Chapter 9 #2
"It's temporary. I'm renting it furnished. Haven't really bothered to make it mine."
I noticed what he meant. No photos on the walls. No personal touches. Nothing that said Liam O'Connell lived here except the hockey equipment in the corner and a Blaze jersey draped over a chair.
"Chinese food should be here in twenty minutes," he said. "Want something to drink? Water? Beer?"
"Water's fine."
He got me a glass, and we stood in his kitchen, both of us suddenly aware that we were alone. Really alone. No training room. No professional boundaries. Just us in his apartment at 7 PM on a Wednesday night.
"So," I said. "The exercise setup?"
"Right. Yeah. It's in the living room."
He showed me the resistance bands he'd rigged to a door frame. The stability ball. The foam roller. All the equipment I'd recommended.
"This looks good," I told him. "Show me how you're doing the exercises."
He demonstrated. His form was perfect. Of course it was.
"That's exactly right," I said. "You don't need me to check anything. You're doing it perfectly."
"I know."
We stared at each other.
"Then why did you ask me to come here?" I asked quietly.
"You know why."
I did. God help me, I did.
"Can I ask you something?" I said quietly. "About when you left?"
He turned back around, confused. "What?"
"The phones. Why you never called."
His expression changed—like this was a question he'd been carrying for years too.
"I tried calling," he said. "Multiple times. But your number?—"
"Disconnected. I know. Because I changed it.
" I took a breath, my voice barely steady.
"After you left and didn't contact me, I realized this was your way of saying we were over.
I changed my phone number because I needed to move forward.
But then... I tried calling you later. And your number was disconnected too. "
The pain in my eyes must have been visible because his whole body went still.
"Anne, no. I didn't disconnect my phone on purpose. The team required me to get a local Swedish phone. I had to get a new number immediately when I arrived. It wasn't?—"
"A choice," I finished quietly.
"No. It wasn't a choice. It was logistics. And when I tried your old number from my new phone weeks later, it didn't work. So I thought YOU were the one who'd decided we were really over."
We stood in silence, both of us understanding what had happened.
"So you tried to call me," I said softly.
"Yes. Multiple times."
"And I tried to call you."
"And we both got disconnected."
"And we both thought the other one was saying goodbye," I whispered.
"Yeah."
I closed my eyes, and felt tears threatening.
"I thought you gave up on us," I said. "I thought getting that disconnected number was you telling me it was over."
"I spent every night alone in Stockholm thinking you'd moved on. Thinking the disconnected phone was your answer."
"It wasn't meant to be an answer. It was just... me trying to protect myself. I needed to believe you didn't want me anymore. Because the alternative—that you were gone and never coming back—was too much."
"And my disconnected phone wasn't meant to be anything. It was just... circumstances. But it felt like something."
"It felt like goodbye," I whispered.
"Yeah. It did."
For a moment, we just looked at each other. The weight of years of misunderstanding hung between us.
"I tried," he said finally. "I know that doesn't change anything, but I tried."
"I know you did. And I—" I stopped, unable to finish. Unable to say I changed my number in anger because I thought you'd already chosen Sweden over me. I thought your silence meant you didn't love me. I thought I was protecting myself by cutting you out completely.
"There's no one in Chicago," I whispered. "But there is... there's something. Someone. Something that's complicated and that I can't explain right now because it's not just my story to tell."
He stepped closer. "Then tell me when you can. Tell me eventually. But please don't run away from this. From us. Not again."
"Liam—"
"I don't need all the answers tonight. I just need you to stop running. To stay. To let me in."
My eyes were burning with tears. I'd come here planning to keep the secret a little longer. Planning to figure out the right moment to tell him about Finn.
But standing here in his apartment, hearing that he'd tried to reach me too, that he hadn't abandoned me without a fight—it changed things.
"I'm not ready to tell you everything," I said. "But I want to. I want to explain it all. Just... not yet."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I can wait."
"Can you?"
"Yes. As long as you promise you're not running anymore. As long as you promise to stay."
I thought about my son waiting for me in Chicago. I thought about the conversation I needed to have with his father. I thought about how terrified I was of losing him all over again.
But I was more terrified of running.
"I'm staying," I said.
And then he kissed me.
Or I kissed him.
I didn't know who moved first.
All I knew was his mouth was on mine, his hands were in my hair, and I was kissing him back like I'd been drowning for years and he was oxygen.
It was desperate. Hungry. So many years of longing compressed into this single moment.
His hands slid down my back, pulling me closer. My fingers gripped his shirt, feeling the muscles beneath. We stumbled backward until my back hit the wall, and he pressed against me, one hand cupping my face, the other at my waist.
"God, Anne," he breathed against my mouth. "I missed you. I missed this."
"We can't?—"
"I know."
But neither of us stopped.
His mouth moved to my neck, and I gasped, head falling back, giving him access. His teeth grazed my pulse point, and I made a sound I didn't know I was capable of making.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my skin. "Tell me you don't want this."
I should have. I should have told him to stop. Should have pushed him away. Should have run like I'd been running for years.
Instead, I pulled his mouth back to mine.
We kissed like we were making up for lost time. Like we were trying to erase years of distance in six minutes. Like if we just kissed hard enough, long enough, desperately enough, we could fix everything that had broken between us.
But we couldn't.
And eventually, reality crashed back in.
I pushed him away, breathing hard, eyes stinging with tears.
"I can't do this," I said.
"Anne—"
"I have to go."
"Don't. Please. We can talk about this. We can?—"
"There's nothing to talk about. This was a mistake."
The words echoed the ones I'd said years ago. I saw him flinch.
"You keep saying that," he said quietly. "But it doesn't feel like a mistake."
"It is. Trust me. It is."
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
"Anne, wait?—"
"I'll see you tomorrow morning. Eight AM. Professional. Like it should have been all along."
I left before he could stop me. Before I could change my mind. Before I could do something even more catastrophic like tell him the truth tonight.
I made it to my car before I started crying.
My phone buzzed. Text from my mom.
Mom: Finn wanted me to tell you he loves you. He counted down the days until Friday on his calendar.
I stared at the message through my tears.
Five more days until I saw my son again.
Seven more weeks until this contract ended.
And I'd just kissed the father of my child while he had no idea that child existed.
I was the worst person in the world.
But at least now he knew I wasn't running anymore.
At least now I'd promised to stay.
Now I just had to figure out how to tell him about Finn before this all blew up in my face.