Chapter 5
The silence in Harper’s house was a heavy blanket, smothering everything.
The physical therapy session had left her leg throbbing, a dull, persistent ache that mirrored the ache in her chest. She sat at the kitchen table, massaging the muscles around her knee, trying to coax some life back into them.
Her mother, Carol, was at the stove, stirring a pot of soup that smelled faintly of chicken and simmering anxieties.
Carol hummed, a tuneless, strained melody that was meant to be cheerful but only amplified the quiet desperation in the air.
Harper glanced at the counter, where a stack of mail loomed like a precarious tower.
Medical bills. Physical therapy invoices.
The constant, grinding reality of her injury, quantified in dollars and cents.
Each bill was a testament to her mother’s sacrifices, a tangible representation of the burden Harper had become.
“Smells good, Mom,” Harper said, her voice a little too loud in the small kitchen.
Carol’s humming stopped. “Almost ready. Just need a few more minutes. How’s the leg feeling?” Her eyes, usually bright and full of easy laughter, were shadowed with worry.
“Okay,” Harper said, automatically downplaying the pain. “A little sore, but Dr. Reese said that’s normal.”
Carol ladled the soup into two bowls, the clatter of the spoon against ceramic the only sound for a moment. She placed a bowl in front of Harper, along with a piece of slightly burnt toast. “Eat up. You need to keep your strength up. You’re working so hard.”
Harper picked at the toast. The word hard felt like a loaded weapon, aimed squarely at her heart. What did she have to show for all that hard work? A limp. A stack of bills. A shattered dream.
“I might pick up an extra shift or two at the diner this week,” Carol said, her voice carefully casual. “Mrs. Henderson needs some help covering the lunch rush.”
The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. Harper knew what that meant: less sleep for her mom, more time spent on her feet, another layer of exhaustion etched onto her already weary face. All for her.
“Mom, you don’t have to do that,” Harper said, the guilt rising in her throat.
“It’s fine, sweetie. Really. It’s just a few hours.” Carol offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Besides, I like seeing all the regulars. Keeps me young.”
Harper stared at her soup, the steam blurring her vision. She couldn’t swallow. Every bite would taste like her mother’s sacrifice.
Later that evening, after the dishes were washed and the kitchen was meticulously clean, Harper retreated to her room.
She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the silence pressing down on her.
The silence was broken only by the muffled sound of her mother’s voice.
Harper recognized the singsong tone she used when talking to relatives, a performance of normalcy designed to reassure them that everything was fine.
Harper pressed closer to the door, straining to hear.
“…yes, she’s doing so much better,” Carol was saying into the phone. “The physical therapy is going wonderfully. She’s so determined… yes, we’re very hopeful she’ll be back on her feet in no time…”
Harper’s heart twisted. Wonderfully? Hopeful?
It was all a lie. A carefully constructed narrative designed to protect everyone from the messy, painful truth: she was broken, and her recovery was a long, uphill battle with no guarantees.
She was a fragile, expensive secret, and her mother was working tirelessly to keep her afloat.
The scene shifted abruptly, as jarring as a slap. The quiet of Harper’s house was replaced by the raucous chaos of Liam’s.
The dining room was a battleground. Liam sat at the head of the table, pinned between his two older brothers, Connor and Derek. They were mirror images of each other: broad-shouldered, loud, and relentlessly competitive. The air crackled with testosterone and the lingering scent of hockey gear.
“So, Hayes, Coach says you’re back to lifting?” Connor said, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Guess that little boo-boo wasn’t so bad after all.”
Derek snorted. “Yeah, maybe you can finally keep up with us in the gym. Don’t want you turning into a twig out there on the ice.”
Liam clenched his jaw. “I’m getting there.”
His father, Mr. Hayes, sat at the other end of the table, his gaze sharp and fixed on Liam. “Dr. Reese give you the all-clear yet? NHL scouts are going to want to see you at full strength.”
Liam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Not yet, Dad. Still working on it.”
“Working on it isn’t good enough, Liam,” Mr. Hayes said, his voice sharp. “They want results. They want to see you dominating on the ice. You know how many kids would kill for your spot?”
“I know, Dad.” Liam picked at his food, his appetite gone. The brace on his shoulder felt like a lead weight, pulling him down.
“Heard Johnson got signed,” Connor said, tossing a bread roll in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Two-year deal with the Wolves. Full scholarship.”
“Johnson’s got nothing on Liam,” Mr. Hayes said, puffing out his chest. “Liam’s got natural talent. Just needs to get that shoulder back in shape. Right, Liam?”
All eyes were on him, expectant, demanding. Liam forced a smile. “Right, Dad.”
“What’s the timeline, Liam?” Mr. Hayes pressed. “When can we expect to see you back in the lineup?”
Liam hesitated. He hadn’t told them the full extent of his injury, the persistent pain, the lingering doubt that he would ever be the same player again. He’d downplayed it, minimized it, told them what they wanted to hear: he was fine, he was recovering, he’d be back on the ice soon.
“A few more weeks,” he said, his voice flat. “Dr. Reese thinks I’ll be ready for light drills next month.”
Mr. Hayes frowned. “Light drills? That’s not going to cut it, Liam. We need you back at full speed. Scholarship offers are going to start rolling in soon. You can’t afford to be sidelined.”
“I’m doing everything I can, Dad,” Liam said, his voice tight.
“Doing everything you can isn’t enough,” Mr. Hayes repeated, his gaze unwavering. “You need to push yourself harder. You need to show them you’re not giving up.”
The conversation continued, a relentless barrage of expectations and demands.
They talked about his future as if he wasn’t even there, as if he was just a commodity to be traded and sold.
His pain, his fear, his doubts – they were irrelevant.
All that mattered was his performance, his potential, his value on the ice.
Liam tuned them out, retreating into himself. He felt suffocated, trapped beneath the weight of their expectations. He was drowning in their dreams, and no one seemed to notice he was struggling to breathe.
Later that night, long after the shouting had died down and the house had fallen silent, Liam found himself staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The pressure was crushing him, the expectations suffocating him. He was alone, trapped in his own private hell, with no one to understand.
Except…
He reached for his phone, his fingers trembling slightly. He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over a name. Harper Quinn.
He hadn’t spoken to her since their disastrous physical therapy session, since their explosive argument in the gym. He’d tried to put her out of his mind, to forget her icy glare and her biting sarcasm. But he couldn’t. She was always there, a persistent, nagging presence in the back of his mind.
He knew she wouldn’t welcome his intrusion. He knew she’d probably bite his head off. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the only person who might understand what he was going through.
He hesitated, then typed a message: “This day sucked. You still up?”
He hit send and waited, his heart pounding in his chest. It was a stupid, impulsive gesture, a desperate attempt to break through the isolation that was consuming him.
Across town, in the quiet stillness of her darkened room, Harper stared at her own ceiling, her leg throbbing in protest. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was failing, that she was letting everyone down.
Her phone buzzed, breaking the silence. She reached for it, her fingers fumbling slightly. A text message. From Liam Hayes.
Her first instinct was to ignore it. To delete it and pretend it never happened. He was the last person she wanted to talk to.
But something stopped her. Curiosity? Loneliness? A flicker of something she couldn’t quite name?
She unlocked her phone and read the message: “This day sucked. You still up?”
A small, genuine smile touched her lips, the first one she’d felt all day. It was a simple message, an unexpected olive branch. It was a lifeline, thrown to her in the darkness.
She hesitated for a moment, then began to type a reply.