“Morning,” he said gruffly, averting his gaze in a way that told her he too was wrestling with the lingering tension between them.
“I, uh…I wanted to thank you again for being so great with the girls yesterday. After our…um…disagreement.”
His tongue stumbled slightly over the last word, as if he wanted to call it something else entirely.
Sunny clutched the pillow tighter, struggling to find her voice.
“You don’t have to thank me, Liam. Just doing what you pay me for.”
The words hung heavily in the air between them, loaded with the unspoken subtext of trying to reestablish boundaries between employee and employer.
“I know,” he said in that low timbre that made the fine hairs on Sunny’s arms stand on end. “I’m just grateful. For you. Yesterday morning started badly. I just wanted today to begin on the opposite note.”
“That’s sweet,” said Sunny, not really knowing how to answer.
A heavy silence fell between them, thick with unresolved tension still bleeding through from last night.
“Right, well…I think I’ll go wake the girls,” he said. “Long day ahead.”
Then he left, leaving Sunny stewing in her desires — ones that had to be suppressed at all costs.
Liam
The shrill blast of the coach’s whistle cut through the crisp air of the ice rink, signaling the start of another grueling practice session. Liam exhaled a frosty plume as he dug his skates into the frozen surface, muscles tensing in preparation.
“Alright, you lazy bums! Line drill in five!” Coach Hendricks’ gravelly voice boomed.
Liam rolled his shoulders back, trying to loosen up his body before the onslaught began. He needed every possible advantage to keep up with the endless energy of his younger teammates. Even a slight twinge could set him back in these merciless training sessions.
As he fell into the familiar rhythms of dangles, sprints, dekes, and one-timers, Liam felt some of the lingering stiffness begin to melt away. His strong legs propelled him across the ice with powerful strides as muscle memory took over. For a few fleeting moments, he was invincible again — a feared sniper blasting pucks at the net with pinpoint accuracy.
The illusory high was short-lived as a razor-sharp slapshot from Alex Pasternak caught Liam’s hip, sending him crashing hard to the unforgiving ice.
“Hey, old-timer! Time for the nursing home!” Alex jeered playfully.
The young punk’s mocking laughter was swiftly joined by a chorus of immature snickers from the other fresh-faced hotshots.
Liam grunted, struggling to his feet with as much dignity as possible while trying to mask the searing pain. Echoes of Coach Hendricks bellowing at him to hustle harder only further salted the wound.
“Forget your walker at home today, Anderson?” shouted Nikita Kovech as he flew by.
The juvenile taunts and sneers only fueled Liam’s rising anger and frustration as practice wore endlessly on. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn’t seem to banish the coach’s increasingly disappointed glowers in his direction. Every missed pass, awkward tumble, or failed shot attempt was met with head shakes.
In truth, the entire team wasn’t at its best today. By the final whistle, Liam’s body screamed from the merciless exertion.
“What’s the matter with you today? That was little league stuff!” Coach Hendricks screamed. He was addressing the whole team, but Liam couldn’t help feeling that the coach’s gaze lingered on him.
As his younger teammates strutted off the ice, Liam could only watch them with thinly veiled envy. Their bright futures still stretched out before them, with endless potential. Meanwhile, Liam’s playing days looked increasingly numbered with every blistering ache and missed shot on target.
In a desperate attempt to salvage his wounded pride and prove a point — to himself more than anyone else — Liam stayed on the ice, taking slapshots after the rink had cleared out. The thunderous crack of puck against stick served as a cathartic release for his pent-up frustrations.
But with each powerful swing, his aging muscles protested more vehemently — a cruel reminder that his glory days were waning with each passing season. The harsh truth was inescapable. Father Time remained undefeated, even against the most elite of athletes.
Liam grimaced, fatigue etched into the hard lines of his face assweat poured down his brow. He leaned heavily against his stick for support, fighting to catch his ragged breaths. That was when Alex Pasternak’s mocking voice carried across the vacant arena once more.
“Getting a little rusty there, old man.”
Liam shot a withering glare over his shoulder at the cocky young forward, who had materialized beside the bench still in his sports attire with a few equally smug hangers-on.
