Three weeks post-surgery, and I'm beginning to understand what liminal space means.
It's a term Sam used during one of her 2 AM philosophical tangents—the threshold between what was and what will be, existing in neither but both. I'm not the guy who couldn't skate anymore, but I'm not the guy who scored in his first game either. I'm suspended between identities, healing in the space where neither version of me fully exists.
The thought hits me at 5:47 AM while I'm staring at the ceiling, shoulder throbbing despite the medication. Sleep's become theoretical lately, something I remember but can't quite access.
My phone lights up.
Sophie: you awake?
Me: yeah
Sophie: window
I drag myself out of bed and look out. Three floors down, Sophie's standing in the predawn darkness, wearing running gear and holding two coffee cups. Even from here, I can see the steam rising.
She waves.
Five minutes later, I'm outside, still half-asleep, and she's handing me coffee that's somehow exactly how I like it—too much cream, probably too much sugar.
"How'd you know I was awake?" I ask.
"You're always awake." She starts walking, slow enough that I can keep pace. "Besides, I saw your light on when I was doing my run."
"You ran already?"
"Couldn't sleep either." She takes a sip of her coffee. "Figured misery loves company."
We walk through campus in silence, and there's something almost sacred about it—the world caught between night and morning, street lights still on but the sky beginning to pale. No students yet, no noise, just us and the sound of our footsteps.
"Can I ask you something?" Sophie's voice breaks the quiet.
"Sure."
"What are you actually afraid of?" She doesn't look at me, just keeps walking. "And don't say the injury or not playing again. What's underneath that?"
The question catches me unprepared. I think about deflecting, making a joke, but something about the hour and the coffee and the way she asked makes me answer honestly.
"That I peaked already. That the best version of myself happened for one game, and everything after this is just... less."
She stops walking. We're near the fountain—the one that shoots water at physics-defying angles—and in the growing light, her expression is serious.
"You really think your entire worth as a person is defined by forty minutes of hockey?"
"When those forty minutes are the only time I've ever felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be? Yeah, kind of."
"That's bullshit." She says it gently, but firmly. "Evan, you were you before hockey. You're still you now. The shoulder doesn't change that."
"Doesn't it? Everyone knows me as the Chosen One now. The guy who came out of nowhere. What am I when I'm not that?"
"I don't know. Why don't we find out?" She starts walking again, and I follow. "You've spent three weeks being injured Evan. Maybe it's time to figure out who regular Evan is."
"Regular Evan is boring."
"Regular Evan showed up to hockey tryouts hungover because a girl he barely knew told him to. Regular Evan made friends with the weirdest group of people on campus in under forty-eight hours. Regular Evan is trying to have a coherent conversation at 6 AM on zero sleep." She looks at me. "That doesn't sound boring to me."
We end up at the academic quad, sitting on a bench while the sun finally breaks over the horizon. The light's that particular quality you only get at dawn—soft and clean and full of possibility.
"Can I tell you something?" Sophie asks.
"Always."
"I was supposed to quit hockey." She's staring at the sunrise, not at me. "Last year. My coach said I wasn't progressing fast enough, that I should focus on school, that being a backup goalie wasn't worth the time commitment. And I almost did. I almost walked away from the only thing that made me feel alive."
"What stopped you?"
"Spite, mostly." A smile flickers across her face. "And this idea that I'd rather fail doing something I love than succeed at something I'm ambivalent about." She finally looks at me. "You found hockey weird—late, and randomly, and in a way that doesn't make conventional sense. But you found it. And yeah, the injury sucks and the recovery is hell, but at least you know now. At least you have something worth fighting for."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You're just finally listening."
The moment hangs between us, charged with something I can't name. Her eyes are very brown in the morning light, and there's a piece of hair escaping her ponytail that I want to reach out and fix except I can't because my arm's in a sling and also because I don't know if I'm allowed to.
"We should get you back," she says eventually. "You have class at nine."
"How do you know my schedule?"
"I pay attention." She stands, and the moment breaks. "Come on, Chosen One. Let's get you educated."
Professor Harland's class has become the unexpected highlight of my week, which says something about either the class or my mental state.
Today's topic is market failures, and Harland's on a roll.
"The fundamental assumption of capitalism," he says, pacing the front of the room with his ever-present coffee cup, "is that rational actors will make rational decisions in their own self-interest. This assumption is, of course, completely wrong. Humans are not rational. We're emotional, impulsive creatures who make decisions based on feelings and then rationalize them afterward."
