Page 7 of The Last Pirouette
"I don't have to fix anything. You just have to want to be fixed."
Liam ran a hand through his hair again, his frustration palpable. “You know what, Harper? I’m done. I’m done trying to be your friend. I’m done trying to help you. If you want to be miserable, fine. Be miserable. Just don’t expect me to stick around and watch.”
Harper stared at him, her chest heaving. She wanted to say something, to apologize, to explain. But the words caught in her throat, trapped by a mixture of pride and fear.
Instead, she just turned and stormed out of the physical therapy room without a backward glance, her jaw tight, tears stinging her eyes. The scent of antiseptic seemed to cling to her, a sterile reminder of her broken body and her shattered dreams.
Liam watched her go, a flicker of annoyance and something that might have been intrigue on his face. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. He shook his head with a small, wry smile.
“Alright, Ice Queen,” he muttered to himself, his voice low. “Game on.”
He wasn’t deterred. He was invigorated. The challenge was set. And Liam Hayes never backed down from a challenge. He had a feeling their next clash was going to be a doozy.
Chapter 5
The silence in Harper’s house was a heavy blanket, smothering everything. The physical therapy session had left her leg throbbing, a dull, persistent ache that mirrored the ache in her chest. She sat at the kitchen table, massaging the muscles around her knee, trying to coax some life back into them. Her mother, Carol, was at the stove, stirring a pot of soup that smelled faintly of chicken and simmering anxieties. Carol hummed, a tuneless, strained melody that was meant to be cheerful but only amplified the quiet desperation in the air.
Harper glanced at the counter, where a stack of mail loomed like a precarious tower. Medical bills. Physical therapy invoices. The constant, grinding reality of her injury, quantified in dollars and cents. Each bill was a testament to her mother’s sacrifices, a tangible representation of the burden Harper had become.
“Smells good, Mom,” Harper said, her voice a little too loud in the small kitchen.
Carol’s humming stopped. “Almost ready. Just need a few more minutes. How’s the leg feeling?” Her eyes, usually bright and full of easy laughter, were shadowed with worry.
“Okay,” Harper said, automatically downplaying the pain. “A little sore, but Dr. Reese said that’s normal.”
Carol ladled the soup into two bowls, the clatter of the spoon against ceramic the only sound for a moment. She placed a bowl in front of Harper, along with a piece of slightly burnt toast. “Eat up. You need to keep your strength up. You’re working so hard.”
Harper picked at the toast. The wordhardfelt like a loaded weapon, aimed squarely at her heart. What did she have to showfor all thathardwork? A limp. A stack of bills. A shattered dream.
“I might pick up an extra shift or two at the diner this week,” Carol said, her voice carefully casual. “Mrs. Henderson needs some help covering the lunch rush.”
The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. Harper knew what that meant: less sleep for her mom, more time spent on her feet, another layer of exhaustion etched onto her already weary face. All for her.
“Mom, you don’t have to do that,” Harper said, the guilt rising in her throat.
“It’s fine, sweetie. Really. It’s just a few hours.” Carol offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Besides, I like seeing all the regulars. Keeps me young.”
Harper stared at her soup, the steam blurring her vision. She couldn’t swallow. Every bite would taste like her mother’s sacrifice.
Later that evening, after the dishes were washed and the kitchen was meticulously clean, Harper retreated to her room. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the silence pressing down on her. The silence was broken only by the muffled sound of her mother’s voice. Harper recognized the singsong tone she used when talking to relatives, a performance of normalcy designed to reassure them that everything was fine.
Harper pressed closer to the door, straining to hear.
“…yes, she’s doing so much better,” Carol was saying into the phone. “The physical therapy is going wonderfully. She’s so determined… yes, we’re very hopeful she’ll be back on her feet in no time…”
Harper’s heart twisted.Wonderfully?Hopeful? It was all a lie. A carefully constructed narrative designed to protect everyone from the messy, painful truth: she was broken, and her recovery was a long, uphill battle with no guarantees. She was a fragile, expensive secret, and her mother was working tirelessly to keep her afloat.
The scene shifted abruptly, as jarring as a slap. The quiet of Harper’s house was replaced by the raucous chaos of Liam’s.
The dining room was a battleground. Liam sat at the head of the table, pinned between his two older brothers, Connor and Derek. They were mirror images of each other: broad-shouldered, loud, and relentlessly competitive. The air crackled with testosterone and the lingering scent of hockey gear.
“So, Hayes, Coach says you’re back to lifting?” Connor said, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Guess that little boo-boo wasn’t so bad after all.”
Derek snorted. “Yeah, maybe you can finally keep up with us in the gym. Don’t want you turning into a twig out there on the ice.”
Liam clenched his jaw. “I’m getting there.”
His father, Mr. Hayes, sat at the other end of the table, his gaze sharp and fixed on Liam. “Dr. Reese give you the all-clear yet? NHL scouts are going to want to see you at full strength.”
