Chapter 6
LIAM
Iwas still standing in the training room twenty minutes after Anne left.
Trying to recover from the most professionally humiliating moment of my adult life.
It had happened during the assessment. Her hands on my shoulder, working through the range of motion protocol, fingers pressing into the muscle with that focused clinical precision — and my body had decided, completely without my permission, to make its feelings known.
A boner. An actual, undeniable boner. During a medical examination.
What the hell, I'd thought, staring at the wall and running through every penalty kill formation I could remember. Absolutely not. She is a professional. You are a professional. You are twenty-nine years old and you will get this under control right now.
My body had not cared.
She hadn't noticed. Or if she had, she'd given absolutely no indication — just kept working, kept talking in that calm clinical voice about range of motion and inflammation and the rehabilitation protocol, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing there desperately thinking about Pittsburgh's defensive pairing to avoid embarrassing both of us.
She'd been thinking about my deltoid. I'd been thinking about her mouth. And I had absolutely no idea how I was going to survive eight weeks of this.
"O'Connell!"
I dropped my hand and turned. Carter Michaels was standing in the doorway, gym bag over his shoulder, that perpetual smirk on his face.
"You good, man? You've been staring at that wall for like ten minutes."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like someone just ran you through a blender." He dropped his bag and crossed to the bench. "New PT that intense? Harrison said she was supposed to be the best in Chicago, but damn."
"She's..." I searched for a word that wouldn't give me away. "Professional."
"Professional." Carter grinned. "That's not what I asked."
"What did you ask?"
"If she's hot."
My jaw tightened. "She's my physical therapist."
"So that's a yes." He laughed. "Dude, you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look that says you're completely fucked and you know it."
He had no idea how right he was.
"I need to get out of here," I said, grabbing my bag.
"You driving back to the apartment? Want to grab food? There's a new place downtown that?—"
"I'm good. I'll see you tomorrow."
I left before he could ask more questions. Before I had to explain why my hands were still shaking. Before I had to admit that Anne Mitchell had just walked back into my life and I had no idea how to survive the next eight weeks.
My apartment felt too quiet.
I dropped my bag by the door and stood in the middle of my living room — expensive furniture I barely used, a view of downtown St. Louis I never looked at, a space that was supposed to feel like home but just felt temporary. Everything felt temporary.
Years in Sweden. Two years back in the States. Eight years of professional hockey, grinding through leagues and contracts and cities that blurred together.
And in one afternoon, Anne Mitchell made it all feel meaningless.
I pulled out my phone.
I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't. But my fingers were already typing her name into Google before I could stop myself.
"Anne Mitchell physical therapist Chicago."
Her professional page loaded first. Midwest Elite Sports Medicine.
Specialist in sports rehabilitation. Credentials that would have been impressive even if I hadn't known how hard she'd worked for them.
Client testimonials praising her expertise, her dedication, her ability to get athletes back to peak performance.
There was a professional headshot. Hair pulled back, neutral expression, the kind of photo you took because your employer required it.
She looked nothing like the girl I'd known at Cornell. Nothing like the woman who'd stood in the training room today with tears in her eyes, asking me if I was married.
I clicked through to her bio. Education: Northwestern, graduated top of her class. Specializations. Awards. Publications in medical journals.
Nothing personal. No social media links. No mention of hobbies or interests or anything that would tell me who she was now, what her life looked like, if she'd been happy.
She was a ghost.
I tried Facebook. Nothing. Instagram. Nothing. LinkedIn showed the same professional headshot and resume, but no posts, no activity, nothing that suggested she used it for anything except the bare minimum networking.
She'd disappeared herself.
Or maybe she'd just disappeared from me.
I set down my phone and closed my eyes, replaying the conversation in the training room.
"How is it that a handsome hockey star hasn't found Ms. Right?"
The way she'd said it — trying to sound casual, trying to pretend she didn't care. But I'd heard the question underneath: Did you move on? Did you find someone who replaced me?
"I date, but I have very high standards."
God, the look on her face when I'd said that. Like she'd known exactly what I meant. Like she'd understood that every woman I'd been with had been measured against her and found lacking.
Because that was the truth.
I'd dated. After Sweden, after I'd come back to the States, after I'd stopped waking up every morning hoping she'd call.
I'd gone to dinners, slept with women whose names I could barely remember, tried to convince myself that what Anne and I had was just college infatuation blown out of proportion by time and distance.
But then I'd be lying in bed next to someone and catch myself comparing. The way they laughed — not as genuine as Anne's. The way they touched me — not as sure, not as knowing. The way they looked at me — like they saw Liam O'Connell the hockey player, the brand, the contract.
Not the guy who'd grown up in Simsbury skating on his dad's backyard rink. Not the guy who'd stayed up all night helping her study for anatomy exams. Not the guy who'd known her coffee order and the exact spot on her neck that made her gasp.
They'd seen the surface. Anne had seen everything.
And I'd let her go.