Someone raises their hand. "But isn't that just—"
"Let me finish." Harland doesn't even glance at them. "Take college, for example. You're all here, accumulating debt, for a degree that may or may not improve your economic prospects. Rationally, many of you should be learning trades or starting businesses. But you're not, because society says college is what you do, and humans are social creatures who follow patterns even when those patterns don't serve us."
He takes a long drink of coffee.
"This is also why marketing works, why people buy lottery tickets, and why anyone thought Fyre Festival was a good idea. We're not rational. We're narrative-driven. We make decisions based on stories we tell ourselves about who we are and who we want to be." His eyes scan the room and land on me. "Mr. Ross, what story are you telling yourself?"
The room goes quiet. Everyone turns.
"Uh—"
"About your injury. Your recovery. Your future. What's the narrative?"
I wasn't ready for this. "That I'm... working on getting back?"
"Weak. Try again."
"That I'm going to recover and play again?"
"Better, but still a question disguised as a statement. You don't believe it yet." He leans against his desk. "Here's the thing about narratives—they shape our reality. If you tell yourself you're permanently broken, you'll find ways to make that true. If you tell yourself you're temporarily inconvenienced, you'll act accordingly. The market of your life responds to the story you're selling yourself."
"That's... not really economics."
"It's behavioral economics, which is the only kind worth studying because it acknowledges that we're all just making it up as we go." He straightens. "Your homework for next week—and yes, Mr. Ross, this applies to you specifically—is to write about a time you made an irrational decision that turned out well. Two pages. Due Friday."
After class, Jessica catches up with me.
"He's obsessed with you," she says.
"Pretty sure he's just being a teacher."
"Harland's not just a teacher. He's a philosophy professor who accidentally ended up in the economics department. Everything's a life lesson with him." She adjusts her bag. "For what it's worth, I think he's right. About the narrative thing."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. My boyfriend—the Riverside player—he tore his rotator cuff last year. Told himself he was done, that he'd never play the same. Guess what happened?"
"He didn't play the same?"
"Exactly. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Meanwhile, his teammate had the same injury, told himself he'd come back stronger, and did." She shrugs. "I'm not saying positive thinking heals ligaments. But it definitely doesn't hurt."
Physical therapy that afternoon is a different kind of torture.
Rita's brought in new equipment—resistance bands that look innocent but are instruments of pure evil. We're working on rotator cuff strengthening, which apparently means making tiny circles with my arm until I want to die.
"Bigger circles," Rita instructs.
"These are as big as they get."
"Then your range of motion is worse than I thought. Keep going."
Twenty minutes in, I'm sweating and shaking and seriously considering just living with a broken shoulder forever.
"Break," Rita announces, and I nearly collapse. She hands me water. "You're doing well."
"I'm dying."
"Same thing in physical therapy." She makes notes on her clipboard. "How's the pain at night?"
"Bad."
"Sleeping?"
"Not really."
"Nightmares?"
The question catches me off guard. "Sometimes. Why?"
"Trauma response. Your body went through something violent. Dreams are how it processes." She sets down her clipboard. "Talk to someone if it gets worse. Student health has counselors."
"I'm fine."
"Everyone says that." She doesn't push, just hands me a new exercise sheet. "Take this home. Do these three times a day, every day. No excuses."
After PT, I'm walking back toward the dorms when I hear my name.
"Ross! Yo, Ross!"
I turn. There's a group of guys I vaguely recognize—all wearing Theta Sigma letters. The defunct fraternity that refuses to stay defunct.
The one in front is tall, built like he's been lifting since middle school, with the kind of face that's probably been handsome his entire life. He extends a hand.
"Tyler Brooks. Rush chair for Theta Sigma."
"I thought you guys got disbanded."
"Technicality. We're operating as a... social organization." He grins. "Listen, we've been following your story. The mysterious hockey prodigy, the injury, the comeback arc. That's exactly the kind of narrative we look for."
"Narrative?"
"Yeah, man. Theta Sigma's all about legacy. Building something bigger than yourself. We saw you play—that one game—and we saw something special." He glances at my sling. "The injury doesn't change that. If anything, it makes it better. The hero's journey always includes a fall."
"I'm not really the fraternity type."
