Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Oliver
I pump my legs harder, doing everything I can to focus on the burn spreading through my lungs and calves—anything to avoid the terrible ache in my wrist, the place where the pain is the worst. The cold December air stings my throat with each inhale, but I welcome it.
Physical discomfort I can handle. It’s the other kind that keeps me running.
I suck in breath after breath and crest the hill.
Pine Island stretches out below me, quaint cottages and Victorian houses with snow-covered rooftops, the harbor frozen at the edges where the fishing boats bob against the docks.
At the end of the street, Niall and Sophie’s house waits, but it doesn’t feel like a beacon of hope.
There’s no triumphant feeling after completing a four-mile run in the snow.
My watch beeps—thirty-seven minutes. Used to do it in twenty-five, back when my body was a machine instead of a collection of broken parts.
There’s just bitterness.
I’m out here, risking slipping on ice and busting my ass, because it’s better than being in my garage apartment feeling sorry for myself.
The walls close in when I sit still too long, pressing against my skull until I can’t breathe.
And it’s definitely better than being back home for Christmas, listening to my brothers talk about their promotions and their kids while Mom asks when I’m going to “get back on my feet.”
Slowing the pace so I don’t slip, I make my way down the hill.
Ice patches gleam like mirrors under the streetlights that are already on at four in the afternoon—Maine winter darkness coming early and staying late.
The last time I took a fall on ice, it ended my hockey career.
I still remember the wobble in my right foot as I used the outside edge of my blade to make a sharp turn around the Devils’ defenseman.
The crowd’s roar fading to white noise. The sickening crack that somehow echoed over eighteen thousand screaming fans.
Then I was on the ice, staring at my wrist bent at an angle that made the trainer turn green.
Shattered. Eight fractures. Two surgeries. Career over.
I’ve always wondered if the people saying it wasn’t accidental were on to something.
Those skates never had issues before that game.
Brand new laces that morning. Fresh sharpening from Joey, who’d been doing my skates for three years.
Mark Bailey had been in my face during warm-ups that night, jaw clenched, something about me stealing his spot on the power play.
But nothing could be proven. Security footage showed nothing unusual.
Just bad luck, everyone said. My injured wrist protests violently, pulling me out of my thoughts, as if it’s giving up pretending to be strong now that we’re so close to home.
Opening the front gate—white picket, because of course Sophie would have a white picket fence—I start to head for the exterior stairs that will take me up to the apartment that’s my new home, but Sophie appears in the kitchen window.
Her face lights up when she sees me through the steam on the glass.
She waves me in with that enthusiastic arm motion that says refusing isn’t an option.
I hesitate, shifting my weight to ease the throb of pain radiating up my forearm.
I really don’t feel like being around anyone right now, but I can’t be a bad guest. Especially not on Christmas.
They welcomed me into their home for all the present opening and coffee drinking hubbub this morning, and I really am grateful for it.
As much as I don’t want to be with my family, I also don’t want to be a complete hermit.
So I knock the snow off my running shoes against the doorframe—three sharp raps—and let myself in through the front door.
The warmth hits me immediately—not just from the heating, but from the house itself. Garland wrapped around the banister with tiny white lights. Tree in the corner next to the brick fireplace, in front of the big picture window showcasing the layers of white fluff outside.
“How was your run?” Sophie’s at the counter, her knife moving in steady rhythm through vegetables. Carrots, celery, onions—the holy trinity of pot roast, which explains the rich smell coming from the oven.
“Good.” Pain lances through my wrist like someone’s twisting a knife between the bones. My fingers curl involuntarily, and the wince escapes before I can catch it.
Her knife pauses mid-chop, hovering over a half-sliced carrot. “You doing okay?”
Yeah.” I use my shirt to wipe sweat from my face. “Want some help with dinner? I’ll go shower and then—”
“Is your wrist bothering you?”
I stiffen slightly, ready to defend myself against whatever she might say next. “It happens sometimes in the cold.”
