Chapter 42 Breaking Point
Breaking Point
Cole
I wake up to sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and Harper still dead asleep beside me. She's curled on her side, face peaceful, hair splayed across the pillow. I check my phone—six thirty. Early for a Sunday, but my body's used to the hockey schedule.
The memory of last night comes back in pieces. The party. Liam drunk off his ass. Bringing him here because he wouldn't tell me his address. I should check on him, make sure he didn't choke on his own vomit or something equally horrific.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Harper. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes like she didn't sleep well.
The living room is empty.
I stare at the couch where I left Liam last night—blanket folded neatly, bowl still on the floor, but no Liam. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.
"Liam?" I call out, checking the bathroom. Empty.
I walk through the rest of the house, then the backyard. Nothing. I go to the front door and look out at the street. No sign of him.
I pull out my phone and call him. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail. I hang up and try again. Same thing.
Standing in my kitchen, I feel this surge of frustration mixed with worry. I don't know where he lives. I don't know who to call. We've grown so far apart that I don't even know basic things about his life anymore.
He probably woke up early, felt like shit, and called an Uber home. That makes sense. He's a grown man. He can take care of himself.
But the worry doesn't completely go away. Something about last night felt different—darker. The way he wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't tell me what was wrong, just kept drinking like he was trying to drown something.
I shake it off and start making breakfast. It's probably for the best that he wasn't here when we woke up. Would've been awkward as hell anyway.
I'm cracking eggs into a pan when I hear Harper's footsteps. She emerges from the bedroom wearing one of my t-shirts, hair messy, eyes still half-closed with sleep. She looks around the living room, taking in the empty couch.
"He left," I say before she can ask.
"When?"
"I don't know. He was gone when I woke up."
Something crosses her face—relief, maybe, or something else I can't quite read. She walks over to me and wraps her arms around my waist from behind, pressing her face against my back.
I turn in her arms and kiss the top of her head. "You okay?"
She nods against my chest but doesn't say anything.
Her hands start moving, rubbing my back, my sides, slipping under the hem of my shirt. I respond automatically, my body remembering what mornings with Harper usually lead to. When she tilts her face up to kiss me, I taste sleep and something desperate underneath.
The kiss deepens fast. My hands slide into her hair, and she makes this small sound that goes straight through me. I lift her onto the kitchen counter, and she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer.
Her shirt comes off. Then mine. Then we're not thinking about Liam or last night or anything except each other. She's moaning my name, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and it's exactly what we both need—this connection, this proof that we're still us.
After, we eat breakfast in silence. Harper picks at her eggs, lost in thought. I'm replaying last night, trying to figure out what I could have done differently.
"You okay?" I ask, breaking the quiet.
She nods. "You?"
I nod too, even though I'm not sure it's true.
I show up at the rink at eight on Monday ready to tackle the week ahead. I need to clear my head, need to skate without thinking, need to do something with this restless energy that's been building since I woke up to an empty couch and no calls or texts back.
The ice is empty except for the Zamboni finishing up. I lace up my skates and hit the ice, taking laps at full speed until my lungs burn. The repetitive motion helps—the bite of cold air, the sound of my blades cutting through ice, the familiar weight of my stick in my hands.
I'm working on wrist shots when the locker room door opens. Liam walks in, gear bag over his shoulder, sunglasses on even though we're inside. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't acknowledge my presence at all. Just heads straight to his stall and starts getting ready.
Something hot and sharp twists in my chest.
I skate over to the boards. "Hey."
He doesn't respond.
"Liam."
Nothing.
"Are you seriously going to ignore me right now?"
He finally looks up, and even with the sunglasses I can see he's hungover as hell. "What do you want, Cole?"
"I want to know you're okay. You disappeared without a word. Can’t even shoot me a text?"
"I'm fine."
"You were throwing up drunk off your ass. I brought you to my place because you wouldn't tell me where you live. The least you could do is say thank you."
He goes back to lacing his skates. "Thanks."
The word is so flat, so devoid of anything real, that my frustration spikes. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"What do you want from me?" He stands, and there's something dangerous in his posture. "You want me to thank you for being such a great friend?"
"I want you to stop acting like I'm the enemy here."
"You're not the enemy. You're just the guy who gets everything he wants."
The words hang between us, sharp and true. Other players are starting to filter in now—Sirus, Marcus, Tommy—and I'm aware we have an audience.
"That's not fair," I say, keeping my voice low.
"No? Then what is it, Cole? You want me to be happy for you? To pretend like it doesn't kill me every time I see you two together?"
"What the fuck, Liam?" The words come out harsh. "It's been almost a year. At some point, you have to let this go and move on."
His laugh is bitter. "Let it go. Move on. Right. Because it's that easy."
"It could be if you'd actually try instead of drowning yourself in alcohol and random hookups."
