Page 25

LIAM

T wenty-four hours of desperate planning feels like both too much and not enough as I watch Piper through the production booth window, her voice steady despite the raw vulnerability in her words.

The surprise I've orchestrated hinged on perfect timing and the willing conspiracy of nearly everyone in our lives.

Julian agreeing to my last-minute plan.

Abigail smuggling me into the station's back entrance.

Ryan running interference with curious students, and Kellan and Wren helping coordinate the pieces.

Even Derek, after our tense but necessary conversation yesterday, offered grudging support.

That conversation had been one of the hardest of my life.

Finding Derek at the campus gym, where he'd been taking out his frustrations on a punching bag with enough force to suggest I might be next.

"Five minutes," I'd said, standing my ground despite the death glare he sent my way. "That's all I'm asking."

His jaw had clenched, but he'd nodded toward the empty weight room. "Clock's ticking, Sullivan."

We'd sat on opposite benches, the silence between us heavy with broken trust and friendship strained to breaking point.

"I love your sister," I'd said finally, the words hanging in the air between us. "Not just hooking up, not just dating. I'm in love with her."

Derek had scoffed, wiping sweat from his brow. "You've got a funny way of showing it. Three years of friendship, and you couldn't even tell me you were seeing her."

"Would you have been okay with it if I had?"

His silence had been answer enough.

"The sister rule exists for a reason," he'd muttered eventually.

"Yeah? And what reason is that exactly?" I'd challenged. “ Because it sounds a hell of a lot like fear to me—like you're scared someone might actually care enough to stay.”

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? You've been her protector since your mom died. But Piper doesn't need protection, Derek. She needs support."

He'd stood then, pacing the small space. "You think I don't know that? But I've watched guys come and go—saying all the right things, making promises they never keep. And I've held her hand through every disappointment."

"I'm not those guys."

"No?" His eyes had narrowed. "Then why did I find her crying in her apartment last week? Why has she been recording those terrible solo episodes that even Julian says are tanking?"

The guilt had hit like a body check, knocking the air from my lungs. "I screwed up. We both did. But I'm trying to fix it."

"Some things can't be fixed, Sullivan."

"Maybe not. But they deserve a second chance." I'd leaned forward, meeting his gaze. "You of all people should understand that."

He'd frozen, his expression shuttering. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Those pickleball tournaments you keep disappearing to? Ryan mentioned Coach Murphy's daughter plays. Said you two looked pretty cozy at the last one."

A flush had crept up his neck. "That's different."

"Is it? Because it seems like you're risking a hell of a lot for something that matters to you." I'd watched his internal struggle play across his face. "What's her name again?”

The silence stretched between us until it finally snapped.

"Ellie," he'd said after a long pause, the single word carrying weight. He exhaled hard. “She's transferring to UB in the fall."

"When you'll still be playing, since you red-shirted freshman year."

“Nothing’s going on…” He'd run a hand through his hair, frustration evident. “Hell, Coach would bench me, if I breathed on her the wrong way. Might even boot my pickle-ball loving cheeks from the team.”

“And yet…she's worth the risk."

“I—“ Derek had fallen back onto the bench, the fight draining out of him. “I don’t know. Nothing’s happened…At least, not yet. But…”

“But?”

He raised his gaze. “I’m thinking she might be.”

"That's how I feel about Piper." I'd moved to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder like the countless times we'd shared a bench during games. "I'm not asking for your blessing. I'm asking for a chance to prove that what we have is real."

The air feels into a lull, years of friendship weighing against the broken trust.

Until finally…

"She's been miserable," he'd admitted with a harsh scoff. "Worse than after that publishing internship fell through junior year."

Hope had flickered in my chest. "So have I."

"She's still going to New York."

"I know."

"And you're still pursuing hockey."

"Yes."

He'd studied me then. "You've really thought this through, haven't you? Not just charging in headfirst like usual."

"I've learned a few things from your sister," I'd said with a small smile. "Like sometimes planning ahead isn't such a bad idea."

"And if it doesn't work out? If the distance is too much?"

"Then at least we tried. Better than walking away without fighting for what matters."

He'd been quiet for a long moment before standing, extending his hand. "If you hurt her again, I’ll staple your balls to the ice and let the Zamboni do the rest."

I'd grasped his hand, relief flooding through me. "If I hurt her again, I'll let you."

As we'd walked out together, an uneasy truce established, he'd paused. "For what it's worth, you're nothing like those other guys. You actually listen when she talks about her research crap."

"It's not crap," I'd defended automatically. "Her approach to relationship dynamics is actually pretty brilliant, once you get past all the statistical jargon."

Derek had laughed then, shaking his head. "Jesus, you really are in love with her."

"Yeah.” I smiled. “I am."

Now, watching Piper pour her heart out on air—beautiful in that burgundy sweater that brings out the warmth in her dark brown eyes, voice trembling with emotion as she takes responsibility for mistakes we both made—I'm struck by how completely I love this woman.