No — we'd let each other go. Both too stubborn, both too scared, both choosing careers over the terrifying possibility that we might have had to sacrifice something for love.
I wondered if she regretted it the way I did.
I wondered if she lay awake thinking about what we could have been.
I wondered if she touched herself thinking about me the way I?—
Fuck.
I was hard.
I was standing in my living room, phone in hand, thinking about Anne Mitchell, and I was hard enough that it hurt.
This was pathetic. I was twenty-nine years old, a professional athlete, and I was getting turned on thinking about a woman who'd made it very clear today that this — us — was a mistake she had no intention of repeating.
Except she'd almost kissed me.
She'd almost kissed me, and the only thing that had stopped her was her phone. If her mom hadn't texted, if we'd had thirty more seconds, I would have kissed her and she would have let me.
I knew it the same way I knew my own name.
My hand moved to my belt before I made a conscious decision.
This was stupid. This was pathetic. This was exactly the kind of thing I shouldn't be doing when I had to see her again in less than twelve hours.
I didn't care.
I stripped off my shirt, kicked off my pants, and sank onto my couch. My cock was already leaking, straining against my boxers, and I hadn't even touched it yet.
I closed my eyes and let myself remember.
Not today. Not the almost-kiss in the training room.
Cornell.
The first time I'd seen her naked. The first time I'd pushed inside her and watched her face as she'd taken me. The little gasp she'd made. The way her nails had dug into my shoulders. The way she'd said my name — *Liam* — like it was a prayer and a demand all at once.
The way she'd tasted. Sweet and tangy and uniquely her. The way her thighs had shaken when I'd gone down on her. The way her pussy had clenched around my fingers when she'd come.
I shoved my boxers down and wrapped my hand around my cock.
God, I was so hard it was almost painful. Pre-cum leaking from the tip, coating my palm as I started to stroke.
I imagined it was her hand. Smaller, softer, knowing exactly how I liked it because she'd learned years ago and I'd never forgotten.
I imagined her voice: You're so hard for me. You want me that badly?
Yes. God, yes.
I stroked faster, tighter, my other hand gripping the couch cushion as pleasure built at the base of my spine.
I imagined her on my couch. Naked, legs spread, touching herself while she watched me. Those dark eyes locked on mine, bottom lip caught between her teeth, breasts rising and falling as her breathing quickened.
"I want you inside me," she'd say. "I want to feel you again. It's been so long."
Too long.
I imagined pushing into her. Tight, wet, perfect. The way she'd have gasped. The way her back would have arched. The way she'd have wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me deeper, always deeper, never deep enough.
"Harder," she'd whisper. "I need it harder."
I'd have given her everything. Rough, desperate, years of need compressed into every thrust. The couch creaking beneath us, her nails raking down my back, her pussy clenching around my cock as she got closer, closer?—
"I'm going to come," she'd gasp. "Liam, I'm?—"
I came with a groan, spilling all over my hand, my abs, my thighs. Wave after wave of pleasure so intense I could barely breathe through it.
When it finally subsided, I was left panting on my couch, covered in my own cum, staring at the ceiling.
And reality crashed back in.
I'd just masturbated thinking about my physical therapist.
The woman I was contractually obligated to work with for the next eight weeks.
The woman who'd made it clear today that whatever we'd had was over.
The woman I'd never stopped loving.
"Fuck," I said to the empty apartment.
I grabbed my phone and saw three missed texts from Carter.
Carter: Dude, you ok?
Carter: You've been weird all day. PT must be kicking your ass.
Carter: If she's too much, Harrison can find someone else. Don't kill yourself trying to prove something.
I stared at the messages.
Someone else.
I could tell Harrison to find someone else. Cite conflict of interest. Say the treatment plan wasn't working. Make up any excuse that would get Anne on a plane back to Chicago and out of my life for good.
It would have been the smart thing to do.
The safe thing.
The thing that would have protected both of us from whatever mess we were about to make.
I deleted Carter's messages without responding.
Then I got up, cleaned myself off, and tried to convince myself that I could survive tomorrow.
That I could walk into that training room and be professional. That I could let her touch me — clinical, necessary touches for rehabilitation — and not think about all the other ways I wanted her hands on me.
That I could look at her and not see the girl I'd fallen in love with at Cornell. The woman I'd let slip away. The person who still, after all this time and an ocean and a thousand reasons why we shouldn't, felt like home.
I set my alarm.
Early. Only a few hours until I saw her again.
I didn't know if I was dreading it or craving it.
Maybe both.
Probably both.
I lay in bed — my bed that was too big, too empty, too expensive for someone who slept alone every night — and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, I had to pretend this afternoon didn't happen. Pretend I didn't almost kiss her. Pretend I didn't want to.
Tomorrow, I had to be Liam O'Connell, professional hockey player, focused on rehabilitation and playoff chances and keeping my career on track.
Tomorrow, I had to forget that Anne Mitchell existed as anything other than my PT.
The problem was, I'd been trying to forget her for years.
It hadn't worked yet.
I didn't think eight more weeks was going to change that.