Chapter 59: Rallying Together

Marcus's POV

The front door clicks shut softly behind Anna, but the warmth she leaves behind lingers like a heartbeat in the room.

I stand there for a second longer than necessary, leaning my weight into the crutches, staring at the empty space where she’d been. The house feels quieter now—too quiet. Not lonely, exactly. Just… exposed. Like the walls are listening.

My knee throbs dully beneath the ice pack, a constant reminder that today changed everything.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Room. Bed. Not falling.”

I push off carefully, maneuvering toward the stairs. Every movement feels deliberate, calculated. I hate that. Hate the way my body has suddenly become something I have to negotiate with.

I’m halfway down the hall when the front door swings open again—much louder this time.

“Marcus?” Peter’s voice carries immediately. “You home?”

“Yeah,” I call back.

Footsteps pound down the hallway, and then Damian and Peter appear in front of me, eyes locking instantly on the crutches.

Peter swears under his breath. Damian’s face goes tight.

“What the hell happened?” Damian demands.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

Peter snorts. “You’re on crutches.”

“Temporary,” I reply, trying for light, but it falls flat.

Damian steps closer, lowering his voice. “What did the doctor say?”

I sigh, shifting my grip. “Can we not do this in the hallway?”

They exchange a look, then nod. We move slowly toward the living room, me easing down onto the couch while they take opposite chairs, both watching me like I might break if they blink.

“It’s my knee,” I begin. “Left. Torn ligament. Likely ACL.”

Silence.

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“How long?” Damian asks.

“Six to nine months,” I say quietly. “Surgery. Rehab.”

Peter exhales sharply, leaning back like the air just got punched out of him. Damian’s jaw tightens, anger simmering beneath the surface.

“Does Coach know?” Peter asks.

“Not yet,” I reply. “I wanted to… process it first.”

Damian nods slowly. “Scout week.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Great timing.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Peter leans forward, forearms on his knees.

“Anna knows?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, a faint smile tugging at my lips despite everything. “She was here.”

Damian’s expression softens just slightly. “Good.”

Before I could respond, headlights sweep across the front windows. My stomach drops. We all freeze. The unmistakable sound of my father’s car pulling into the driveway fills the silence like a warning bell.

Peter curses quietly. “Why the hell is he home already?”

Damian straightens, eyes sharp. “He must’ve heard.”

“He did,” I say grimly. “The doctor probably called him.”

I push myself upright with the crutches, wincing. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with him.”

Damian steps in front of me. “No. You won’t.”

I frown. “Damian—”

“You need to get off that leg,” he says firmly. “And you don’t need this right now.”

Peter moves to my side, already slipping an arm around my back. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I can walk,” I protest weakly.

“Humor us,” Peter replies.

The front door opens just as we start toward the stairs.

“Marcus!” My father’s voice cuts through the house, sharp and commanding.

Damian turns before I can. “I’ve got this.”

“Damian—”

“Go,” he says quietly, not looking at me. “I’ll handle him.”

I hesitate, then nod. Peter guides me up the stairs, every step slow and careful. My father’s voice echoes from the kitchen, already tight with restrained anger. By the time we reach my room, my heart is pounding harder than it should be.

Peter helps me onto the bed, propping pillows around my leg. “Text if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” I say. “For everything.”

He gives me a grim smile. “Always.”

The door closes softly behind him. Downstairs, voices rise.

I don’t mean to listen—but the house carries sound too well.

“He was reckless,” my father snaps. “Slacking off. Poor judgment.”

“That’s not what the doctor said,” Damian replies, calm but edged. "Ever stop to think it was you pushing him too hard?"

“I was pushing him towards his future,” my father continues. “He was the one letting distractions interfere—”

I know where this is going.

“And that girl—”

A loud crack cuts through the air. I flinch.

“That’s enough,” Damian says, voice ringing with authority I’ve rarely heard from him. Silence follows—thick, charged.

“You do not get to blame Anna for this,” Damian continues. “You don’t get to blame her for Marcus’s injury, his choices, or the fact that you don’t control us anymore.”

My chest tightens.

“This injury happened because hockey is a brutal sport,” Damian goes on. “Not because Marcus loves someone. Not because he dared to imagine a future you didn’t design.”

My father scoffs. “You think this has nothing to do with her? She’s changed him.”

“Yes,” Damian snaps. “For the better.”

Another pause.

“Marcus is hurting,” Damian says, voice lowering but growing more dangerous. “Physically and mentally. And instead of supporting him, you’re already assigning blame like this is some kind of corporate failure.”

“He needs discipline,” my father insists.

“He needs a father,” Damian fires back. “Not a critic.”

I sit on the edge of my bed, hands clenched, heart pounding. I’ve never heard Damian speak to him like this.

“If you keep treating love like a liability,” Damian continues, “you’re going to lose more than control. You’re going to lose us.”

Silence stretches again.

“Marcus will get through this,” Damian says finally. “He’ll recover. He’ll adapt. He’ll come back strong—because that’s who he is.”

A chair scrapes.

“But if you can’t accept that,” Damian finishes, “if you can’t support him instead of sabotaging him—then don’t be surprised when there’s no family left to fight for.”

Footsteps retreat. A door slams. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door.

Damian steps in, expression tight but resolved.

“He gone?” I ask.

“For tonight,” he replies.

I shake my head slowly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says simply. “Someone needed to say it.”

Emotion swells unexpectedly in my chest. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Focus on healing. We’ll handle the rest.”

When he leaves, I sink back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Everything feels uncertain now—my body, my future, my relationship with my father. But one thing is clear. I’m not fighting this battle alone.