Chapter 13
Liam
Hospitals have a specific silence. It’s not peaceful. It’s the silence of held breaths, of waiting for news you don't want to hear.
I was lying in a hospital bed at the Fletcher Allen Medical Center in Burlington. My left leg was elevated, encased in a massive, ugly immobilizer brace. The surgery was scheduled for tomorrow morning.
The room was dark. The only light came from the machines monitoring my vitals and the glow of the city lights outside the window.
I stared at the ceiling tiles.
Complete tear.
The words echoed in my head, bouncing around like a puck in an empty rink.
My phone sat on the bedside table. It was blowing up. Texts from teammates. Calls from my mom (which I ignored—I couldn't handle her hysterical sympathy right now). A voicemail from Coach Miller telling me to "keep my chin up."
I didn't want to keep my chin up. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break things. I wanted to go back to 4:00 PM yesterday and tell myself to stay down. To accept the limitation. To not be a hero.
But I was Vanner. The Wall. I didn't stay down. And now I was broken.
The door creaked open.
I didn't turn my head. I assumed it was a nurse coming to check my vitals again.
"Hey."
It wasn't a nurse.
I turned. Sofia stood in the doorway.
She looked... stripped. She wasn't wearing the Heiress armor.
No designer coat. No makeup. She was wearing leggings and a baggy grey sweatshirt that I realized with a jolt was mine—the one she had stolen from my floor yesterday morning.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, flyaways framing her face.
She was holding a paper bag that smelled like grease and salvation.
"Hey," I rasped. My throat was dry.
She walked in, closing the door softly behind her. She pulled the visitor chair closer to the bed and sat down.
"I brought you food," she said, opening the bag. "Five Guys. Double cheeseburger. Cajun fries. Large strawberry shake."
"I'm fasting for surgery," I reminded her. "Nothing after midnight."
She checked her watch. "It's 11:15. You have forty-five minutes to inhale this."
She unwrapped the burger and held it out to me.
I took it. My hands were shaking slightly. Not from hunger, but from the sudden, overwhelming emotion of seeing her. She hadn't left. She hadn't gone back to campus. She was here, in a plastic chair, feeding me grease.
I took a bite. It tasted like sawdust. I forced myself to chew.
"Did you talk to your mom?" she asked, pulling a fry from the bag.
"No," I said. "I can't deal with her right now. She'll make it about her. How am I going to pay the bills? Who's going to fix the car? It's too much."
"I talked to her," Sofia said casually.
I choked on the burger. "You what?"
"I called her," she said, dipping a fry in ketchup. "Her number was in your phone as 'Mom - Do Not Answer'. Which is sad, by the way. I told her you were fine. I told her the surgery was routine. I told her the team was covering everything."
"You lied to my mother?"
"I managed her," Sofia corrected. "I told her not to come because the roads were bad. I sent her a Grubhub gift card so she wouldn't worry about dinner. She's fine, Liam."
I stared at her. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you need to focus on healing," she said simply. "Not on managing her anxiety."
She took the shake and put the straw in my mouth. "Drink."
I drank. The cold sweetness coated my throat.
"You're amazing," I whispered, pulling away from the straw. "And terrifying."
"That's the brand," she smirked, but her eyes were sad.
She put the food down on the table and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the mattress, careful not to touch my leg.
"So," she said softly. "Talk to me. Not the 'I'm fine' speech. The real stuff. What's going on in that thick skull of yours?"
"I'm scared," I admitted. The words fell out before I could stop them. "I'm scared that I'm never going to be the same. Goalies... we rely on our knees. If I lose even 5% of my lateral speed, I'm done. I'm average. And average doesn't get you to the NHL."
"Okay," she nodded. "So Plan A is shaky. What's the fear behind that? Is it just the money?"
"It's not just the money," I said, looking away from her, back to the ceiling. "It's the escape."
"Escape from what?"
"From becoming my father," I said.
The silence in the room deepened. I had never said that out loud. Not to Jaxson. Not to my sisters.
"Tell me," she said. It wasn't a demand. It was an invitation.
I took a deep breath.
"My dad was a pitcher," I started. "Minor leagues. Triple-A. He was good. Really good. He had a 95-mile-per-hour fastball. He was going to get called up to the Red Sox."
"What happened?"
"He tore his rotator cuff," I said. "Pitching in a meaningless game in Pawtucket. He tried to rehab it, but he rushed it. He blew it out again. Career over."
I paused, the memory of the stories he used to tell me when he was drunk playing in my head.
"He couldn't handle it," I continued. "Being 'just a guy.' He started drinking. He started gambling. He got mean. He looked at us—me, my mom, the girls—like we were the reason he failed. Like if he didn't have mouths to feed, he could have kept playing."
"Liam," Sofia whispered, her hand finding mine on the sheet.
"He left when I was twelve," I said. "Just walked out. Left a note on the fridge saying 'I can't do this anymore.' He took the car. He took the savings. He left us with nothing."
I squeezed her hand.
"I promised myself," I said, my voice thick. "I promised myself I would never be him. I would never be the guy who peaked at twenty-two and spent the rest of his life bitter. I would make it. I would secure the bag. I would be the rock."
I looked at her, tears stinging my eyes.
"And now look at me," I gestured to the leg. "Broken at twenty-two. Just like him."
Sofia stood up. She leaned over the bed railing. She cupped my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her.
"You are not him," she said fiercely. "Listen to me, Liam Vanner. You are not him. He left. You stayed. You raised your sisters. You paid the bills. You worked in a garage until your hands bled so you could play this game. That is not weakness. That is strength."
