Page 77 of The Dating Coach
"He looks exhausted," I whispered.
"Exhausted but still fighting," Karen corrected. Her assessment was indeed accurate. Despite the exhaustion, I could see determination in his eyes – the will to keep fighting, for something, for… someone.
During the national anthem, I watched him stand at center ice, still searching for me. Watching him steadily scan the crowds, my heart panged with guilt.
The game began with brutal intensity. Both teams came out flying, trading chances and hits with championship desperation. Liam won the opening faceoff, starting a rush that nearly scored, but his shot went wide. He didn't react, just skated back to position like a machine.
In the second period, he took a vicious hit along the boards—my heart stopped as he crumpled and stayed down longer than felt right. The trainer skated out to check him over, and even from the nosebleeds I could see Liam arguing to stay in the game.
“He’s hurt,” I said, half-rising from my seat.
“Easy now,” Karen said, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “You know you can’t sprint down the aisle in the middle of the game.”
She was right, but watching him skate gingerly to the bench made my chest ache. He paused to catch his breath, wincing, then swept his gaze once again across the crowd—down low first, and then higher.
When his eyes finally locked onto section 314—onto me, hood up and shoulders hunched—the world stopped.
We stared at each other across impossible distance. Even from here, I could see the recognition, the flash of something that might have been hope or hurt or both. Then he turned away, focusing back on the game with renewed determination.
"He knows you're here," Aunt Penelope said quietly. "What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know," I said, even as my heart screamed otherwise. "I don't want to drag him down with me."
"Drag him down?" Uncle Mark asked. "Honey, you're the only one who can lift him up!"
For a moment, I wanted to believe him, believe them all. Maybe there could be a future for me and Liam.
On the ice, Liam returned for his next shift, moving differently. Still hurt, but with something like purpose. He won the faceoff cleanly, carried the puck through traffic, and set up a gorgeous scoring chance that hit the post.
"Better," Karen observed. "Knowing you're here woke him up a little."
"Maybe," I muttered.
"Hey, have a little faith in yourself, sis," Mia said cheerfully.
The third period began with the score tied 2-2. Championship hockey at its most intense – every shift mattered, every mistake magnified. Liam played through obvious pain, taking faceoffs, killing penalties, doing all the unglamorous work that won games.
With five minutes left, opportunity struck. Henry forced a turnover, finding Liam with a perfect pass at center ice. Time slowed as he accelerated, one defender to beat, the goalie coming out to challenge.
The move he made – a deke that sent the defender sprawling, then a roof shot that the goalie had no chance on – was pure poetry. The goal light flashed, the crowd exploded, and for the first time in weeks, Liam smiled.
Not the full, joyous grin I remembered. But something. A crack in the mask he'd been wearing.
He looked up at section 314 again, found me instantly, and pointed. Not the casual salute players gave crowds, but a specific, deliberate acknowledgment.
This one's for you, the gesture said. Even broken, even without you, for you.
Tears spilled down my cheeks before I even realized it, as his teammates swarmed him. Karen handed me tissues without a word, while Mia rubbed my back.
"Still think you're bad for him?" Aunt Penelope asked quietly.
The final minutes were defensive warfare, Pinewood protecting their slim lead against increasingly desperate attacks. Liam played every crucial shift, blocking shots with his body, winning vital faceoffs, leading by example despite the pain he was clearly in.
When the final buzzer sounded, confirming Pinewood's championship, the arena erupted. Players poured onto the ice, fans screamed, confetti fell from the rafters. A perfect moment of triumph.
Except for Liam, who stood apart from the celebration, looking up at where I sat. Even from this distance, I could read the question in his posture: Now what?
"Go to him," Mia urged. "He won. Go congratulate him. Talk to him. Something!"