“Oliver.” She sets the knife down with a deliberate click against the cutting board. Are you sure running in this temperature is a good idea? The cold can be hell on joint pain.”
“I don’t have joint pain,” I say through clenched teeth, the words coming out sharper than intended. “It’s just a broken wrist.” Except it’s not broken. It’s shattered.
The kitchen goes quiet except for the cider bubbling on the stove, little volcanic pops of cinnamon-scented steam.
Instantly, I regret the words, which came out as a snap. Sophie and Niall are nothing but great friends. They’re even renting me their garage apartment at half of what they could get for it, and they’ve welcomed me into their home on Christmas. Now here I am, being a Grade A asshole.
“I’m sorry.” I rake my fingers through my hair.
“It’s okay.” She reaches out and gently lays her hand on my shoulder, then moves to the drawer at the end of the counter.
“It’s not.” I shake my head, swallow against a burning lump in my throat.
Sophie smiles kindly, not taking offense at my tone. She just opens the medicine drawer and takes out a bottle of Tylenol. “Here. And before you argue, remember that taking care of yourself isn’t giving up. It’s giving yourself a chance to heal.”
I stare at the extended bottle for a long moment before reaching out to take it. The red and white label might as well be a white flag of surrender. “Thank you.”
“You’re not going to take any, are you?” Her head tilts, studying me with quiet regard, knowing I’m being stubborn about something that shouldn’t matter.
“I… don’t like to dumb down my body’s signals.”
“That’s the only reason?” She opens the spice cabinet and shoots me a gentle look. “Because I don’t think it’s about dulling signals. What’s really stopping you?”
The question hangs between us. What else would it be?
Glancing down at the bottle in my hand, I suddenly hear Dad’s voice: “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”
My parents have always been the same way.
Growing up, we didn’t take painkillers unless we were in the emergency room with a visible bone break, waiting to see the doctor.
Anything else and you were soft. Dad played college football with a separated shoulder for half a season.
Mom delivered my youngest brother with no epidural and mentioned it every birthday. Toughness was currency in our house.
I close my eyes. Shit.
Is that why I really don’t want to take the Tylenol? Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m still trying to prove something to people who aren’t even here?
“Your body’s been screaming at you for two years, hon.” Sophie’s voice is kind but firm. “Maybe it’s time to give it some relief instead of punishment.”
The truth of it hits like a check into the boards. Crossing the kitchen, I pour water from her pitcher—lemon slices floating like tiny suns—and swallow two pills. The bitterness on my tongue has nothing to do with the medicine.
“Sorry I’m being a pain in the ass.”
“You’re not. You’re grieving.” She says it matter-of-factly, without pity, while returning to her vegetables. “Niall went through the same thing when he had to leave consulting. Different reasons, same loss. Having you here has been good for him. He needs someone around who gets it.”
I lean against the counter, feeling the granite edge press into my lower back. “I appreciate everything you two are doing. The apartment, this—”
“Stop.” She points the knife at me, playful but firm. “We’re not doing you favors. We love having you here. We’re friends. This is what friends do. Now, hot water bottle? I have one that’s a sleeve, perfect for wrists. My mother swears by hers.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“There we go. Progress.” She wipes her hands on her apron—one of those ridiculous Christmas ones with a reindeer wearing sunglasses. “Be right back.”
She disappears down the hall, her footsteps light and quick on the hardwood.
The kitchen feels different without her—too quiet, too still.
The clock on the wall ticks. The refrigerator hums its mechanical tune.
These people aren’t my family with their scorecards and comparisons and conditional love.
They’re just... kind. No strings attached.
I didn’t even realize until Sophie pushed that I’m only biased against pain meds because of my family—they see anything like that as a weakness. Which is so messed up.
And I know I need to stop thinking of this injury as “just a broken wrist.” It’s a shattered wrist, and it’s been two years.
Two unbearably long years of rehab and depression and downsizing so that I can live comfortably without the NHL salary and ad endorsements.
If it were a simple injury, it wouldn’t have upended my life like it did.
Speaking of my family...