Chapter 11 #2
"Coach Miller doesn't 'just check'," I said grimly. "He's sniffing around. We were holding hands, Sofia. If he saw that..."
"He didn't see," she insisted. "We were fast."
"We need to cool it," I said. "In public. No more study rooms. No more library."
"So what? We just don't see each other?" Her voice rose, panicked.
"We see each other at my place," I said. "Or yours. Late at night. When no one is watching."
"That makes it feel dirty," she whispered. "Like we're doing something wrong."
"We are doing something wrong," I reminded her. "According to my contract and your father."
She looked at me, hurt flashing in her eyes.
"It doesn't feel wrong to me," she said softly.
"It doesn't feel wrong to me either," I said, reaching for her hand again, but stopping myself before I touched her. "But feelings don't pay the rent, Sofia. And they don't win championships."
She pulled her hand back, tucking it into her lap.
"Right," she said coldly. "Championships first."
"Don't do that," I said. "Don't look at me like I'm him."
"Like who?"
"Like your dad. Like I'm prioritizing the game over you because I want to. I'm doing it because I have to."
"I know," she sighed. She stood up, gathering her books. "I'm tired, Liam. I'm going home."
"Sofia—"
"I'll see you at practice," she said. "Manager and Captain. Strictly professional."
She walked out.
I watched her go. The glass walls of the study room felt like a cage.
The next three days were miserable.
We stuck to the plan. Professional. Cold. Efficient.
At practice, she handed me water bottles without making eye contact. I acknowledged her with a nod. The team didn't notice the difference, but I felt it in my bones. It was like a phantom limb pain—the absence of her warmth was a constant ache.
And then, Friday happened.
I was at the shop, under a Subaru, changing the oil. My phone rang on the workbench.
It was an unknown number.
I wiped my greasy hands on a rag and answered.
"Vanner."
"Liam Vanner?" A crisp, professional voice.
"Speaking."
"This is Mark Salinger. I'm a scout for the Chicago Blackhawks."
I dropped the rag.
The Blackhawks. An Original Six team. The dream.
"Yes, sir," I said, standing up straighter, even though he couldn't see me. "Hello."
"I've been watching your tape," Salinger said. "And I was at the Union game. You took a hell of a hit."
"I'm fine, sir," I said instantly. "Just a bruise. I played the rest of the game."
"I saw," Salinger said. "That's what I like about you, Vanner. Grit. Most goalies are headcases. You? You're a tank."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Thank you, sir."
"Listen," Salinger continued. "We're looking at you for the second round. But we need to be sure about the durability. I'm coming to the Dartmouth game on Saturday. I want to see you move. Lateral quickness. If you show me you're 100%, we're going to have a serious conversation about your future."
"I'll be ready," I promised. "100%."
"Good. See you then."
The line went dead.
I stood there in the cold garage, staring at the phone.
Chicago. The second round. That was a signing bonus. That was a salary. That was freedom.
But then the reality hit me.
Lateral quickness.
My knee was currently wrapped in three layers of tape and throbbing like a toothache. I could skate forward. I could drop. But moving side-to-side fast? That was exactly what hurt the most.
I needed to be perfect on Saturday. Or the dream died.
And if the dream died... what did I have to offer Sofia? Nothing.
I grabbed my phone and texted her. I broke the protocol.
Me: Code Red. My place. Now.
She arrived twenty minutes later. She looked worried.
"What happened?" she asked, bursting through the door. "Did Coach find out? Did Jaxson say something?"
I was pacing the small room. I stopped when I saw her.
"The Blackhawks called," I said.
Her eyes widened. She dropped her bag. "Chicago? Liam! That's amazing!"
She ran to me, throwing her arms around my neck.
I caught her, but I didn't spin her around. I held her tight, burying my face in her hair.
"They're coming Saturday," I said into her ear. "The scout. He wants to see lateral movement. He wants to see that the knee is 100%."
She pulled back, looking at my face. Her smile faded.
"But it's not 100%," she whispered. "It's barely 60%."
"I have to fake it," I said. "I have to play the game of my life on Saturday. If I do, I get the contract. I get the money. I get out."
"And if you blow the knee out completely?" she asked.
"Then I don't," I said simply. "But I have to try."
She looked at me. I saw the fear in her eyes. But underneath it, I saw the fierce determination that I fell in love with.
"Okay," she said. "Then we prep. We ice it. We elevate it. You don't walk for the next 24 hours. I'll bring you food. I'll massage it. We get the swelling down."
"You'd do that?" I asked. "Even though we're 'cooling it'?"
"Screw cooling it," she said. "This is your future, Liam. I'm not going to let you fail."
She took my hand and led me to the mattress.
"Lay down," she commanded.
I lay down.
She sat next to me, unwrapping my knee. She looked at the swollen joint with a clinical, loving focus.
"We're going to fix this," she promised.
She leaned down and kissed my knee. A soft, reverent touch of her lips against the damaged skin.
"Chicago," she murmured. "That's far from Paris."
"It's a flight," I said. "We can make it work."
"We can make it work," she repeated.
But as she looked at me, I saw the doubt.
Chicago meant leaving. Paris meant leaving.
We were building a future on a foundation that was designed to crack.
But right now, with her hands on my leg and the promise of a scout in the stands, I pushed the doubt away.
"Just get me to Saturday," I said.
"I've got you," she said.
And for the first time in a week, I believed her.