When I can't stand another second of silence, I speak into the microphone Julian has positioned for me, interrupting her self-criticism with the truth she needs to hear.

Her reaction—shock, disbelief, hope—makes my heart hammer against my ribs.

"Sorry I'm late," I say as I join her in the studio, trying for lightness. "Traffic was terrible."

She stares at me like I might be a hallucination. "What are you doing here?"

"Finishing what we started.” My stare doesn’t break. “If that's okay with you."

The live audience waits with bated breath, a collective witness to our reconciliation…

Or our final goodbye.

"I had a speech prepared," I admit, pulling folded papers from my pocket. "Practiced it all night. But hearing you just now... I think I need to ditch the script."

A flicker of appreciation crosses her face—she recognizes the significance of me, the spontaneous one, planning ahead, while she, the organized one, speaks from the heart.

"The floor is yours," she says softly.

I take a deep breath, acutely aware of the audience and unknown listeners beyond, but focusing only on her.

"When you tricked me into being your co-host all those months ago, I was annoyed, then intrigued, then completely captivated by this intense, brilliant woman who approached relationships like scientific experiments.

" I smile at the memory. "I thought we were too different to ever connect. I was wrong."

I reach into my jacket and pull out a stack of photos, laying them on the table between us.

"These are from our 'Love Lab Experiments,'" I explain, pushing them gently toward her. "The cafe where we pretended to be a couple. The journalism mixer where you defended me. The hockey game where you wore my team colors. The 36 Questions that made me fall even more in love with you."

Her eyes widen at my public admission.

"I've spent the past two weeks angry that you didn't include me in your New York plans," I continue. "But I never gave you the chance to explain. I found out by accident and ran away, just like I've been running from anything that matters since Connor died."

My voice catches, but I push through.

"The truth is, I was scared too. Scared that what we had wasn't real enough, strong enough, to survive distance or careers or the future. It was easier to end things than face that fear."

I take another breath, approaching the most important part.

"After the Brampton game, my dad made some comment about me following in Connor's footsteps, and for the first time, I told him the truth—that I need to live my own life, make my own choices. And my choice is this: I want us to try again, for real this time."

Her expression softens, but hesitation lingers. "Liam, my fellowship?—"

"Is in New York. I know. And I've been talking to my agent.

There are development teams in New Jersey, opportunities to train while still building a career in Boston.

We'd have to figure things out, compromise, probably spend some time apart.

But I'm not asking you to choose between your dreams and me. "

I reach across the table, palm up, an invitation. "I'm asking if we can find a way to support each other's dreams together."

"That's... a lot of planning for someone who claims spontaneity is better.”

"I've learned a thing or two about the value of preparation. From this incredibly stubborn, methodical podcast partner."

A smile tugs at her lips. "And I've learned that sometimes you have to take risks that aren't in the data."

"So," I ask, heart in my throat, "what does your research suggest about second chances?"

"The data is mixed…But my personal findings indicate they're sometimes worth the risk."

Her hand moves to rest in mine, warm and certain.

"I'm still going to New York," she says softly. "The fellowship matters to me."

"I know." I squeeze her hand. "I wouldn't ask you not to."

"And you're still pursuing hockey."

"I am. But hockey isn't my whole life anymore." I meet her gaze steadily. "You taught me that."

The audience around us has faded into background noise, the microphones forgotten as we face each other across the table that's witnessed our entire journey.

"So, what now?" she asks, vulnerability and hope mingling in her voice.

"Now we do what we should have done from the beginning. We talk. We plan. We figure it out together."

"Together," she repeats, as if testing the word.

"If that's what you want. Look, babe…I know I hurt you, and if you need time?—"

"I've wasted enough time.” She squeezes my hand. "Being afraid. Hiding behind work. I don't want to waste any more."

My pulse beats like a damn conga line.

Forgetting the audience, the microphones, the entire world beyond this moment, I lean across the table and kiss her.

And it is everything I didn’t fucking give Piper before.

Everything she deserves.

A promise. An apology.

A new beginning.

When we break apart, her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "So, this is our conclusion? For the podcast?"

"Not a conclusion.” I smile. "Just a plot twist."

Julian's voice breaks through our bubble: "Um, guys? Still live on air."

Laughter ripples through the audience, bringing us back to the reality of our public reconciliation.

"Right," Piper says, professional mask slipping back into place though her hand remains firmly in mine. "In summary, our research suggests that effective relationship communication requires honesty, vulnerability, and the courage to speak your truth even when it's terrifying."

"And sometimes," I add, "it requires ambushing someone into being your podcast co-host."

"That was an exceptional circumstance," she hits back, familiar banter falling into place as naturally as breathing.

"Keep telling yourself that, Thompson."

As Julian signals the end of our broadcast time, I know we still have obstacles ahead.

Distance. Careers. The complexity of building a life together despite different paths.

But looking at Piper now, brown eyes bright with possibility, I now know one thing…

That some experiments are worth continuing, no matter how improbable the initial hypothesis might seem.