Chapter Three: The Lie He Tells Best

Liam's POV 

My dad calls Sunday night, same as always, and I already know what he's going to say before I pick up, because he's said it every Sunday for as long as I can remember.

"Coach Reyes says you're looking sharp." His voice has that particular warmth he saves for hockey talk, the warmth that disappears the second the subject changes to anything else. "Sixty goals this season, Liam. That's the number. Sixty, and every scout in the country is going to be calling."

"I know, Dad."

"You know, but are you doing it? Are you putting in the extra reps? Because talent only gets you so far, you understand that. I had talent. Talent's cheap. It's the work that separates the men from the boys."

"I'm doing the work."

"Good. That's good." A pause, the kind of pause where I can practically hear him deciding whether to ask the next question. "And how's Bridget? Her father mentioned you two might be coming to the lake house over the holidays. That'd be good for you. Good optics, the team Captain with a girl like that."

Good optics. Like I'm a product line. Like Bridget is a marketing decision.

"We'll see," I reply.

"Don't 'we'll see' me, Liam. Some things matter more than you think they do right now. You'll understand when you're older."

I want to ask him what exactly I'm supposed to understand. I want to ask him if he ever wanted anything that didn't fit the plan, if he ever looked at his own life and felt like he was watching it from outside a window. But I don't ask, because I never ask, because some doors in this family stay shut whether you knock on them or not.

"I should go, Dad. Homework."

"Sixty goals, Liam."

"I hear you."

I hang up and sit there on my bed with my phone in my hand and my chest doing that thing again, that tight, airless thing, and I don't even think about it, I just grab my jacket and head out into the cold.

I tell myself I'm going for a walk. I tell myself the rink is just where my feet happen to take me, even though it's nearly ten at night and the building should be locked.

It isn't locked. Kai's there.

He's alone on the ice, no pads, just a stick and a bucket of pucks, running the same drill over and over under the half lights, shooting, retrieving, resetting, shooting again. He hasn't seen me yet. I stand in the doorway and watch him for longer than I should, watch the focus on his face, the way he talks to himself between shots, low, frustrated, like he's arguing with the puck.

"You're going to wear a hole in the ice," I say.

He startles, badly, nearly falling, and when he turns around there's a flush climbing up his neck that I don't think has anything to do with exertion.

"What are you doing here?"

"Couldn't sleep." True enough. "What's your excuse?"

He looks back at the net, jaw tight. "My shot's off. Coach noticed today. Said it in front of everyone."

"He's right. It's off."

"Wow. Thanks."

"You're dropping your elbow on the follow-through. That's why it's sailing wide." I step onto the ice without really deciding to, grab a stick from the rack by the boards. "Here."

I don't know what I'm doing. I have homework. I have a curfew, technically, though nobody enforces it for me. I have a girlfriend who isn't really my girlfriend and a father who measures my worth in goals and a whole life waiting for me that I'm supposed to want, and instead I'm standing on the ice at ten at night showing a scholarship kid how to fix his wrist shot because some part of me wanted an excuse to be near him and didn't want to admit it.

"Like this," I say, and I get behind him, close, closer than I need to be, my hands adjusting his grip on the stick, my chest nearly against his back. "Keep your elbow up. Follow through toward the target, not down."

He's gone very still.

"Try it," I say, and my voice comes out lower than I mean it to.

He shoots. The puck rockets into the top corner of the net, clean, hard, perfect.

"There it is," I say.

He turns around to look at me, and we're standing close, too close, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him in the cold air, and his eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up, and he knows I saw it because his breath catches, audible, sharp.

"Liam."

It's the first time he's said my name. Not Whitemore. Liam.

Something in my chest cracks open.

"Yeah," I reply, and I don't move away, and neither does he, and the air between us feels like it's made of static, like one more inch would set something off that neither of us could take back.

The rink door bangs open behind us.

"There you are." Bridget's voice, bright and confused, echoing off the empty seats. "Liam? What are you doing here so late?"