Chapter 9 Liam
LIAM
I can’t help touching my lips as I walk away, the taste of her mint lip gloss still faintly there, but enough to wreck me.
My cock’s hard in my jeans, and yeah, I probably look like a creep.
Feels like one, too.
But damn.
Damn Emma Reyes and that hair, those eyes, those lips, the body that curves in ways it didn’t six years ago.
She’s not the girl I used to kiss under the bleachers anymore.
She’s a woman. A beautiful, complicated woman, and every new inch of her feels like a sin I want to commit.
Six years later, and suddenly it feels like yesterday.
Like we’re still seventeen and stupidly madly in love, whispering about our future in the back of my old Ford. Talking about marriage and forever, convinced nothing could ever change us.
Truth is, I would’ve married her then. Thought love was enough to save us both.
I never had much, but I saved what I could and bought a small diamond ring from a pawn shop.
It came in a little velvet box, and there were a hundred times I thought about pulling it out to tell her she was the one.
That none of hockey, college, or the draft meant a damn thing without her beside me.
Maybe I should’ve.
Perhaps that would’ve kept her from running.
But she did. And I’ve been trying to fill that hole ever since.
I used to tell myself she left because she thought I’d change once I went off to school. That she thought I’d chase puck bunnies or forget her once I was living the dream.
Maybe I didn’t say it enough.
Perhaps I didn’t make it clear that she was more important than all of it.
Because she was, she always was.
Always will be.
She was my best friend before she was anything else. The only person I ever really opened up to, the only one who saw me for more than what I came from.
This mystery ate at me for years. The idea that I pushed her away somehow, that I made her feel like running was her only way out, haunts me.
Maybe it was my shitty home life.
Maybe she got tired of the chaos.
I was constantly calling the emergency squad, every time I found my mom passed out and half dead from alcohol or drug abuse. She’d get clean for a while, promise me she’d stay that way, then spiral right back down.
The men she dated were worse. I took more punches than she did some nights, just trying to pull her out of the line of fire.
My dad left right after I started high school. He refused to pay child support, and now I know why. Addicts don’t exactly make reliable parents, and he was just as much of a fuck up as she was.
My mom bounced from job to job, always starting fresh, always getting fired. Turns out full-blown addicts aren’t known for their consistency.
I came from trash. I only had hockey, and hockey was what made college possible.
Hockey was going to change my financial situation. Then I’d be good enough for someone like Emma.
I thought if I made it big, I could finally buy a house, start a family, and build the kind of life I never had growing up.
What a joke.
Turns out, hockey didn’t fix shit.
My dad’s dead, but I’m stuck paying off his insurmountable debt to the Irish mafia, and my fifty-two-year-old mom is living in assisted care because her liver and her brain are shot from decades of booze.
I might as well light my fucking paycheck on fire every month.
So yeah. I’m not good enough for Emma.
Never was. Still isn’t.
Her sister knows it too. She made it clear then and again tonight. I can’t even be mad about it.
By the time my Uber arrives, I’ve almost convinced myself I don’t care. That she’s the past, a ghost I need to keep buried.
But the second I slide into the back seat, her face flashes in my head again. Those eyes, that mouth, the body that used to fit perfectly against mine, like they were made for me.
The driver’s a chatty guy in a Cubs hat with a half-empty coffee cup rattling in the console. He keeps glancing at me in the mirror.
“Rough night, man?”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “You could say that.”
“You win or lose?” he asks, like it’s some bar fight or a bad poker hand.
I stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past. “Depends what game we’re talking about.”
He chuckles as he gets it. “That bad, huh?. Woman trouble.”
I look up, catch his eyes in the mirror for half a second. “Something like that.”
He nods like he’s been there, probably has. “Well, whatever it is, it ain’t permanent. Nothing ever is.”
I don’t answer. Just press my hand against the bruised spot on my ribs and keep my gaze on the city.
He doesn’t know how wrong he is.
Some things can be permanent.
Especially, the things that cut deepest usually are.
She’s permanent.
Even when she’s gone.
When he drops me off, I thank him, step out, and head inside.
I peel off my shirt as I go, kicking off my shoes on the way to the bathroom. I need a hot shower, steam, and a little silence to burn the night off me.
My phone buzzes just as I’m about to step into the shower.
I almost ignore it. But something in my gut twists.
A call after midnight—never good.
“Yeah?” I answer, already bracing.
