Page 27 of The Last Pirouette
The ice cream parlor was small and cozy, with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu. The aroma of waffle cones and sugary sweetness hung heavy in the air. They found a boothtucked away in a quiet corner, the perfect spot for a stolen moment.
Liam ordered first, his usual boisterous energy filling the small space. "Double scoop of chocolate fudge brownie, please! And load it up with whipped cream. I’m celebrating a major victory here."
Harper smiled at his enthusiasm. "I’ll take a single scoop of coffee, please."
They settled into the booth, the lighthearted banter of the walk fading as they waited for their order. The casual setting, ironically, seemed to foster a deeper intimacy. The air felt thick with unspoken things, with the weight of their shared vulnerabilities and the growing connection between them.
Liam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So… your mom must be pretty stoked about the scholarship news, right? I mean, that’s gotta be a huge weight off her shoulders.”
It was an innocent question, an attempt to make conversation, but something in Liam’s tone, a genuine curiosity, made Harper pause.
"Yeah," she said slowly, picking at a loose thread on the vinyl seat. "She’s… relieved. My mom’s always been my biggest supporter. She’s sacrificed everything for me to dance."
"That’s cool," Liam said. "My parents are the same with hockey. They’re always at my games, cheering me on. My dad’s basically my biggest fan. It’s…" He trailed off, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.
"What is it?" Harper asked, her curiosity piqued.
Liam hesitated, his usual bravado faltering. He looked down at the table, avoiding her gaze. “It’s just… sometimes it feels likethey don’t see me, you know? They just see the hockey player. The scholarship kid. The golden ticket.”
His words hung in the air, raw and uncharacteristic. Harper felt a pang of empathy for him, a recognition of the pressure he carried beneath his cocky exterior.
“What do you mean?” she asked softly.
Liam took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. It was as if he was physically shedding the weight of the expectations that had been placed on him.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s just… ever since I was little, it’s always been about hockey. Practices, games, tournaments. My dad… he played, too, but he never made it big. He sees me as his second chance. And I don’t want to let him down. I don’t want to disappoint them.”
He finally looked up, his blue eyes filled with a vulnerability that Harper had never seen before.
“The truth is,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’m terrified. What if my shoulder doesn’t heal? What if I can’t play like I used to? What if I lose the scholarship? Then what am I? What am I to them?”
Harper’s heart ached for him. She understood that fear, that gnawing sense of inadequacy. It was the same fear that had been consuming her since the accident.
Their ice cream arrived, the cheerful server breaking the heavy moment. Liam paid, but neither of them immediately touched their treat. The distance between them had closed, replaced by an open, raw honesty.
Harper reached across the table, her hand covering his. His skin was warm and calloused, a stark contrast to her own smooth, dancer’s hands.
“Liam,” she said, her voice gentle. “You’re more than just a hockey player. You’re… you’re smart, and funny, and you actually have pretty good taste in music, despite your questionable obsession with eighties hair bands.”
He chuckled, a small, watery sound. “Hey, don’t knock Bon Jovi.”
“I’m knocking Bon Jovi,” Harper said, squeezing his hand. “But that’s not the point. The point is, you’re… you’re a good person, Liam. And that’s what matters.”
He looked at her, his eyes searching hers, as if trying to gauge the sincerity of her words.
“Thanks, Quinn,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “That… that means a lot.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft clinking of spoons against ceramic bowls. Harper finally took a bite of her coffee ice cream, the rich, bitter flavor a welcome distraction.
“So,” Liam said after a moment, his voice regaining some of its usual lightness. “Now that I’ve bared my soul to you, I think it’s only fair that you return the favor. What’syourbig secret?”
Harper hesitated. She hadn’t intended to open up to Liam, not really. She’d spent so long guarding her emotions, building up walls to protect herself from the pain. But something about his vulnerability, his willingness to show her the cracks in his armor, made her want to trust him.
“It’s not really a secret,” she said slowly, swirling the ice cream in her bowl. “It’s just… I’m terrified of not being a dancer anymore.”
Liam frowned, his brow furrowing. “But you’re still you, right? Even if you can’t… you know…”
“That’s the thing, Liam,” Harper interrupted, her voice laced with a quiet desperation. “I don’t know who I am without ballet. It’s been my whole life. It’s… it’s my identity. It’s all I’ve ever known. And now…” She trailed off, unable to articulate the emptiness that had been growing inside her since the accident.
