into my base layer and then headed to the hallway for the wall drill. Ten minutes with the racquetball, no more. Toss, catch, toss.
Someone walked past, cracking a joke about the visitor’s room.
I didn’t laugh. Just caught the ball, held it, and looked at my wrist. 5:30.
At home, I’d be setting pans on the stove.
Garlic, maybe. Or shallots, if I felt like showing off.
Claire would drift in, claim she didn’t want anything, then steal bites from the pan.
I thought of her line about microwave freedom, and smiled.
Back in the locker room, I grabbed my phone. Typed out a message. Stared at it for a second, then hit send.
Please tell me you’re not nuking leftovers directly from the plastic container.
The reply came faster than I expected.
Absolutely not. I’m using the fine china tonight.
Don’t worry. It’s actually your microwave safe dinner plates.
Dining table and everything. I’m practically a grown-up.
I exhaled, something between a laugh and a breath.
For a second, it almost felt like I was home.