Chapter 60: Rumour Has It

Anna's POV

I’m halfway out of the lecture hall when I hear Marcus’s name. It stops me cold. Not because I wasn’t already thinking about him—I’ve barely thought about anything else since the injury—but because of the way his name is being used. Lowered voices. The kind that carry curiosity sharpened into judgment.

“…heard it was his knee.”

“Left one, apparently.”

“That’s brutal. Scouts hate that.”

I slow my steps, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. The hallway outside the art wing is crowded, students drifting in clusters, but the sound seems to narrow until it’s just those voices and the ache that’s been sitting in my chest for days.

I shouldn’t listen. I do anyway.

“They’re saying he might be out for the season.”

“That McKay guy? Figures. All hype.”

I turn the corner—and that’s when Carter joins them. Of course it’s Carter. He strolls up like he owns the floor beneath his feet, hockey jacket slung casually over his shoulder, that smug half-smile already in place. He doesn’t even pretend to be sympathetic.

“Well,” he says loudly, ensuring anyone within a ten-foot radius can hear, “guess the golden boy finally cracked.”

A couple of people snicker. My stomach twists.

Carter leans against a locker, arms crossed. “I mean, injuries happen, right? Especially when someone’s been pushed way too hard for way too long. Bodies give out.”

Someone asks, “You think it’s career-ending?”

He shrugs, fake humility dripping from the gesture. “Hard to say. But scouts don’t wait around. They move on to the next best thing.”

His eyes gleam.

“Which,” he adds smoothly, “kind of works out for the rest of us.”

I feel heat rush to my face.

Carter straightens, clearly enjoying the attention now. “Straubing Tigers, Toronto, wherever—they’ll need someone consistent. Someone reliable. Someone who hasn’t been… distracted.”

My jaw clenches.

“And honestly,” he continues, “I’ve been putting in the work. Coach knows it. Scouts will see it. This might finally be my moment.”

That’s when I step forward.

“Funny,” I say, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass, “because moments built on someone else’s pain don’t usually last.”

The group turns.

Carter’s smile flickers when he sees me. “Anna.”

I don’t bother greeting him.

“You seem really comfortable talking about Marcus like he’s already finished,” I continue. “That’s interesting, considering no one’s actually said that.”

He scoffs. “I’m just being realistic.”

“No,” I correct, stepping closer, “you’re being opportunistic.”

A few students shift uncomfortably. One girl murmurs something about class starting, but no one leaves. This has become a spectacle.

“Marcus McKay has worked his entire life for hockey,” I say, meeting Carter’s eyes without flinching. “One injury doesn’t erase that. Rehab exists. Recovery exists. Comebacks exist.”

Carter tilts his head. “You really think scouts care about inspirational speeches?”

I smile tightly. “I think they care about resilience. And Marcus has more of that than you’ll ever understand.”

His expression hardens. “You’re biased.”

“I’m informed,” I shoot back. “There’s a difference.”

He opens his mouth to respond—and that’s when the air shifts. I feel it before I hear it. The sudden stillness. The subtle intake of breath behind me. Then a familiar, syrup-sweet voice slides in.

“She’s right, you know.”

I don’t turn around immediately. I don’t have to.

Bella.

“The injury alone won’t ruin Marcus’s hockey career,” Bella continues, her tone almost pleasant. “Those things happen all the time.”

Her sisters flank her, perfectly positioned, identical smiles sharp with intent.

I turn slowly.

Bella’s eyes flick over me, taking me in like a flaw in an otherwise perfect picture. “If Marcus fails,” she says lightly, “it won’t be because of his knee.” She steps closer. “It’ll be because of you.”

The hallway goes silent. I feel it—the familiar sting of her words, the way she always aims not for volume but precision. She wants to wound, not shout.

I straighten.

“Look at you, being all brave to face the outside world,” I say evenly. “Because last I checked, Marcus shouldn't be what you need to focus on, Bella.”

Bella laughs softly, even as I see her hands clench into fists at her sides. “Oh, Anna. You really think you’re not part of the equation?”

Elena and Portia exchange knowing looks.

“You distract him,” Bella continues. “You pull him away from what he should be focused on. Europe. Art. All those little dreams that don’t fit into his future.”

I step closer now, close enough that I can see the calculation in her eyes.

“What scares you,” I say quietly, “is that Marcus is capable of choosing for himself.”

Her smile tightens.

“And what scares you,” she counters, “is that when he loses everything, you’ll be the one standing there with nothing to offer him.”

Something inside me stills.

I lift my chin.

“Marcus’s injury doesn’t define him,” I say, my voice unwavering. “And my presence in his life doesn’t weaken him.”

Bella’s gaze sharpens. “We’ll see.”

She leans in just enough that only I can hear her next words.

“You’re a liability, Anna Donovan. And liabilities get cut.”

I don’t back away.

“No,” I say softly. “People who try to control others get exposed.”

Her eyes flash.

Carter clears his throat awkwardly, clearly wishing he were anywhere else now.

Bella straightens, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress. “Enjoy pretending this is temporary,” she says to me. “Reality always catches up.”

She turns on her heel, her sisters falling into step behind her like shadows. The hallway slowly fills with noise again—whispers, shifting feet, the buzz of discomfort. Carter avoids my gaze. I don’t look at him either. Instead, I walk away.

Each step feels heavy, but my spine stays straight. When I finally reach the stairwell, I pause, gripping the railing as the weight of it all presses down on me.

They think Marcus is fragile. They think love is a weakness. They think I’m the reason he might fall. They are wrong.

I pull out my phone and stare at his name on the screen for a long moment before typing.

People are talking. Don’t listen. This doesn’t change who you are—or what you’re capable of.

The reply comes a few minutes later.

I know. And neither do you.

I close my eyes, breathing in deeply.

Whatever comes next—rehab, recovery, battles with his father, whispers in hallways—I’ll face it.

With him.

Because Marcus McKay’s story doesn’t end with an injury.

And neither does ours.