Page 80 of The Overtime Persuasive

And now, Liam’s become the exception.

The reporter went on to explain that another New York player grabbed him from behind before Tripp came flying into the middle of everything.

The report ended by announcing that the penalties allowed New York to score the winning goal. That should have been the part I held onto—the loss—but it wasn’t. It was the shot they got of Liam’s face afterward.

The camera caught him sitting in the penalty box, a red mark rising along his cheek while he said something to Tripp through the divider. He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked rattled.

I’m still thinking about that look after lunch, when the bell above Side B’s door gives its strangled blast, announcing another visitor.

My heart practically explodes from my chest when Liam walks in.

He stops just inside the door, wearing jeans and a Dominion sweatshirt, his hands tucked into the front pocket. Usually, Liam enters Side B as if he’s been sent here for the sole purpose of improving everyone’s day.

Today, there’s no smile. No excuse. He doesn’t even make a joke about the bell.

His cheek is bruised, and a small cut runs along his bottom lip. On further inspection, there’s a faint shadow beneath one eye. Still though…this man looks unfairly good for someone who was involved in a televised bust-up less than twenty-four hours ago.

But he also doesn’t look like Liam to me. He’s standing right in front of me, and somehow, I miss him.

“Hey,” I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended.

“Hey yourself.” The words sound like him. The way he says them doesn’t.

“Saw the news this morning.” I set down the stack of books I’ve been shelving and move toward him. “Are you okay?”

His mouth pulls at one corner. “It looked worse than it was.”

“It looked like several men attempting to murder one another on ice.”

“That’s dramatic.”

I put my hands on my hips. “The clip was introduced with the words rivalry turns violent.”

“It’s the media.” Liam laughs. “News people like excitement.”

“One of you threw a helmet.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Oh, good. That changes everything.”

Normally, Liam would meet me here. He’d make a joke, tell me I was cute when worried, or use the opportunity to show me exactly how little the bruise affects his ability to kiss me. Today, his almost-smile disappears as quickly as it came.

His gaze moves around the store. It’s quiet right now. Two customers are browsing in the book room, while a man works on his laptop at a table in the not-in-use café.

Liam inclines his head toward the half-packed boxes behind the counter. “When do you need me here next?”

Well, that question catches me off guard. I just sent him the schedule for the month three days ago. “For helping pack the boxes?”

“Or unload a delivery. Stock take…anything really.”

One benefit of knowing Liam as well as I do, is that I can tell he’s not here because he needs to find out when he’s supposed to be here next.

He’s come because he doesn’t know how to say that he needs somewhere to be.

A softer realization that sneaks up on me is that, perhaps, he needs me. Funny enough, that thought is not as panic-inducing as I would have expected.

“Now,” I say. “I need you now.”