I haven’t left the couch in three days, except to hobble to the bathroom and back. The brace on my knee is a constant, ugly reminder that my body betrayed me—right when I thought I’d finally outrun the grief. Six months ago Callie walked out, and I told myself the only way through was to go harder. Faster. Louder. I scored hat tricks like they were breathing exercises. The crowd chanted my name. SportsCenter called me the next big thing. I was golden, untouchable, the guy who smiled so wide it hurt.

Then the hit came. One second I’m flying down the ice, the next my knee folds like wet paper. ACL tear, meniscus shredded, the whole disgusting package. Surgery’s scheduled for next week, but right now it’s just ice packs and the kind of pain that makes you wish you could disappear. Bennet and Hunter have been saints—bringing groceries, trying to drag me out for coffee, leaving voicemails I delete without listening. I’m grateful, I swear. I just can’t bear the way their worry makes me feel like a ghost in my own apartment.

I tried to make tea this afternoon. Stupid, simple thing. I stood too long, the leg buckled, and the mug slipped. Shattered on the tile. Glass everywhere. I stared at the pieces like they’d personally insulted me, and then the crying started. Not quiet tears. Ugly, choking sobs that made my chest ache worse than my knee. I sank to the floor, back against the cabinets, head in my hands, because this was it. The bottom. No more pretending I was fine. No more golden retriever energy. Just me, broken in every way that mattered, and a kitchen full of shards.

The front door clicked open.

I froze. Footsteps—soft, deliberate. Not Bennet’s heavy tread or Hunter’s impatient stride. These were careful, like someone who knew the floorboards that creaked.

I looked up.

Callie.

She stood in the doorway, coat still on, hair damp from the rain outside, eyes wide and red-rimmed like she’d been crying too. Six months, and she looked exactly the same—same freckles across her nose, same way she bit her lip when she was nervous. My brain short-circuited. I forgot how to breathe.

“Callum,” she said, voice cracking.

I tried to stand. The brace caught, pain lanced up my thigh, and I hissed. She moved fast—dropped her bag, crossed the room in three strides, knelt in front of me. Her hands hovered like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch me.

“Don’t,” I managed. “Glass.”

She ignored me. Reached out anyway, cupped my face, thumbs brushing the wet streaks on my cheeks. I closed my eyes. It was too much. Her scent—vanilla and rain and something uniquely her—flooded back like a memory I’d tried to bury. I leaned into her palms like a man starved.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.