Page 83 of Landing Liam

Liam Thompson’s journey may be taking a new direction, but his story is far from over. With his integrity intact and his spirit unshaken, he’s proving that even in the face of adversity, it’s possible to rise above the noise and carve out a path that’s uniquely your own.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Liam

I’ve read Maggie’s article so many times I’ve lost count. Every time, I imagine her voice narrating the words, soft and steady, but full of purpose. It’s brilliant. It’s raw. And it’s everything I hoped it would be. She captured the truth without sensationalism, told my story without pity, and somehow made me feel seen in a way I didn’t think was possible.

But it doesn’t make missing her any easier.

It’s not the usual kind of missing, either. It’s not the passing ache I’ve felt after casual flings or failed relationships. It’s deeper. It’s the absence of her warmth beside me, the quiet rhythm of her breathing when she sleeps. It’s the memory of her hand in mine, like it belonged there, like it was meant to stay.

And that smile—God, that smile. The one she gets when she’s challenging me, her eyes lighting up with fire as she calls me out on my crap. I miss the way her laughter would sneak up on me, soft and unexpected, like she was caught off guard by her own joy.

But right now, my life is chaotic. Between the fallout from the doping allegations, the decision to retire, and the reality of my diagnosis, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a storm, trying to hold it all together. What kind of future can I offer her when I don’t even know what mine looks like yet?

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply as I sit on the edge of my bed. The article is open on my phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dim room. Maggie wrote about my strength, my resilience, my determination. She painted me as someone capable of overcoming anything. But I don’t feel strong. I feel lost. And I hate that feeling more than anything.

For the first time in my life, I’m not chasing a win. I’m chasing stability. A new purpose. A way to rebuild my life without the sport that’s defined me for so long. I want to be the man Maggie deserves—the man she saw in me, even when I couldn’t see it in myself.

But how do I do that when everything feels like it’s slipping through my fingers?

There’s a soft knock at the door, pulling me from my thoughts. I glance up from my phone to see Mom standing there, her face warm but thoughtful.

“That was quite an article,” she says, her voice tinged with pride. She gives me a small nod of approval before stepping into the room and leaning a hip against the dresser. Her arms cross over her chest in that familiar, no-nonsense way that tells me she’s here to have one of those talks.

“Have you talked to her yet?” she asks, her gaze sharp but kind.

I shake my head, the weight in my chest growing heavier. “Not yet. I was thinking I’d reach out later tonight.”

Mom tilts her head, studying me like only she can. “Tell me what’s going through your head, son.”

I smile faintly, the corner of my mouth twitching up. “I was just thinking… I’ve never wanted to get my life in order more than I do now.”

Her lips curve into a knowing smile, the kind that says she’s been exactly where I am. “The right person will do that to you.” She chuckles softly, and there’s a warmth in her eyes that makes the knot in my chest loosen, just a little. “You’re not so different from your dad, you know?”

“We share awe-inspiring good looks and a head of artfully tousled hair?” I offer, trying to inject some levity into the moment.

Mom laughs, shaking her head. “No. When you fall, you fall hard. Just like he did.”

She steps closer, resting a hand on my shoulder. The squeeze she gives is firm, steadying, and full of that quiet reassurance only a mother can give. “I’m so proud of you, Liam. Not just for how you handled today, but for the man you’re becoming. Don’t lose sight of that, okay?”

“I won’t,” I promise.

“Good,” she says, giving me one last squeeze before letting go. “Dinner’s on the stove if you’re hungry. Come down whenever.”

As she leaves, I sit there for a moment, staring at the wall and letting her words sink in. My phone is still in my hand, Maggie’s article open on the screen. My thumb hovers over her contact, but I can’t quite bring myself to press it. Not yet.

Taking a deep breath, I stand and grab my jacket. If I’m going to get my life in order, I need to start somewhere. And right now, I think it’s time to pay my little sister a visit.

***

The second bedroom is Emmy’s sanctuary, a place where light barely dares to intrude. The blinds are drawn, and the faint red glow of her darkroom lamp bathes the space in an otherworldly hue. Shelves line the walls, crowded with jars of chemicals, photo paper, and rolls of film. The faint smell of developer and fixer clings to the air, sharp and slightly metallic. The centerpiece of the room is a table covered in a chaotic array of photographs, some pinned to a drying line that stretches from one corner of the room to the other.

Emmy, my youngest sister, is perched on a stool, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulder like a curtain as she examines a photograph in her hands. She’s in her element here—quiet, focused, and completely absorbed. I knock softly on the doorframe, and she practically jumps out of her skin, clutching the photo to her chest like a lifeline.

“What is wrong with you?” she gasps, her voice sharp as she presses a hand to her heart. “You scared me half to death! You could’ve been a murderer.”

I smirk, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Maybe you should start locking the front door.”