"Don't act like you know anything about what I'm going through."
"I would if you'd talk to me! But you shut me out. You won't tell me where you live, you won't return my calls, you can barely look at me—"
"What the fuck do you want!" He's yelling now, and the locker room goes quiet. "What the fuck do you want from me, Cole!?”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Everyone is staring at us now, not even pretending to mind their own business.
"This is bullshit, Liam," I say quietly. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
"Neither did I."
Coach bursts through the door, whistle already in his mouth. "What the hell is going on in here? We've got practice in ten minutes, and you two are having a therapy session?"
"Nothing, Coach," Liam says, grabbing his helmet. "We're good."
But we're not good. Not even close.
Practice is a disaster from the start. Coach runs us through drills, and Liam and I keep ending up paired against each other. Every time, there's this edge to it—too much contact, too much aggression, skating the line between competitive and violent.
During a two-on-two drill, Liam checks me hard into the boards. Legal hit, but unnecessary. I shove him back, and suddenly we're face to face, gloves still on but tempers flaring.
"Problem?" he asks.
"Yeah. You."
"Feeling's mutual."
Coach blows the whistle. "Richardson! Murphy! Knock it off!"
We separate, but the tension doesn't dissipate. It builds through every drill, every passing exercise, every moment we're forced to be in the same space. The rest of the team can feel it—guys are skating carefully around us, giving us space, watching like we're bombs about to detonate.
Then we’re doing a scrimmage. I'm carrying the puck up the ice, and Liam comes at me with a hit that's way too high, catching me in the shoulder and sending me sprawling. Coach’s whistle shrieks, but I'm already up, dropping my gloves.
"What the fuck was that?" I shove him.
"A hit. Maybe if you weren't so soft—"
I don't let him finish. My fist connects with his jaw, and suddenly we're both dropping gloves, grabbing each other's jerseys, throwing punches.
The ice is slippery under my skates, but adrenaline keeps me upright.
I get him in the ribs, he catches me across the cheek, and then the guys are pulling us apart.
"Enough!" Coach roars, skating between us. "Both of you, off the ice! Now!"
My chest is heaving, knuckles already starting to ache. Liam's got a split lip, and there's murder in his eyes.
Coach follows me in, face red with rage. "What the hell was that, Richardson?"
"He came at me—"
"I don't care who started it! You're co-captains of this team.
You're supposed to lead by example, not brawl like you're in a bar fight during goddamn practice!
" He's pacing, trying to calm himself down.
"I don't know what's going on between you two, and frankly, I don't care.
But you figure it out, or you both ride the bench. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Go home. Cool off. I'll see you at practice tomorrow, and you better have your shit together."
He storms out, leaving me alone in the locker room with my bleeding knuckles and racing heart. I sit on the bench, head in my hands, trying to process what just happened.
I fought my best friend. Threw actual punches at him in the middle of practice. Over what? Pride? Harper? A year's worth of unresolved bullshit that neither of us knows how to fix?
My phone buzzes. A text from Harper.
Harper: This is going to be my hardest class ever.
I stare at the message, not sure how to respond. Do I tell her that I got into a fistfight with Liam? By the feel of my face, I can’t hide it.
Me: Practice was rough. Tell you about it when I get home.
Harper: Everything okay?
Me: Will be. Love you.
Harper: Love you too.
I sit there for another ten minutes, letting my heart rate return to normal. My jaw throbs where Liam landed a punch, and my knuckles are swelling. When I finally stand and start gathering my stuff, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
There's a bruise forming on my cheek, and my eyes look tired. Defeated.
This can't keep happening. Something has to break—either Liam moves on, or we destroy each other trying to pretend everything's fine.
I just don't know which one it's going to be.
Harper's waiting when I get home. She takes one look at my face and gasps.
"What happened?"
"Liam and I got into it during practice."
"Into what?"
"A fight." I drop my bag and sink onto the couch. "Coach is pissed."
She sits beside me, gently touching my jaw where the bruise is blooming. "Cole..."
"I know. It was stupid. But he came at me, and I just... snapped."
"What did he say?"
"That I get everything I want." I lean my head back, closing my eyes. "He won’t admit to shit. I told him to move on and he screamed, ‘What do you want me to say?’”
The silence that follows is heavy. When I open my eyes, Harper's staring at her hands.
"I don't know what to do," I admit. "I don't know how to fix this."
Her voice is small. "I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
"You're not the reason. We're the reason. Liam and me. We're both too stubborn to figure out how to be friends when everything's changed."
She curls into my side, and I wrap my arm around her. Rex hops up on the couch, sensing the mood, and plants himself across both our laps.
"It'll be okay," Harper says, but she doesn't sound convinced.
"Yeah," I echo. "It'll be okay."
But as we sit there in the dimming afternoon light, my face throbbing and my friendship in pieces, I'm not sure I believe it.