Chapter 81 Home
LIAM
The noise was deafening, and the boys were cheering, slapping backs, and tossing gloves like confetti with muscles. Someone popped champagne and it sprayed across the locker room in a glittering arc, raining down like liquid applause. The air smelled like sweat and victory and something electric that only exists after you claw your way to a win. I should have been grinning like a maniac, screaming until my voice gave out, letting the high carry me. This was the moment. The comeback. The proof.
But all I could think about was her.
Ava. My Snowflakes. The woman who gathered the shattered pieces of me when I did not even have the strength to look at them. The one who sat through my anger, my doubt, my silence. The one who believed in my return long before I did. The celebration blurred around me, all noise and movement, and somehow none of it touched the place in my chest where her name lived.
I walked away from the chaos, ignoring the guys calling after me, their laughter chasing me down the hallway. My legs were heavy now that the adrenaline was thinning out, muscles tightening with every step. Pain was beginning to bloom in my shoulder, deep and familiar, like an old ghost tapping politely to remind me it still existed. I should have been icing it already. Should have been stretching, listening to the trainers, being responsible. Hell, I probably needed two ibuprofen and a long session on the table.
But I only wanted one thing.
Her hands.
The therapy room was dimly lit, quiet in a way that felt sacred after the riot of the rink. A soft heater hummed in the corner, steady and warm, like it was guarding the silence. The scent of clean linen and faint antiseptic hung in the air. And there she was.
Sitting on the treatment table, long hair pulled back, hoodie draped around her like she had wrapped herself in comfort while waiting. Her fingers twisted together in her lap, that nervous little habit she had when she felt too much all at once. Her lips were caught between a smile and uncertainty, like she didn’t know whether to run to me or stay still and let me come to her.
God, she was beautiful. Not in the polished, spotlight way. In the real way. In the way that hits you in the chest and makes you grateful for oxygen.
And my mind betrayed me with the memory of last night. The way she said my name. The way she held onto me like I was something solid and certain.
Her eyes locked with mine as I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.
Silence.
Not awkward. Not empty. Just thick. Charged.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. And for a second neither did I, because the weight of everything pressed in at once. The win. The fear. The relief. The future.
“I missed you,” I said finally, my voice rough, scraped raw from shouting and adrenaline and things I had swallowed all season long.
“You were amazing out there.” Ava swallowed, her voice soft but steady. I could see the pride in her eyes, bright and unfiltered.
“I did it for you.”
Her breath caught just slightly, and I saw it. That invisible thread between us pulling tight. The emotional current that never really faded, no matter how loud the world got.
“You came back stronger, Liam.”
“I came back because you wouldn’t let me give up.” I took a step closer, then another, until the distance between us thinned to nothing. “Because you saw me when I didn’t even know who the hell I was anymore.”
“Liam…” Her eyes shimmered, blinking fast like she was trying to hold herself together.
“Touch me,” I said, my voice dropping, not demanding but needing. “You’re my physiotherapist, right?”
She smiled through the emotion, that soft curve of her lips that undid me every time. “You’re sore, aren’t you?”
“I’m wrecked, baby.” I stepped between her thighs where she sat at the edge of the table, my hands bracing lightly on either side of her. “Physically. Mentally. Sexually.”
That pulled a breathless laugh from her, the sound cracking through the heaviness. A tear slipped down her cheek, and I caught it with my thumb, brushing it away gently.
“I love you,” I whispered, the words settling into the room like something permanent. “Not because you fixed me. Not because we’re having a baby. But because every part of me wants you. All the damn time.”
Her expression shifted, something vulnerable and fierce opening all at once. “Then let me take care of you tonight.”
“I’m yours.”
She didn’t hesitate. Her hands came to my shoulder, fingers skilled and sure as they pressed into the muscle. She knew this body better than anyone. Knew where the tightness lived, where the ache hid, where to apply pressure to unravel me. Her thumbs worked slow circles, deliberate and careful, and I let out a low breath I did not realize I was holding.
It should have felt clinical. Routine.
It did not.
It felt intimate. Every touch carried memory. Every press of her fingers said I know you. I know where you hurt. I know how to ease it.
“God, that feels so good,” I muttered as she pushed into my upper back, working through the tight bands of muscle.
“Let me help you undress.” Her voice was soft, steady, but there was heat beneath it.
Her hands moved to my jersey, peeling it up and over my head. The cool air brushed against my skin, raising goosebumps. She traced her fingers along the scar on my shoulder, the one that marked the worst night of my career. Instead of flinching, she leaned in and pressed her lips to it.
Slow. Gentle. Reverent.
She kissed along my collarbone, down the line of muscle she had spent months helping rebuild.
“You make it really hard to stay professional,” she murmured against my skin.
“Good,” I rasped. “I don’t want professional. I want you.”
The tension shifted then. Not explosive. Not frantic. Just deep and undeniable. I slid my hands under the hem of her hoodie, lifting it slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted.
She didn’t.
Her breath hitched as the fabric cleared her head, and when my mouth found hers, the kiss was not gentle. It was hungry, layered with everything we had survived to stand here.
“Lie back,” she breathed against my lips.
I did, settling onto the table, muscles still humming from the game. She climbed over me, straddling my hips carefully, her thighs warm and solid against me. Her fingers traced down my chest, following the lines she knew so well, her mouth trailing behind them.
Every kiss was unhurried. Every touch deliberate.
My body reacted instinctively, but beneath the heat there was something steadier. A quiet gratitude. A grounding.
I had won the game. The crowd had roared. The cameras had flashed.
But this room, this dim light, her hands easing the ache from my muscles while her lips mapped my skin, this was where I felt victorious.
Not because of the goal.
Because I was loved.
And when she looked at me, straddling me there on that narrow table, eyes dark with feeling and promise, I knew something with perfect clarity.
The ice might be my arena.
But her arms?
That was home.