"But I failed," I whispered. "I didn't get the contract."
"You haven't failed," she said. "You got injured. That happens. But you didn't quit. And you didn't leave."
She leaned closer, her nose brushing mine.
"And you have something he didn't have," she whispered.
"What's that?"
"You have a partner," she said. "He was alone.
You're not alone. I'm not going to let you become bitter.
I'm not going to let you give up. We are going to rehab this knee.
We are going to find a team. And if hockey doesn't work out?
Then we find something else. Because you are more than a goalie, Liam. You are a good man."
A tear slipped down my cheek. She kissed it away.
"I love you," I said.
It wasn't a thought this time. It wasn't a slip. It was a declaration.
"I love you, Sofia. I don't know what I have to offer you right now. I'm broke. I'm broken. But I love you."
She smiled. It was a watery, trembling smile that broke my heart and put it back together.
"You offer me everything," she said. "You offer me truth. You offer me safety. That's worth more than a contract."
She kissed me. Softly. Tenderly. A promise sealed in a hospital room.
"I love you too," she whispered against my lips. "So much."
She stayed.
The nurses tried to kick her out at midnight when visiting hours ended. She charmed them. She told them she was my fiancée (a lie that made my heart race in a good way) and that she needed to be here for the pre-op anxiety.
They let her stay. They brought her a cot.
She pushed the cot right up next to my bed. She held my hand through the railing.
We talked for hours in the dark.
We talked about the future. The fantasy version.
"We could get a dog," she mused at 2:00 AM. "A big one. A Mastiff. To guard the house."
"I want a Golden Retriever," I countered. "Someone happy."
"Fine. One of each," she compromised. "And we'll live in a house with big windows. Not a basement."
"Somewhere with a garage," I added. "I want to restore cars. Classic ones. Not just fix beaters."
"I can do the marketing," she said. "'Vanner Customs.' We'll charge a fortune."
"And you?" I asked. "What about Paris?"
There was a pause. A hesitation in the dark.
"Maybe Paris can wait," she said softly. "Maybe I can run the European division remotely. Or maybe... maybe I don't want to work for my dad forever. Maybe I want to start my own label."
"You should," I said. "You're brilliant at it."
"It would be hard," she said. "Without his money."
"We're good at hard," I reminded her.
"Yeah," she squeezed my hand. "We are."
We drifted off to sleep holding hands across the gap between the bed and the cot.
For the first time since the injury, the panic was gone. The fear of the future was replaced by something warmer. Hope.
I had lost the game. I had lost the scout.
But I had won her.
And lying there in the dark, listening to the rhythmic beep of the monitor, I realized that was the only victory that mattered.
The next morning was a whirlwind.
Nurses waking me up at 6:00 AM. Pre-op prep. Shaving the leg. The IV.
Sofia was there for every second. She held my hand while they put the line in. She distracted me with terrible jokes about hospital gowns.
Then, they came to wheel me down.
"This is as far as you can go, honey," the nurse told her at the double doors.
Sofia stopped. She looked scared for the first time.
"I'll see you in a few hours," I said, squeezing her hand. "I'll be groggy and probably saying weird things."
"I'll record it for blackmail," she promised, trying to smile.
She leaned down and kissed me.
"I love you," she whispered. "Be brave."
"Always," I said.
They wheeled me through the doors. I watched her until the doors swung shut, cutting off my view.
I lay back on the gurney, staring at the fluorescent lights passing overhead.
I love you.
The words were a shield. A talisman.
I closed my eyes as the anesthesia hit my veins.
The world went black.
Sofia
I sat in the waiting room for four hours.
I drank three cups of terrible vending machine coffee. I scrolled through my phone without seeing anything.
I was buzzing with a strange, frantic energy.
I love him. He loves me.
It was real. It was happening. We were going to figure it out.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen.
Daddy.
I hesitated. I hadn't told him I was at the hospital. He thought I was at the library.
I answered.
"Hello?"
"Sofia," his voice was clipped. Professional. "Where are you?"
"I'm... out," I said vaguey. "What's up?"
"I need you to come to the office," he said. "Now."
"I can't," I said. "I'm busy."
"Sofia," his tone dropped. "It's not a request. It's about Vanner."
My blood ran cold.
"What about him?"
"He's in surgery, right? Dr. Evans is working on him."
"How do you know that?"
"I own the team, Sofia. I know everything. I also know that you're listed as his emergency contact. 'Fiancée' apparently."
I closed my eyes. Busted.
"Daddy, I can explain—"
"Don't explain over the phone," he cut me off. "Come to the office. We need to discuss his contract situation. And yours."
"Is he okay?" I asked, panic rising. "Did something happen in surgery?"
"The surgery is fine," he said dismissively. "But the situation has changed. Get here. Now."
He hung up.
I stared at the phone.
The situation has changed.
A cold knot of dread formed in my stomach.
I looked at the double doors where Liam had disappeared. He was still under. He was vulnerable.
I couldn't leave him.
But if I didn't go, if I didn't handle my father... he could hurt Liam. He could pull the medical coverage. He could ruin everything.
I stood up.
"Nurse," I said to the woman at the desk. "If he wakes up... tell him I had to run an errand. Tell him I'll be right back."
"Sure, honey," she said, not looking up.
I grabbed my bag and ran out of the waiting room.
I had to protect the future we had built in the dark last night.
Even if it meant walking into the lion's den alone.