Page 8 of The Last Pirouette
Liam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Not yet, Dad. Still working on it.”
“Working on it isn’t good enough, Liam,” Mr. Hayes said, his voice sharp. “They want results. They want to see you dominating on the ice. You know how many kids would kill for your spot?”
“I know, Dad.” Liam picked at his food, his appetite gone. The brace on his shoulder felt like a lead weight, pulling him down.
“Heard Johnson got signed,” Connor said, tossing a bread roll in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Two-year deal with the Wolves. Full scholarship.”
“Johnson’s got nothing on Liam,” Mr. Hayes said, puffing out his chest. “Liam’s got natural talent. Just needs to get that shoulder back in shape. Right, Liam?”
All eyes were on him, expectant, demanding. Liam forced a smile. “Right, Dad.”
“What’s the timeline, Liam?” Mr. Hayes pressed. “When can we expect to see you back in the lineup?”
Liam hesitated. He hadn’t told them the full extent of his injury, the persistent pain, the lingering doubt that he would ever be the same player again. He’d downplayed it, minimized it, told them what they wanted to hear: he was fine, he was recovering, he’d be back on the ice soon.
“A few more weeks,” he said, his voice flat. “Dr. Reese thinks I’ll be ready for light drills next month.”
Mr. Hayes frowned. “Light drills? That’s not going to cut it, Liam. We need you back at full speed. Scholarship offers are going to start rolling in soon. You can’t afford to be sidelined.”
“I’m doing everything I can, Dad,” Liam said, his voice tight.
“Doing everything you can isn’t enough,” Mr. Hayes repeated, his gaze unwavering. “You need to push yourself harder. You need to show them you’re not giving up.”
The conversation continued, a relentless barrage of expectations and demands. They talked about his future as if he wasn’t eventhere, as if he was just a commodity to be traded and sold. His pain, his fear, his doubts – they were irrelevant. All that mattered was his performance, his potential, his value on the ice.
Liam tuned them out, retreating into himself. He felt suffocated, trapped beneath the weight of their expectations. He was drowning in their dreams, and no one seemed to notice he was struggling to breathe.
Later that night, long after the shouting had died down and the house had fallen silent, Liam found himself staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The pressure was crushing him, the expectations suffocating him. He was alone, trapped in his own private hell, with no one to understand.
Except…
He reached for his phone, his fingers trembling slightly. He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over a name. Harper Quinn.
He hadn’t spoken to her since their disastrous physical therapy session, since their explosive argument in the gym. He’d tried to put her out of his mind, to forget her icy glare and her biting sarcasm. But he couldn’t. She was always there, a persistent, nagging presence in the back of his mind.
He knew she wouldn’t welcome his intrusion. He knew she’d probably bite his head off. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was the only person who might understand what he was going through.
He hesitated, then typed a message: “This day sucked. You still up?”
He hit send and waited, his heart pounding in his chest. It was a stupid, impulsive gesture, a desperate attempt to break through the isolation that was consuming him.
Across town, in the quiet stillness of her darkened room, Harper stared at her own ceiling, her leg throbbing in protest. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was failing, that she was letting everyone down.
Her phone buzzed, breaking the silence. She reached for it, her fingers fumbling slightly. A text message. From Liam Hayes.
Her first instinct was to ignore it. To delete it and pretend it never happened. He was the last person she wanted to talk to.
But something stopped her. Curiosity? Loneliness? A flicker of something she couldn’t quite name?
She unlocked her phone and read the message: “This day sucked. You still up?”
A small, genuine smile touched her lips, the first one she’d felt all day. It was a simple message, an unexpected olive branch. It was a lifeline, thrown to her in the darkness.
She hesitated for a moment, then began to type a reply.
Chapter 6
Harper’s bedroom had become a museum of her past, a place both comforting in its familiarity and suffocating in its stillness. Dust motes danced in the weak afternoon light slicing through the gaps in her blinds, each particle a tiny reminder of time slipping away. The mood was as stagnant as the air, mirroring the inertia that had taken root in her bones.
