Chapter 12 #2
"That's the fire I wanted to see," he said after practice, clapping me on the shoulder. "You looked sharp today, Vanner. Angry. Keep that anger. Use it on Dartmouth."
I nodded. I felt dead inside.
I went home to my apartment. It felt colder than usual. The mattress on the floor looked pathetic. I sat on the edge, staring at the empty space where her bag used to be.
My knee was throbbing. I went to the fridge to get ice.
There was a Tupperware container on the middle shelf.
I frowned. I hadn't put it there.
I pulled it out. It was lasagna. Homemade. There was a sticky note on top.
Fuel. Eat it. - S
She must have snuck in while I was at practice. Before our fight? Or after?
I opened it. It smelled amazing.
I sat on the floor and ate it cold, straight from the container.
It tasted like love. And forgiveness.
I put the fork down. I put my head in my hands.
"I'm an idiot," I whispered to the empty room.
I looked at my phone. I wanted to call her. I wanted to beg her to come back.
But I couldn't. Not until Saturday was over. Not until I had secured the future.
Win the game, I told myself. Win the game, get the contract, then fix the girl.
It sounded like a plan. A logical, strategic plan.
But deep down, I knew logic had nothing to do with it. I had broken something fragile, and I wasn't sure if lasagna could fix it.
Saturday. Game Day.
The atmosphere in the arena was electric. Dartmouth was our oldest rival. The stands were packed an hour before puck drop.
I sat in my stall, staring at my mask.
Focus. Speed. Violence.
My knee was wrapped so tight I could barely feel my foot. I had taken a cortisone shot an hour ago. The pain was a distant, dull roar.
"Vanner!" Coach barked. "Scouts are in Section 104. Salinger is next to Thorne. Put on a show."
"Yes, Coach."
We walked down the tunnel. The noise washed over us.
I stepped onto the ice. The cold air hit my face.
I looked up at the Owner's Box.
Marcus Thorne was there. Salinger was there, a stern man in a grey suit.
And Sofia was there.
She was sitting in the corner, far away from her father. She wasn't wearing my jersey. She was wearing a black dress, looking severe and untouchable.
She wasn't looking at the ice. She was looking at her phone.
My chest tightened.
I did this, I thought. I pushed her away.
The puck dropped.
The game started.
I played like a man possessed. I was angry. I was heartbroken. I channeled every ounce of frustration into stopping the puck.
First period: 12 saves. Shutout.
Second period: 15 saves. Shutout.
The knee held. The cortisone was working miracles.
But in the intermission, sitting in the locker room, the doubt crept in.
I checked my phone. No texts.
Usually, she sent me a halftime pep talk. You're doing great. Don't suck.
Silence.
Third period.
0-0 game.
Dartmouth was pressing. They sensed my fatigue.
With five minutes left, a Dartmouth winger broke loose. A breakaway.
He came in fast, deking left, then right.
I mirrored him. Lateral movement. Hard push.
I stopped the puck with my toe.
But as I extended, my skate caught a rut in the ice. My left leg twisted.
Pop.
This time, there was no pain. Just a sickening sensation of something giving way. Stability vanished.
I collapsed forward onto the ice.
The whistle blew.
"Vanner!"
I tried to get up. My leg wouldn't support me. It felt like jelly.
The trainer ran out.
"Don't move," he said.
"I have to finish," I gasped, trying to push up. "Five minutes. I have to finish."
"Liam, stay down," the trainer ordered.
I looked up at the glass box.
Salinger was shaking his head. He was writing something in his notebook. He closed it.
He stood up and walked out.
My heart shattered.
He was leaving. He had seen enough. The durability concern was confirmed.
I looked for Sofia.
She was standing at the glass. Her hands were pressed against it. Her face was a mask of terror.
She wasn't looking at her phone. She was looking at me.
And in that moment, lying on the cold ice with my career dissolving in front of my eyes, I realized the truth.
I had chosen the game. And the game had chewed me up and spit me out.
And the only person who actually cared was the one I had told to leave.
"Help me up," I told the trainer.
"We need the stretcher," he said.
"No stretcher," I grit out. "Help me up."
They hauled me to my feet. I couldn't put any weight on the leg. I had to be practically carried off the ice.
The crowd clapped politely. The pity clap.
I didn't look up again. I kept my head down.
I limped down the tunnel, into the darkness.
The season was over.
The dream was over.
And I was alone.
The medical room was quiet. The X-ray machine hummed.
"Complete tear," the team doctor said, looking at the screen. "ACL and MCL. You're looking at surgery and six months rehab, minimum."
I nodded numbly. I sat on the edge of the table, still in my gear.
"I'll call your mom," the doctor said gently. "Do you have anyone else you want me to call?"
"No," I said. "No one."
The door opened.
"He doesn't need you to call anyone."
I looked up.
Sofia stood in the doorway. She was still in the black dress, but she had thrown a team jacket over it. She looked fierce.
"I'm here," she said.
She walked into the room, ignoring the doctor. She came straight to me.
She didn't hug me. She didn't cry.
She stood between my legs, placing her hands on my face.
"You idiot," she whispered. "You stubborn, broken idiot."
"I blew it," I rasped. Tears burned my eyes. "The scout left. It's over."
"The scout is an idiot too," she said. "And it's not over. It's just a timeout."
"Sofia," I said, my voice breaking. "I was horrible to you. I said terrible things."
"Yes, you did," she agreed. "And you're going to grovel for that later. Big time. But right now?"
She leaned her forehead against mine.
"Right now, you're hurt. And I'm your partner. And partners don't walk away when things get messy."
"I don't have anything," I whispered. "No contract. No money. Just a broken leg."
"You have me," she said fiercely. "And I have resources. We're going to fix the knee. We're going to do the rehab. And if Chicago doesn't want you? Screw Chicago. We'll find another team."
"Why?" I asked. "Why are you doing this?"
She pulled back, looking me in the eye.
"Because I love you, Liam," she said clearly. "And because you make me feel real. And I'm not letting you go just because you had a bad day at the office."
She kissed me.
It tasted like salt and tears and defiance.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, burying my face in her jacket. I let go. I let the sobs rack my body.
She held me. She stroked my hair. She whispered into my ear.
"I've got you. I've got you."
The future was a black hole. But in that small, sterile room, holding the girl I thought I had lost, I found something better than a contract.
I found a home.