Chapter 186 Public Side

Chapter 186 Public Side

Lena’s POV

The morning started with rain. Soft drops tapped against the kitchen windows while I made breakfast. Instead of his phone, Ryan was seated at the table with a notebook. I took care of his shoulder and made sure he was recovering fast, and I had suggested writing down his daily progress because recovery often felt slow when people relied solely on memory.

He looked up as I placed a plate in front of him.

“I made eggs.”

“You also made enough for five people.” He said.

“You need protein,” I whispered.

“I need two eggs.” He said.

“You are getting four,” I whispered.

He smiled. “I have learned something about you.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“You become impossible when you are worried.” He said.

“I prefer the word determined,” I replied.

“I am sure you do.” His smile faded as he reached for the notebook again. He wrote something before closing it.

“What did you write?” I asked.

“Day Four.” He replied.

“And?” I whispered.

“I lifted my arm a little farther last night.” He said.

“That is progress,” I whispered.

“It did not feel like progress.” He said.

I sat across from him. “Recovery often feels unimpressive while it is happening.”

He nodded. “I know."

“You are measuring yourself against the player you were last week,” I whispered.

“I suppose I am.” He said.

I reached across the table and rested my hand over his. “I think you should measure yourself against the man who came home from the hospital.”

He looked at me.

“You already moved farther than he could,” I whispered.

He smiled again. “You always find a better way to look at things.”

“I only tell the truth,” I whispered.

Before he could answer, my phone vibrated. The screen filled with messages from friends, then another message arrived from Ethan.

Turn on the television. Right now.

I frowned. “What happened?”

Ryan looked concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“I do not know,” I muttered.

I picked up the remote and switched on the morning sports channel. A reporter stood outside the arena where Ryan’s teammates were preparing for practice. Behind her, hundreds of fans gathered near the entrance despite the rain. At first I thought they were simply waiting to cheer for the team, then the camera moved closer.

Nearly everyone wore the same white shirt, and large black letters covered the front.

STAND WITH LENA

I stared at the screen.

Ryan looked just as surprised. “What is this?”

The reporter continued speaking. “What began as a small social media campaign overnight has grown into something much larger.”

The camera showed families, students, elderly fans, and children. Many wore Ryan’s jersey over the white shirts. Others held handmade signs.

Healing Takes Time.

Protect Our Players.

Truth Matters.

One young woman spoke into the microphone.

“Lena never asked for attention; she stood beside Ryan when cameras were gone, and we are standing beside her now.”

Another fan held up a recovery card. “This is bigger than sports.”

The broadcast shifted to a group of children from the charity event, and I recognised several of them immediately. The little boy who had told Ryan he deserved ice cream smiled proudly at the camera.

“Lena was nice to everybody, so we made shirts.” The little boy said.

My eyes filled with tears. “I cannot believe this.”

Ryan reached for the remote and lowered the volume. He looked at me quietly. “How do you feel?”

“I do not know.” I laughed softly through my tears. “I have spent my whole life trying not to become part of the story.”

“And now?” He asked.

“Now people are printing my name on shirts,” I whispered.

Ryan smiled. “They are not celebrating fame.” He took my hand. “They are thanking someone who showed up when it mattered.”

I looked down. “I never wanted people to choose sides.”

“They are not choosing sides.” He waited until I looked back at him. “They are choosing kindness.”

A knock came at the front door.

I frowned. “We are not expecting anyone.”

Ryan stood carefully. “I will get it.”

“You are still recovering,” I whispered.

“I can answer my own door.” He said.

I smiled. “I know you can.”

Before either of us reached the entrance, the doorbell rang again. This time it rang three times in quick succession. Ryan opened the door, and Coach Hartman stood on the porch holding a folded newspaper.

He looked serious. “I thought you should see this before someone else brings it up.”

Ryan stepped aside. “What happened?”

Coach Hartman placed the newspaper on the kitchen table. The front page showed a large photograph from yesterday’s charity event. Ryan and I stood together while the little girl hugged him, and the headline stretched across the page.

THE WOMAN WHO CHANGED THE CAPTAIN

Coach Hartman looked at me. “The fans are supporting you.” He paused before tapping another article printed beneath the photograph. “But someone else has decided to fight back.”

Ryan picked up the paper. His expression changed immediately, and I looked over his shoulder. A full-page opinion column accused me of manipulating Ryan’s recovery, distracting him from hockey, and damaging his career.

One person wrote the article.

Derek Collins.

