Page 32 of The Last Pirouette
Then Liam's phone buzzed on the table, vibrating against the smooth surface. He glanced down, his expression casual, expecting a text from one of his teammates, probably something about practice. His brows furrowed slightly as he swiped to unlock it. But the nonchalance melted away, replaced first by wide-eyed disbelief, then a grin that spread across his face, pure, unadulterated joy lighting him from within.
“I can’t believe it,” he breathed, his voice hushed with awe.
“What is it?” Harper asked, tilting her head slightly, intrigued by the sudden shift in his demeanor.
He looked up, his eyes shining. “It’s from Dr. Reese.” He paused, drawing out the moment. "I’m officially cleared."
"Cleared?" Harper prompted, her brow furrowed now, but with a smile playing on her lips. "For what?"
He shook his head, still grinning, as if unable to fully process the words on the screen. “To start light skating drills with the team. Next week."
Liam practically vibrated with excitement. He pushed his chair back slightly, the legs scraping softly against the linoleum floor."I can't believe it, Harp. I'm actually going to be on the ice.On the ice!"
He launched into an animated description, his hands moving expressively as he painted a vivid picture. "Just non-contact stuff, for now, Reese said. Skating drills, working on my form. But still! The feeling of the cold air, the sound of the blades…” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, lost in the memory, then snapped them open, his gaze intense. “God, Harp, it’s been forever. You forget how good it feels, you know? The glide, the way the ice bites… it’s like flying."
He was off, caught in a wave of euphoria, describing the drills he’d be doing, the feel of the sharpened steel against the ice, the satisfying scrape as he came to a stop. He talked about the smell of the Zamboni, the sting of the cold air in his lungs, the simple joy of lacing up his skates again, the familiar ritual. He was lost in his own bright future, a future that, just moments ago, had seemed so uncertain, so impossibly far away.
Harper’s initial smile faltered, the corners of her mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. It became strained, tight. The genuine happiness she felt for him seemed to snag on something, caught in the back of her throat. Her hand instinctively went to her own braced leg under the table, her fingers tracing the rigid plastic beneath her jeans.
She physically pulled back ever so slightly, a retreat so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. She leaned back in her chair, creating a small but significant space between them. A space Liam, in his excitement, didn’t seem to register.
“That’s… that’s amazing, Liam,” she said, her voice clipped, too high. “I’m so happy for you.”
But the words sounded hollow, even to her own ears. Too rehearsed.
Liam, still buzzing from the news, barreled on, oblivious. “I know it’s just drills, but it’s a start, you know? It means I’m actually making progress. That Reese thinks I’m ready. That maybe… maybe I can actually get back out there.”
He paused, finally noticing the change in her posture, the forced look on her face. The vibrant energy from his excitement crashed against her sudden quiet, like a wave hitting a concrete wall. His joyful monologue petered out, the words trailing off into the heavy, awkward silence that descended over the table.
He frowned, his brow furrowing with concern. “Harp? You okay?”
She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. She picked at a loose thread on her jeans, her fingers clumsy. “Yeah, fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her tone was flat, dismissive, a deliberate shield. It was the same tone she'd used when he first barged into physical therapy, that same "leave me alone" cadence that pushed people away. It felt like a lifetime ago, but now it was directed right at him.
He hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. The elation of the moment before had evaporated, leaving a residue of guilt and confusion. He knew her well enough now to recognize the signs: the way she tucked her chin, the way her eyes darted away, the way she minimized her responses. She was building a wall, brick by careful brick.
“It’s just… you seem…” He searched for the right word, something that wouldn’t sound accusatory or pitying. “Quiet.”
“Maybe I’m just happy for you in a quiet way,” she said, the sarcasm razor-sharp.
The words stung, more than he wanted to admit. He knew she was hurting, but the defensiveness in her voice made it hard to reach her. He wanted to grab her hand, tell her he understood, but something held him back. He sensed that any attempt at comfort would be met with resistance, maybe even anger.
He leaned back in his chair, mirroring her posture, creating even more space between them. The comfortable, easy intimacy they had shared just moments before was gone, replaced by a palpable tension, an invisible force field that kept them apart.
“Okay,” he said softly, his voice subdued.
He picked up his phone, turning it face down on the table. The celebratory glow had vanished, replaced by a weight in his chest, a dull ache of uncertainty. He didn't know what to say.
Harper stared blankly at a page in her textbook, her eyes unfocused. Equations swam before her, meaningless symbols on a page she wasn't reading. She tried to concentrate, to force her mind to engage with the material, but it was no use. All she could hear was the echo of Liam’s voice, the triumphant lilt as he spoke about his recovery, his future. A future that seemed to be pulling away from her, leaving her stranded in the past.
The sun, now lower in the sky, cast long shadows across their table. The books between them felt like a barricade, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance that had sprung up between them. The gap between his moving forward and her standing still yawned wide, a chasm of unspoken pain.
Chapter 21
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the campus green, a stark contrast to the cold knot of dread in Harper's stomach. She sat on a bench, partially hidden by a large oak tree, watching the university's physical therapy center from a distance. The mood was one of quiet isolation and simmering anxiety, as she saw Liam emerge, not with the careful gait she's used to, but with a confident stride, laughing and jogging in place as he bantered with two of his hockey teammates.
It was different watching him like this, from afar. In the sterile, controlled environment of the therapy room, his progress had been incremental, measured in degrees of rotation and seconds held. Here, in the casual light of day, it was a glaring, undeniable fact. He was moving on.
