Page 23

LIAM

T he afternoon before the Brampton game, Boston basks in perfect late March sunshine, the kind that hints at spring's full arrival.

Campus buzzes with pre-game energy, UB flags fluttering from dorm windows, bulletin boards plastered with "CRUSH brAMPTON" posters.

And none of that shit penetrates the fog I've been living in for the past ten days.

And now that the fog has turned into a literal cloud…just in time for my obligatory pre-game lunch with my parents a day before the Brampton match-up.

Life sure has shit timing.

“Hey,” Kellan calls out, grabbing my attention as we walk towards the campus restaurant where my parents are waiting. “You still alive?”

“What?” I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

“Okay, good. Because you’ve zoned out for the last three blocks.” My friend—and the world’s best team captain—bumps my shoulder. “Your form looked better at yesterday's practice. Coach almost smiled."

"Low bar," I mutter, adjusting my tie.

My mother insists on seeing me "dressed like a gentleman" before games, a tradition from high school that somehow persisted into college.

"At least you're showing up.” He gives me a side-eye. "Unlike at the radio station."

I stiffen. "I told Julian I'm out. The podcast's done."

"Is it? Because Wren says Piper's been recording solo episodes that sound like someone's reading an academic journal out loud. Listeners hate it."

"Not my problem," I reply, though the thought of Piper struggling sends an unwelcome pang through my chest.

"It's weird…You spent months arguing with her about how relationships require honest communication, then bailed at the first communication failure."

I stop walking. "She hid her New York plans for months."

"And you hid your feelings for weeks after finding out," he points out. "Pot, kettle, hockey equipment."

"It's different.’

"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, you both made the same mistake." He shrugs as we approach the restaurant. "But hey, what do I know? I only have the healthiest relationship on the team."

Inside, my parents have already claimed a corner table—my father Robert in his usual crisp button-down, mother Joanne elegant in a simple blue dress.

Their faces light up when they spot me, momentarily easing the knot in my chest.

"There he is," Mom says, rising for a hug. "Our star defenseman."

"Looking sharp, son," Dad adds, clasping my shoulder. "Ready for Brampton?"

I glue on a grin that feels more like a grimace. “As ready as possible.”

Kellan excuses himself after brief introductions, leaving me to the familiar routine of parental game-day conversation.

Dad's strategic analysis of Brampton's lineup. Mom's gentler inquiries about classes and teammates.

"And how's that podcast going?" she asks as our food arrives. "The one you mentioned during our call?"

A loaded silence follows as I push salad around my plate. "It's done. Creative differences."

Mom stares, fork frozen in mid-air. “I…seee. This wouldn't have anything to do with that special someone you mentioned, would it?"

"Joanne," Dad warns lightly. "Let's focus on the game. Liam needs his concentration."

"Actually," I find myself saying, "it has everything to do with her. She's been planning to move to New York after graduation. Never bothered to tell me."

Mom swallows. “And you found out another way."

"Her brother told everyone at a team meeting.” I shrug, the humiliation still fresh. "After I'd already found hints on her laptop."

"Pretty unprofessional.” Dad frowns, his usual scowl creasing his face. "You're better off without distractions before Brampton anyway. Scouts will be watching."

"Robert," Mom chides, then turns to me. "Have you talked to her since?"

"What's there to say? She made her choice. New York fellowship over... whatever we were."

"Is that what happened? Or did she simply fail to communicate her plans effectively?"

"Same difference," I mutter, though the distinction doesn't feel as clear as it did a week ago.

"You know," Mom says, "your father almost didn't take the Chicago promotion before we were married. Assumed I wouldn't want to leave Boston. I found out from his secretary at the office party."

Dad looks startled. "I was going to tell you once it was certain."

"But you should have told me when it was possible," she retorts with practiced patience. "Sound familiar, Liam?"

The parallel is uncomfortably obvious. "How'd you fix it?"

"I drove to his apartment at midnight and refused to leave until we had an actual conversation." She offers me a small smile. "And twenty-seven years later, here we are."

Lunch wraps up with Dad's usual pre-game reminders about staying hydrated and watching Brampton's right wing.

I nod along, but Mom's story has lodged itself in my brain, refusing to budge even as we part ways outside the restaurant.

"See you after the game," Mom says, her gaze lingering a beat too long.

Hours later, I'm lacing up my skates in the locker room, Coach Murphy's voice fading to background noise as I run through plays in my head.

The familiar pre-game jitters are there, but something else too—a clarity I haven't felt since before everything imploded with Piper.

"Head in the game, Sullivan!" Coach barks, snapping me back to reality.

"Yes, Coach," I reply, but for once, my head being elsewhere might be exactly what I needed.

The arena erupts as we take the ice, UB's student section a sea of maroon and white, stomping and chanting in unison like a well-rehearsed choir.

Brampton's players loom across the center line, their black and gold uniforms making them look like a swarm of predatory wasps.

Bigger. Faster. More physical.

The team that's crushed us three years running.

But not tonight.

The first period starts with the familiar crack of sticks and scrape of blades. Brampton's captain wins the face-off, sending their offense charging toward our zone like a freight train.

I plant myself at the blue line, every muscle coiled, watching their patterns—something I'd normally overthink until it was too late.

"Sullivan, left wing!" Derek shouts, reading the play a second before I do.