Ryan read the article from beginning to end without saying a word. He folded the newspaper carefully and placed it on the table.

Coach Hartman watched him. “I wanted you to hear about it from me first.”

Ryan nodded. “I appreciate that.”

Coach Hartman looked at me. “How are you holding up?”

I thought about the question before I answered. “I am angry.”

He nodded as though he had expected that answer.

I am not angry because someone criticised me. I looked at the newspaper. “I am angry because he turned kindness into something ugly.”

Coach Hartman pulled out a chair and sat down. “Derek has built his career by creating conflict.”

“I know,” I muttered.

“He wants a reaction,” Coach Hartman said.

Ryan crossed his arms carefully, making sure not to move his injured shoulder. “He is not getting one.”

Coach Hartman looked at him. “Are you sure?”

Ryan nodded. “I will respond.” He glanced at me before continuing. “But I will respond my way.”

His phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with dozens of notifications.

He sighed. “It has started.”

I looked at the display.

His social media accounts were flooded with messages. Some people defended us; others repeated the claims from Derek’s article without asking whether they were true.

Ryan handed me the phone. “I think I need a break from this.”

“I agree.” I placed the phone face down on the table.

A few minutes later, there was another knock at the door. This time it was Ethan; he walked in carrying two paper cups of coffee.

“I brought supplies.” He said.

Ryan smiled. “You always know when coffee is needed.”

Ethan handed one cup to Coach Hartman before sitting across from us. “I saw the article.”

“So did we,” Ryan replied.

Ethan shook his head. “I also saw something else.” He opened his phone and placed it in front of me. Someone had posted a photograph from outside the arena, and more fans had arrived. The crowd was much larger than it had been that morning. The white shirts covered almost the entire plaza; some fans held signs that read:

Support Healing.

Respect Every Athlete.

Recovery Is Not Weakness.

One sign caught my attention more than the others.

Thank you, Lena, for standing when it was hard.

I looked away from the screen. “I do not know what to say.”

Ethan smiled. “You do not have to say anything.”

Ryan looked at him. “They should not have to defend us.”

“They are not doing it because they have to.” Ethan leant forward. “They are doing it because they want to.”

Coach Hartman nodded. “The fans have watched both of you for years.” He looked at me. “They know what kind of person you are.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I never expected strangers to care because some of them were against my relationship with Ryan.”

Coach Hartman smiled gently. “They are not strangers anymore.”

Ryan reached for my hand. “They saw you when I could barely lift my arm.” His voice stayed calm. “They watched you sleep in uncomfortable hospital chairs.” He squeezed my fingers lightly. “They watched you refuse every interview because you wanted the attention on my recovery instead of yourself.”

I felt my face grow warm. “I was only doing what anyone who loved someone would do.”

Ryan smiled. “Exactly, now they know that your love for me is real, and what we shared is real.”

The room fell quiet, then my phone rang. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number.

I answered. “Hello.”

A woman spoke in a professional but warm voice. “Good afternoon. My name is Rebecca Ellis. I am the director of the Children’s Hope Foundation.”

“Hello,” I said.

“I wanted to thank you for yesterday.” She said.

“You do not have to thank me,” I whispered.

“I do.” She paused. “The children have been asking about you all morning.”

I smiled. “Please tell them Ryan is doing well.”

“I will.” She hesitated before continuing. “There is another reason I called.”

“What is it?” I asked.

We would like to launch a player recovery program for young athletes. She said.

I listened carefully. “We would like you to help lead it.”

I looked across the room at Ryan, and his eyes widened.

“I am honoured," I said.

“We believe your compassion has inspired people.” She whispered.

Her words humbled me.

“I am not sure I deserve that,” I whispered.

“You do.” She laughed softly. “The board voted unanimously.”

After the call ended, Ryan smiled proudly. “You should accept.”

“I have not decided yet,” I replied.

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

“I never wanted attention,” I muttered.

He nodded. “I know.”

“But if accepting helps young athletes…” I whispered.

He let the thought hang in the air.

I finished it for him. “Then it becomes bigger than me.”

He smiled. “Exactly.”

Before I could answer, Ryan’s phone vibrated again. This time the message came from Vanessa.

Ryan opened it, and his smile disappeared.

“What is it?” I asked.

He turned the screen toward us. It was a photograph taken only minutes earlier. Outside the headquarters of North Peak Athletics, workers were removing the enormous billboard that had displayed Ryan’s face for the past three years. A new billboard, still covered by a black tarp, was already being lifted into place.