Chapter 183: Noise

Lena’s POV

Three days after Ryan’s surgery, the doctors finally agreed to let him leave the hospital. They gave us a long list of instructions before they gave us permission to walk out the front doors. Ryan listened more carefully than I expected; he asked questions about medication, physical therapy, sleeping positions, and follow-up appointments.

I smiled as I watched him. “You are being a model patient.”

He looked at me with a tired grin. “I only get one shoulder.”

“You should remember that,” I whispered.

“I plan to.” He replied.

The ride home was quiet.

Ryan rested his head against the passenger seat and watched the city pass by through the window. When we reached his house, he stayed still for a moment after I turned off the engine.

“I never thought I would be so happy to see my own driveway.” He said.

I laughed. “I thought athletes loved hospitals.”

He looked at me as though I had lost my mind. “I hope I never see another hospital room again.”

“I would like that too,” I muttered.

I walked around the car and opened his door before he had the chance to argue.

“I can do that myself,” he said.

“I know,” I replied.

“You are still doing it.” He muttered.

“I am,” I whispered.

He smiled. “I am beginning to think you enjoy proving me wrong.”

“I enjoy making sure you heal,” I whispered.

He shook his head, but he did not complain again. Inside the house, everything looked exactly the way Ryan had left it before the surgery. His running shoes sat near the entrance, his helmet rested beside the stairs, and his gym bag remained where he had dropped it.

He looked around quietly. “It feels strange.”

“What does?” I muttered.

“The world kept moving.” He said.

I understood. “So much happened.”

He nodded. “And this house does not know any of it.”

I helped him settle onto the living room sofa while making sure his shoulder stayed supported. His phone buzzed almost immediately.

He frowned. “I should probably turn that off.”

“You should,” I whispered.

He unlocked the screen anyway. Dozens of messages filled the display; most came from teammates. Others came from friends, coaches, and fans. Then one notification caught my attention.

Children’s Hope Foundation Gala – Reminder

Ryan looked at it and sighed. “I forgot.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“The charity event tonight.” He said.

“You are not seriously thinking about going,” I muttered.

“I promised those kids I would be there.” He said.

I sat beside him. “Ryan, you had surgery three days ago.”

“I know.” He replied.

“They will understand,” I whispered.

He looked down at his sling. “I do not like breaking promises.”

I reached for his left hand. “You are not breaking one.”

“They have already announced that I am attending.” He said.

“I am sure they would rather have you healthy than force yourself to appear,” I whispered.

He stayed quiet.

A few minutes later, his phone rang. The caller ID showed Ama – the Children’s Hope Foundation.

Ryan answered. “Hi, Ama.”

I could hear her cheerful voice through the speaker. “Ryan, we heard you are home.”

“I am.” He said.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

“I have been better.” He replied.

She laughed softly. “We are all relieved your surgery went well.”

“Thank you.” He whispered.

There was a brief pause before she continued. “I wanted to tell you that the children have been making recovery cards for you all week.”

Ryan smiled. “That is very kind of them.”

“They were hoping you might still stop by for a few minutes.” She said.

Ryan looked at me, and I already knew what he was going to ask.

“I do not want to disappoint them.” He said.

Ama quickly added, “There is absolutely no pressure.”

Ryan stayed silent.

She continued, “Even ten minutes would make their day.”

After the call ended, he looked at me with the expression I knew too well.

“You want to go,” I said.

“I do.” He said.

I sighed. “You are impossible.”

“I have heard that before.” He said.

“You heard it from me,” I whispered.

“You usually end up agreeing.” He said.

I laughed despite myself. “Only because you are terrible at giving up.”

Two hours later, we arrived at the community centre where the charity event was being held.

The organisers had arranged a private entrance to avoid overwhelming Ryan. Inside, the atmosphere felt warm and welcoming. Children filled the room with laughter. Several wore miniature versions of Ryan’s team jersey.

The moment they saw him, their faces lit up. “Ryan!”

He smiled in a way I had not seen since before the injury. “Hi, everyone.”

One little boy looked at Ryan’s sling. “Did it hurt?”

Ryan knelt as carefully as he could beside the child. “It hurt a little.”

The boy nodded seriously. “I broke my arm last year.”

Ryan smiled. “Then you already know more than I do.”

The boy grinned proudly. “I got ice cream after.”

Ryan laughed. “I think I deserve some too.”

The room filled with laughter. I stood nearby, watching Ryan forget about his own pain while he spoke to every child as though each one mattered. That was who he really was. Not the athlete everyone admired but the man who never made another person feel small. The event continued peacefully for nearly an hour, then the front doors burst open, and the laughter stopped, and every head turned.

A man carrying a television microphone pushed past two volunteers. Several camera operators followed close behind, and I recognised him immediately.

Derek Collins.

The reporter who had spent the past week turning Ryan’s injury into entertainment. He ignored every organiser who tried to stop him. Instead, he lifted the microphone toward Ryan.