Instead of trying to handle it myself, I shift, trusting his call. We make the stop together, a seamless unit rather than two separate players.

Something clicks.

Like the first time Piper and I found our rhythm in the recording studio, anticipating each other's points, building instead of just arguing.

We're down 1-0 after the first period.

Coach Murphy's face is thundercloud dark as we huddle in the locker room, but I see something in our team that he doesn't yet—a connection forming, communication sharpening.

"They're reading our standard defense," I find myself saying, surprising everyone including myself. I'm not usually the strategy guy. "But if we rotate coverage instead of staying in fixed positions..."

Kellan picks up my thought instantly. "Sullivan's right. They're expecting us to play man-to-man. If we switch to zone defense and communicate on the fly?—"

"We could catch them flat-footed," Derek finishes, nodding slowly.

Coach Murphy studies us, suspicious of our sudden collaboration. "This better work, or you'll all be doing suicides until graduation."

The second period is where everything transforms.

We're no longer five individual players—we're a single organism, flowing across the ice in perfect synchronicity.

A shout from Ryan has me shifting left without question. A subtle hand signal from Kellan triggers a preset play we've barely practiced.

When their star forward breaks through with the puck, I don't try to stop him alone. Instead, I guide him toward the boards where Derek is waiting, our movements choreographed without a word between us.

Two minutes in, we score.

Three minutes later, again.

Sweat drips into my eyes as I gulp for air during a line change, legs burning, lungs screaming. But there's a fire in my chest that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

"Nice assist, Sullivan," Derek pants beside me, bumping my shoulder with his gloved hand.

"Wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been exactly where I needed you," I reply, realizing as I say it how much it echoes what made the podcast work—Piper filling in my gaps, me challenging her rigid thinking, both of us stronger together than apart.

The third period is war. Brampton, realizing they're losing to a team they've dominated for years, turns vicious.

Checks get harder. Sticks swing higher.

I take an elbow to the ribs that steals my breath, but I'm back on my feet before the whistle, guided by something bigger than pride or stubbornness. The responsibility I feel toward my teammates mirrors what I should have felt toward Piper—not ownership or control, but partnership.

Trust.

With five minutes left on the clock and us up by one goal, Brampton pulls their goalie. Six attackers against our five, desperation making them dangerous.

"Sullivan, defense!" Coach bellows as I leap over the boards for the final shift.

The next 300 seconds blur into a symphony of instinct and effort. A blocked shot sends pain radiating up my shin. A diving save has me sliding across the ice on my stomach. Each breath burns, each muscle screams.

But we hold.

And then—an opening.

The puck skitters loose, and I see Ryan at center ice, undefended.

Without hesitation, I send the puck to him with a precision pass that feels like everything we've practiced for.

He catches it cleanly, breaks away, and buries it in the empty net.

5-2, with thirty seconds left. Insurmountable.

The roar of the crowd is deafening as the final buzzer sounds—UB 5, Brampton 2, our most decisive victory of the season.

I skate a victory lap with my teammates, genuinely smiling for the first time in days.

Something shifted during the game.

Instead of trying to handle everything myself, I found myself instinctively trusting my teammates more.

Communicating. Coordinating. Connecting in ways that felt strangely familiar.

Just like what Piper and I discussed in episode twelve about relationship interdependence.

The irony doesn't escape me.

"That's my boy!" Dad exults in the locker room afterward, pulling me into a proud embrace. "Connor would be so proud seeing you follow in his footsteps. Best defensive performance of the season!"

The comparison lands differently tonight.

Instead of warmth, I feel a familiar constriction.

It’s the shadow I've been living in since my brother's death. And finally, for once in my life, I can no longer live in the shade.

I turn to my father.

"I'm not Connor," I say quietly.

Dad blinks, blue eyes fluttering. "Of course not, I just meant?—"

"I know what you meant," I interrupt. "But I'm playing my game, not his. And I need to live my life, not the one you imagined for him."

"Liam…”

"What your father means," Mom places a calming hand on his arm, "is that he's proud of you. For being you."

"I am," Dad confirms after a moment, genuine despite his discomfort. "I just want you to succeed. Hockey's been your whole life."

"Not my whole life," I correct, thinking of brown eyes and statistics and podcast arguments that somehow became the highlight of my weeks. "Not anymore."

Mom's eyes widen, her frown deepening as she stares. "You're in love with her."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yeah. I am."

"Then what are you doing here?" she asks simply.

"The podcast finale is tomorrow," Ryan calls from across the locker room, clearly eavesdropping. "Live recording at seven. Just saying."

I look at my parents.

Dad confused but trying to understand, Mom encouraging with a slight nod.

And me—realizing how much of a fucking idiot I’ve been in the face of the girl—or woman, rather—who’s changed everything for me.

Whether she knows it or not.

My fists clench as Mom takes a step towards me, nodding.

"Go," she urges. "We'll be here when you get back."

I step in, kissing her cheek. “All I needed to hear.”

Heading for the exit, I practically jog out of the building, the cold air stinging my cheeks the second I’m outside.

I’m half-dressed, still partially clad in uniform.

And I don’t give a single damn.

Because for the first time since Connor died, I feel something settle into place.

Not the burden of fulfilling someone else's legacy, but the clarity of choosing my own path.

Yes, hockey matters.

But now I know, for sure, it's not all that matters.