“Mr. Callaghan?” a woman says, her tone too polite to be good news. “This is Janine from Lakeside Care. I’m sorry to call so late—your mother’s had a fall.”
My stomach drops. “How bad?”
“She hit her head in the bathroom. She’s conscious, but disoriented. We’re sending her to Mercy General for a CT scan, just to be safe.”
“Is she in pain?”
“A little shaken, but stable,” Janine says. “The paramedics are with her now. She asked for you.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a sharp ache building behind my eyes. “I’ll be there soon.”
“We’ll keep her calm until you arrive,” she adds, softer now. “Try not to rush. She’s okay.”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Thanks.”
I hang up and just stand there for a second, phone heavy in my hand, staring at the floor.
The heat from Emma’s kiss, that dizzy rush of being near her again, is gone, replaced by the familiar weight of everything else I can’t escape.
“Jesus, Mom,” I mutter. “Can’t catch a break, can we?”
I grab my keys, ignoring the throb in my ribs as I move.
I tell myself I’m fine, but I’m not.
I haven’t been fine in a long time.
The streets are empty when I hit the road. Streetlights smear across my windshield, and the city looks the way I feel—tired, half-broken, and still pretending to be alive.
By the time I get to Mercy, they’ve got her in a private room, half-asleep, bruised, and confused. The sight of her hooked up to IVs and monitors does something to me I can’t even name.
“Hey, Ma,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead.
Her eyelids flutter. “Liam?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I slipped,” she mumbles. “Stupid floor.”
“Yeah,” I say with a weak smile. “Always out to get you. Hah.”
She gives this weak, broken laugh, and I force one out too, pretending I’m not falling apart.
The nurse comes in and checks the monitors. “No bleeding, no fracture. Just a mild concussion. We’ll keep her overnight for observation.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
But I don’t leave. I sit by her bed until she drifts off again.
Then I stay longer, staring at her hand—the same one that used to cradle a bottle more than it ever held mine—and feel that familiar mix of guilt and anger twist in my chest.
It’s after two by the time I make it home.
I strip down, step into the shower, and crank the heat until it’s just shy of burning. Steam fills the room, swallowing me whole.
My body’s still not fully healed, but I’ve been working out with the team trainers, pushing through the pain.
Dancing sure as hell wasn’t on the list of approved activities—but when I saw Emma on that dance floor, logic went out the window.
My muscles scream from the night’s chaos, but all I can think about is her.
Emma.
The way her body felt pressed against mine. The taste of her lips. The sound she made when I kissed her like I still owned her.
“Christ,” I growl, bracing a hand on the wall. The memory is torture and comfort all at one.
I can still feel her heat, her breath on my neck, the way my hands fit at the dip of her waist.
That thin dress clinging to her skin, those straps slipping off her shoulders, olive skin glowing under the lights. I wanted to kiss every inch of her collarbone, her throat, that soft spot below her ear where she always shivered.
And then the way she clung to me outside, fierce and unguarded. The way her mouth fit mine like it still belonged there.
For a few wild seconds, the world disappeared.
It was just us again.
I close my eyes, replaying the look she gave me, and my whole body tightens. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten hard thinking about her in the shower.
Won’t be the last.
I’m pumping my fist, and it is in no way in hell as good as the real thing, but for now, it’s all I’ve got.
The tension builds, sharp and relentless, and it drives me until I’m spilling my release on the wall of the shower with a curse slipping past my lips.
When the water runs cold, I shut it off, grab a towel, and head to bed.
My ribs are sore.
My head aches worse. But I’m too wound up to sleep, wondering if she’s lying in bed somewhere, thinking about me, too.
I check my phone before setting it on the nightstand. Two texts.
The first is from Nik:
Downtown Diner. 8 am.
I type back:
Ok. Thx.
The second one, with Emma’s name attached, I’ve missed you.
My heart stops, but then it picks up like the beat of a drum, hammering up into my throat. I try typing out a response. Too many words. Too few. Sounds stupid. I finally settle on: I’ve missed you, too.
I know. Genius, right?
I have so many questions, but it is very late, and I’m suddenly exhausted, so I add a second text: Goodnight. I hope we get to talk soon.
And that’s the truth.
I need to talk. I need to know why she ran, what I did to make her leave.
I drop the phone onto my chest and stare up at the ceiling, the taste of her still on my lips.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not when she’s back in my world.
Not when every part of me still fucking belongs to her.