“Ryan,” he called loudly. “Is it true your career may already be over?”

The room fell silent, and the children looked from the reporter to Ryan in confusion. Ryan remained calm, and he did not answer.

Derek took another step forward. “So this is the image you want the public to see?” His eyes shifted toward me. “A broken athlete hiding behind his girlfriend?”

I felt every pair of eyes in the room turn toward us. The children stopped smiling, and one little girl quietly moved closer to Ryan’s wheelchair. I stepped forward before Ryan could respond.

“No,” I said firmly. “This is a charity event.”

Derek shrugged. “The public deserves answers.”

I held his gaze. “These children deserve respect.”

For the first time, his confident smile faltered, but he did not leave. Instead, he raised the microphone again and asked a question that made the entire room freeze.

“Ryan… did your injury happen because you chose your relationship over your career?”

The room became so quiet that I could hear one of the children drop a crayon onto the floor. Nobody moved, and nobody spoke. Ryan looked at the reporter without showing any anger. He stayed seated because standing too quickly would only hurt his shoulder, and the little girl beside him slipped her hand into his left hand; she looked up at him with worried eyes.

“Are you in trouble?” she asked softly.

Ryan smiled at her. “No.” His voice stayed calm. “I am exactly where I want to be.”

The little girl nodded as if that answer made perfect sense.

Derek Collins lifted his microphone again. “Ryan, you still have not answered my question.”

Ryan looked at him steadily. “I heard your question.”

“And?” Derek asked.

“And I am choosing not to answer it,” Ryan replied.

The reporter frowned. “So you are avoiding it.”

Ryan shook his head. “I am protecting the reason we are all here today.” He looked around the room. “These children did not come here to hear people argue; they came here to laugh.”

The children watched him closely, and one little boy smiled.

“I like laughing," the boy said.

Ryan smiled back. “So do I.”

Derek advanced another step. “You owe your fans an explanation.”

Ryan remained composed. “I owe these children my attention first.”

The reporter turned his microphone toward me. “Lena, perhaps you can answer.”

I met his eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you believe Ryan’s recovery will suffer because he is more focused on you than hockey?”

Before I could speak, Ryan quietly said my name. “Lena.”

I looked at him.

His expression was gentle. “You do not have to do this.”

I understood what he meant. He did not want me pulled into another public fight, but I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I know,” I whispered.

Then I faced the reporter again. “You asked the wrong question.”

He looked surprised. “I did?”

“Yes.” I took one slow step forward. “The real question is whether someone can love another person and still chase a dream.”

The room stayed silent.

“My answer is yes.” I kept my voice steady. “Ryan has never loved hockey less because he loves me.” I glanced toward Ryan. “He became a better teammate because he learned how to let people stand beside him, and his recovery will not suffer because I am here to help him recover fast."

Ryan lowered his eyes for a moment. When he looked back at me, I saw gratitude written across his face.

The reporter crossed his arms. “So you think love makes athletes stronger?”

“I think support makes people stronger,” I replied.

Coach Daniels Hartma, who had quietly arrived a few minutes earlier, stepped into the room.

“I agree.” Every head turned toward him, and he looked directly at Derek Collins. “I have coached Ryan for eight years, and Lena here has worked in my organisation as his therapist.”

Derek lowered his microphone slightly.

The coach continued. “The strongest players are never the ones who think they have to carry everything alone.” He walked over to Ryan and rested a hand on his healthy shoulder. “This young man has given everything he has to this team, and I trust Lena in his recovery.” His voice became firmer. “If you want to question his commitment, you can question mine as well.”

The room remained silent; even Derek seemed unsure how to respond.

One of the volunteers finally stepped forward. “I think this interview is over.”

Security officers approached the reporter politely but firmly. Derek looked around the room; the cameras were still recording, and he seemed to realise that no one supported what he was doing. Without another word, he lowered his microphone.

“We’re leaving.” He said.

The camera crew followed him toward the exit; just before he reached the door, he looked back once.

“I hope you’re all right about him.” He said. Then he walked out.

The tension slowly disappeared from the room, and one little boy raised his hand.

Ryan smiled. “What is it?”

The boy looked completely serious. “I think that man needs a nap.”

The room burst into laughter; even Ryan laughed hard enough that he had to stop and protect his shoulder.

“I think you might be right,” he said.

The little girl who still held Ryan’s hand looked up at him. “You are still my favourite player.”

Ryan smiled warmly. “Thank you.”

She hugged him as carefully as she could around his sling. As I watched them together, I realised something important: that the loudest voices were not always the ones that mattered. Sometimes the quiet voices carried the most truth. As the event finally returned to laughter and games, I noticed someone standing outside the community centre across the street.

The person was not holding a camera; they were watching Ryan. When they realised I had seen them, they immediately turned, climbed into a black SUV, and drove away before I could read the licence plate.