Chapter 70 Letting Go
LIAM
The rink is packed with reporters, cameras, and flashes going off like fireworks, all aimed at us as we prepare for the biggest game of the season.
It feels less like a game and more like a spectacle. A circus built on ice. Microphones stretch toward us like metal vines. Questions overlap. Our team logo glows under the arena lights, larger than life, almost mythic. The air smells like cold steel, sharp ice, and adrenaline.
I should be focusing.
I should be running through strategies in my head, thinking about my form, my movements, my shot accuracy. I should be replaying last week’s drills, calculating defensive rotations, mapping out the angles of the opposing goalie’s weak side.
Instead, my thoughts are nowhere near the puck.
They’re anchored to one person.
Ava is standing near the bench, clipboard in hand, her lips pressed together in a stubborn line. She’s paler than usual. The flush she normally carries is gone, replaced by something fragile and almost translucent under the fluorescent lights. Her hands are still trembling slightly, but she tries to disguise it by tightening her grip on the clipboard. Her shoulders are squared, posture rigid, like sheer willpower is holding her upright.
She looks composed to anyone who doesn’t know her.
But I know her.
And I see it.
The faint sway when she shifts her weight. The way her breathing is just a little too careful. The way she presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek when she’s fighting discomfort.
She didn’t just spend the last few days sick in bed with a fever that wouldn’t break.
She survived it.
Barely.
I fucking told her to stay home.
I told her she didn’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not to the media. Not to her father.
But Ava being Ava, she wouldn’t listen.
She had argued that I needed her here. That media day before the biggest game of the season wasn’t optional. That managing press access and keeping narratives controlled mattered. That she had a job to do.
Her voice had been hoarse but firm.
“I’m fine.”
Bullshit.
I knew it was bullshit. I knew she was pushing herself to prove something. Not to the reporters. Not to the team.
To him.
To her father.
To show that she wasn’t fragile. That she wasn’t reckless. That living with me hadn’t derailed her focus. That she could handle everything.
And I knew better than to fight her when she was this determined.
So I gave in.
And now I regret it.
Because from where I’m standing, helmet tucked under my arm, stick resting against the boards, my gut twists watching her.
She shouldn’t be here.
Practice starts, and the whistle slices through the noise.
I push off hard.
The ice bites back. Clean. Sharp. Familiar.
I skate harder than usual, muscles coiling and releasing, blades carving tight arcs across the rink. I throw myself into drills with more force than necessary. I check harder. Sprint faster. Shoot sharper.
Pain helps.
Pain focuses.
But my eyes betray me.
Every few seconds they flick to the sidelines.
To her.
She’s leaning against the boards now, one hand braced subtly at her side. She adjusts her stance, pretending she’s just reviewing notes. A reporter approaches her and she straightens immediately, professional mask sliding into place.
I see her swallow.
Her breaths are uneven.
“Liam! Pass!”
The shout snaps through the air.
I react a second too late.
The puck barely skims my stick before the other team intercepts it, skating past me with ease.
Fuck.
The whistle blows again.
“Carter, what the hell is wrong with you today?” Coach yells from the bench.
The disappointment in his voice stings. He doesn’t yell lightly.
I shake my head, jaw clenching so tight it aches.
I know what’s wrong with me.
My fucking world is standing on the sidelines, pushing herself past her limits, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
I force myself back into position. Reset.
One drill. Then another.
But the tension doesn’t leave. It grows.
Something in my chest feels off. Like a wire pulled too tight.
And then it happens.
One second she is standing.
The next, she isn’t.
There’s no dramatic warning. No drawn out stumble.
Just a subtle buckle.
Her clipboard slips from her fingers.
Her knees give out.
And she drops.
For a split second, my brain refuses to process it.
The crowd gasps.
Cameras swivel like hunting birds spotting prey.
One of the assistant coaches starts moving toward her.
But I’m faster.
Everything inside me detonates into motion.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I don’t care that practice is still happening. I don’t care that reporters are watching. I don’t care that my teammates are shouting my name in confusion.
I skate straight to her.
My legs move on pure instinct, cutting across the ice with dangerous speed. I don’t even slow down properly. I half skid, half fall as I reach her, dropping to my knees beside her collapsed form.
“Ava,” I breathe, hands immediately cupping her face. “Baby, hey. Look at me.”
Her skin is burning.
It’s wrong.
The rink is freezing. The air bites at my lungs every time I inhale. But she feels like fire in my hands.
Her eyelashes flutter weakly. Her breathing turns shallow.
My chest tightens with something close to terror.
She’s too pale.
Too still.
No. No. No.
Voices blur around me.
“Call someone.”
“Get medical.”
“Is she conscious?”
Cameras keep clicking.
Flashes explode in white bursts that feel invasive, violent.
I hear my coach shouting something, maybe my name, maybe instructions.
None of it matters.
Because she isn’t waking up fast enough.
And I don’t give a shit who’s watching.
I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lift her.
She feels lighter than usual. Too light.
“Move.”
My voice is rough. Barely controlled.
People part instantly.
No one dares to stop me.
I step off the ice, blades clacking against the rubber matting, carrying her against my chest. Her head falls against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck.
Reporters are shouting now.
“Liam, is she okay?”
“Was she cleared to be here?”
“Is this related to the recent illness?”
I ignore all of it.
They can film my back.
They can speculate.
They can write whatever narrative they want.
I don’t care.
The only thing I care about is the uneven rise and fall against my chest.
And then I see him.
Her father.
Standing near the edge of the rink.
Hands clenched into fists.
Face unreadable.
But his eyes…
His eyes are locked on the way I’m holding her.
On the way I haven’t hesitated once.
On the way I look like I’d burn this entire arena down before I let her hit the ice again.
And something shifts.
Recognition.
Realization.
Understanding.
He sees it now.
That I’m not just some reckless athlete distracting his daughter.
That I’m not some temporary phase.
That I would give up everything for her.
My career.
My reputation.
This game.
All of it.
Because none of it matters if she isn’t okay.
And maybe, just maybe—
He finally understands.