Chapter Four
Good intentions have a nasty habit of crashing headfirst into reality at the worst possible moments.
Like when you’re in your apartment, basking in the smug glow of being the loving uncle who takes his niece to the ballet and even signs her up for classes, only to have your phone ring with that haunting tone that signals your life’s about to get complicated.
“Liam, where do I start?” Zoe says when I answer her call. The impending disaster is evident in her clipped voice.
“Let me guess,” I say, settling back into my couch with the resignation of someone who’s become familiar with disappointment. “You’re calling to tell me I’ve somehow screwed up the one thing I managed to do right this week.”
“Lila and I leave New York on Sunday.”
The words knock the wind out of me momentarily. “What do you mean you leave Sunday? Monday is the ballet class.”
“Lila has school, remember? That thing children do Monday through Friday where they learn about the alphabet and numbers? We’re only here through the weekend. Meanwhile she’s telling me how excited she is about this ballet class you said she could go to.”
I stare at my ceiling, watching the shadow of my neighbor’s fire escape create patterns in the afternoon light. Of course. Of course they’re leaving. Because why would anything in my life be simple or convenient?
“So, when you say she’s excited about ballet class…” I start, though I already know where this is going.
“I mean she’s excited about a ballet class she’ll never actually attend because her uncle didn’t bother to ask when we were flying home.”
There’s a special kind of silence that happens when you realize you’ve disappointed a six-year-old who was counting on you. It’s not a great one.
“I could ask if there’s a class that happens earlier during the weekend?” I offer weakly.
“Liam,” Zoe says, her voice a mix of affection and exasperation. “You signed up a six-year-old for a class in a city she doesn’t live in. I don’t think timing is the main issue here.”
After we hang up, I sit there feeling like the human embodiment of good intentions gone wrong.
I should call Petra, explain the situation, apologize for committing Lila to something I shouldn’t have committed her to.
But I don’t have Petra’s number. So instead, I do what any reasonable guy would do: I avoid the problem and hope it resolves itself.
Later that week, I find myself perched on an examination table in the Sentinels’ training room.
Dr. Connelly strides in, iPad tucked under one arm, lab coat flaring slightly as if the air parts for him.
He’s tall and stoop-shouldered with wire-rim glasses that catch the room’s fluorescent lighting, momentarily blinding me.
His expression is that carefully neutral mask doctors wear when they’re about to ruin your week in two sentences or less.
“So,” I say, my palms pressed into the crinkling exam paper, trying not to fidget. “What’s the verdict, Dr. Connelly?”
He rolls his stool over to me with the steady economy of someone who’s done this a thousand times. His glasses slide halfway down his nose before he nudges them back into place with a flick.
“The MRI shows there’s still lingering damage to the muscle fibers,” he says, tapping the screen with a long finger, each point sharp and precise. “Specifically in the proximal region near the tendon attachment.”
Proximal region. Tendon attachment. The clinical words rattle around my skull like pucks clanging off the boards.
My leg twitches involuntarily, the rubber therapy sleeve squeezing against my hamstring. I clear my throat. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
Dr. Connelly swivels back toward me, posture straightening. His eyes, cool and steady behind the glasses, hold mine. His tone is gentle, but the words land like body blows.
“It means that while the initial tears have healed,” he says evenly, “the elasticity in your muscle hasn’t fully returned. That stiffness is putting extra strain on your ligaments and tendons, which is why you’re still feeling pain and battling this limited range of motion.”
I feel something deflate inside me—not the quick pop of a burst balloon but the slow, inexorable leak of air from something that’s supposed to stay inflated. My career, my identity, my entire sense of purpose—all of it suddenly feels as fragile as tissue paper in the rain.
“So, what’s the fix? More rehab? Another set of epidurals?”
Dr. Connelly’s mouth twitches. “Rehab and stretching are part of it, yes. But at this point, it’s not just about strength. You need to restore the elasticity of the muscle. Without that, you’re going to keep compensating, which will only lead to further injury in adjacent regions.”
Further injury in adjacent regions. My body has a domino effect of breakdown and compensation. How poetic.
“So, I’m stuck in this cycle unless I turn into a rubber band?” I say, my frustration bleeding through the attempted humor.
Dr. Connelly leans back against the counter, his expression softening. “Liam, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but this kind of recovery takes time. If you don’t focus on regaining flexibility and mobility, we’re looking at a permanent limitation in your ability to perform.”
My fingers curl into fists against my thighs, a physical manifestation of the fight I want to have with my own body, with time, with the cruel realities of professional athletics.
“What are my options?” I ask, after letting the silence stretch long enough to absorb the reality of my situation.
“We’ll continue with targeted physical therapy, but you need to incorporate consistent work to improve elasticity,” Dr. Connelly says. “And we can consider alternative approaches.”
“Alternative approaches?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean? Like acupuncture or some holistic thing?”
“We should try a series of interventions like yoga and Pilates. We need to think outside the box of traditional remedies. You need interventions that force you to use muscles you don’t normally activate. Stretching and traditional rehab alone aren’t going to cut it.”
“Alright,” I say finally, sitting up straighter and meeting Dr. Connelly’s gaze. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Good,” he nods, his expression turning serious. “Because this is your career we’re talking about. Half-measures won’t cut it anymore.”
As he leaves, I sit in the quiet training room, listening to the distant sounds of my teammates as they head onto the ice for practice.
The familiar percussion of skates on ice, the sharp crack of sticks against pucks, the orchestrated beauty of a sport I’m beginning to realize I might be losing my ability to perform.
A knock interrupts my brooding. Rocky pokes his head through the door; his grin is already loaded with mischief.
“Well,” he begins, swaggering into the room with theatrical flair. “If it isn’t Mr. Swan Lake himself. So tell me, was she impressed?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Don’t play dumb,” Rocky says, his grin widening with predatory satisfaction. “Your date. The mysterious someone who inspired you to take my ballet tickets. She must’ve been blown away by your cultured side.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I say, hoping the finality in my tone will discourage further questioning. “I took my niece.”
Rocky pauses, his smirk faltering for half a second before rebounding with renewed vigor. “Your niece? Really? That’s the story you’re going with?”
“It’s not a story,” I say, rolling my eyes and heading toward the door. “She wanted to go for her birthday, so I took her.”
“Just know that if you ever decide to trade in your skates for ballet slippers,” Rocky calls after me, “I want front-row tickets. You owe me, LeClerc!”
I pause at the doorway, shaking my head. “Orchestra tickets. You got it, Rocky.”