Chapter One
Sometimes I think my life’s a cosmic joke, only no one bothered to let me in on the punchline.
I’m seated in a plastic chair clearly engineered by someone with a vendetta against the human hip bone, watching highlights of last night’s game on a wall-mounted TV.
The New York Sentinels won without me. Again.
And honestly? The bitter little voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like my mother when she’s disappointed—keeps whispering that maybe they’re better off that way.
I used to be Liam LeClerc, rising star. Now I’m just Liam LeClerc, question mark. The comma between who you were and who you’re becoming is the loneliest punctuation mark in existence. It promises continuation but guarantees nothing.
The training room smells like industrial-strength disinfectant and broken dreams, which feels fitting.
I shift in this torture-device of a chair, and my hamstring—my stubborn, vindictive hamstring—fires off another sharp reminder of why I’m here instead of out there on the ice with my teammates.
Eight months. Eight months of this endless two-step between hope and reality, between the player I was and the player I’m starting to think I might never be again.
You’ll get back out there soon, everyone says, their voices heavy with the kind of forced optimism usually reserved for terminal diagnoses. Nobody believes it anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever did.
The cold therapy machine attached to my leg hums like it’s trying to sing me a medically inspired lullaby, but all I can hear is the sound of opportunity slipping away.
On the TV, some rookie with perfect teeth and a cooperative hamstring beams into the camera, rambling about how grateful he is for the chance to contribute.
The kid hasn’t earned his place yet. Hasn’t learned that hockey, like anything worth loving, will find new and inventive ways to break your heart.
I’m so lost in my spiral of self-pity that I don’t notice Dewey Carter until he’s practically on top of me.
“Hey, LeClerc,” he says, dropping into the chair beside me with the kind of confidence that only comes from a fully functioning body. “You want some ice for that massive chip on your shoulder?”
Dewey’s been my teammate for three years, which means he’s seen me at my worst and somehow still chooses to acknowledge my existence. He’s got this way of making everything sound like a joke even when it’s not.
“Don’t you have drills to ruin, Carts?” I mutter, the comeback landing about as flat as I feel.
“I don’t screw ’em up,” he says, leaning back like he’s got all the time in the world. “I perform them with creative interpretation. The boys love it. Coaches too. Adds mystery to practice.”
He pauses, studying me. “Besides,” he continues, “watching you scowl at a TV is way more entertaining. You look like a mall Santa who just had a kid piss on him.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Clerky,” Dewey says, and his voice goes softer. The nickname feels like coming home to a house that might not be yours anymore. “You’ll be back on the ice with the boys soon. Might not feel like it right now, but I’ve seen you fight through worse.”
The thing about platitudes is that they hurt most when they come from people who mean them. Dewey believes in me, which somehow makes everything worse. Belief is a luxury I can’t afford right now.
“Alright, bud,” he says, standing and clapping me on the shoulder. “Maybe mix in a smile once in a while. The death glare doesn’t do your delicate features any favors.”
I force something onto my face that might pass for a smile, but it fades the second he’s gone. The training room returns to its familiar quiet, punctuated only by the whir of machines and the distant sound of real hockey players doing real hockey things.
I grab my phone and do what I always do when I need to feel worse about myself: I scroll through social media.
There’s a post from the local beat reporter about trade rumors, something about a nineteen-year-old “generational talent” who’s apparently “a young Liam LeClerc.” The words hit like a slapshot to the gut.
I’m twenty-eight, which apparently means I’m already old enough to be someone’s baseline for comparison.
The phrase “young Liam LeClerc” causes me to simmer and grow hot inside.
What does that make me? The broken one? The cautionary tale?
That’s when Rocky, the Sentinels’ PR rep, barrels into the room like a bear that learned to wear khakis.
Heavyset and broad through the chest, his shirt straining at the buttons, he’s got the kind of presence that makes a room feel more crowded just by existing in it.
His beard is thick and unbothered, like he should be chopping wood instead of wrangling hockey players.
“LeClerc!” he shouts because Rocky only has one volume setting since he mainlines espresso all day.
“I need you for an event.” Rocky’s job is basically to make sure the players show up for obligations but don’t embarrass ourselves or the organization in public.
He’s powered by deadlines and caffeine, and he’s looking at me like I’m a problem he needs to solve. “So whaddya think?” he shouts.
“Not interested.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I don’t care what it is,” I say, finally meeting his eyes. Rocky’s expression suggests he’s not particularly impressed with my attitude, which is fair, because neither am I.
“It’s at Lincoln Center,” he barrels on, steamrolling right past my lack of enthusiasm. “Swan Lake performance—big deal, lots of cameras. You show up, wave, flash some teeth—real ones ideally, remind the world you’re not dead inside. Good for the team, good for you.”
Now I’m looking at him. “Ballet? You think anyone’s going to buy that I belong at a ballet? Come on, Rocky.”
He crosses his arms, and I can practically see the lecture forming behind his eyes. “I think people still care about you,” he says. His voice has an edge that cuts through my defenses. “And this is a chance to remind them why.”
The words land harder than they should. People caring about me feels like a foreign concept these days. I’ve been invisible for so long that I’m not sure I remember how to be seen.
“I’m not doing it,” I say, standing and grabbing my bag. “I’ve got enough to worry about without being paraded around as some feel-good story.”
Rocky gives me a look that suggests he can see straight through me. “Suit yourself,” he says finally. “But don’t forget: being invisible is a choice. If you’re okay with that, then I’ve got nothing else to say.”
He turns and walks out, leaving me alone with his words echoing in the empty training room.
Being invisible is a choice.
The thing is, Rocky’s right. I have been choosing to disappear, to fade into the background noise of my own life. It started as self-preservation—if you don’t try, you can’t fail—but somewhere along the way, it became something else. A habit. A comfort zone made of doubt and low expectations.
I sink back into my chair, staring at the spot where Rocky had been standing.
Outside the room, I can hear my teammates moving, bustling, continuing to be a team without me.
The noise from the crowd at last night’s game replays in my head.
The next time those cheers come, I want to be the reason for them.