"What's the fraternity type?" Another guy steps forward. "We're engineers, athletes, artists. We're not some cookie-cutter organization. We're about brotherhood, about pushing each other to be better." He pauses. "Plus, our parties are legendary, and I heard you like a good party."
"Where did you hear that?"
"Word travels." Tyler pulls out a card—actual business cards for a defunct fraternity, incredible. "No pressure. Just come to one event. See if it fits. We're having a thing this Saturday. Low-key, just brothers and potential recruits."
I take the card mostly to end the conversation. "I'll think about it."
"That's all we ask." Tyler grins again. "See you around, Chosen One."
They leave, and I'm left standing there wondering what just happened.
That night, the group's at the dining hall, and I tell them about the Theta Sigma encounter.
"Absolutely not," Lena says immediately.
"I didn't say I was joining."
"You took their card. That's step one of their recruitment process. Next thing you know, you're wearing salmon shorts and calling everyone 'bro.'"
"I already call everyone bro," Jax points out.
"You're grandfathered in. It's different."
Maya's taking notes. "This is interesting. Subject being pursued by social organization known for aggressive recruitment tactics. Hypothesis: they see value in association with the Chosen One persona."
"Can we stop calling me that?"
"No," everyone says in unison.
Sophie's been quiet, pushing food around her plate. I catch her eye and she looks away quickly.
"What do you think?" I ask her directly.
She looks up, surprised. "Me?"
"Yeah. Should I check it out?"
"I think..." She chooses her words carefully. "I think you should do what feels right to you. Not what everyone else thinks you should do."
"That's diplomat speak for 'I have an opinion but won't say it.'"
"Fine. I think fraternities are designed to make you depend on them for identity, and you're already dealing with identity issues because of the injury. Adding another organization that wants to define who you are seems like bad timing."
The table goes quiet.
"But," Sophie continues, "I also think you're smart enough to know when something's wrong for you. So if you want to check it out, check it out. Just... be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"People who see your story as a recruiting tool instead of seeing you as a person."
It's the most I've heard her say about something she disagrees with, and there's something protective in it that makes my chest feel warm.
"Noted," I say.
Later, walking back to the dorms, Sophie falls into step beside me.
"I wasn't trying to tell you what to do," she says.
"I know."
"I just—" She stops walking. We're under a streetlight, and the yellow glow makes everything feel cinematic. "I've watched fraternities chew people up. My brother joined one freshman year and it took him two years to realize he'd lost himself in it. I don't want that to happen to you."
"It won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have people who'll call me on my bullshit." I look at her. "I have you."
Something shifts in her expression. "Yeah. You do."
We stand there for a moment, and I'm very aware of how close we are, how easy it would be to just—
"I should go," she says suddenly. "Early practice tomorrow."
"Right. Yeah."
She starts walking backward. "See you at PT?"
"Unfortunately."
She laughs, and then she's gone, and I'm left standing under the streetlight wondering what would've happened if I'd just been brave enough to close the distance.
Back in my room, Ollie's at his desk, surrounded by what looks like the contents of several electronics stores.
"Where have you been?" he asks without looking up.
"Dinner. Existential crisis. The usual."
"Cool. Maya texted me. She thinks you're going to join Theta Sigma."
"I'm not joining Theta Sigma."
"That's what everyone says before they join." He finally looks at me. "But for real, if you do, can you get me into their parties? I heard they have the good stuff."
"What good stuff?"
"I don't know. The good stuff. Whatever that means in frat world."
I collapse on my bed, shoulder protesting. "I'm not joining."
"Because it's not right for you, or because Sophie doesn't want you to?"
The question hangs there.
"Both," I say finally. "Maybe."
Ollie nods sagely. "That's growth, my friend. That's emotional intelligence."
"Since when are you an expert on emotional intelligence?"
"I've been watching a lot of therapy TikToks. Very educational." He goes back to his electronics. "But seriously, whatever you decide, we've got your back. Even if you become a frat bro. We'll stage an intervention, but we'll have your back during the intervention."
"Thanks, Ollie."
"Anytime."
I close my eyes, thinking about narratives and identity and the space between who you were and who you'll be. About Sophie's eyes in the morning light and her hand in mine in the hospital and the way she looks at me like she sees something I don't see yet.
About being the Chosen One, or not being the Chosen One, and whether that even matters.
My phone buzzes.
Sophie: for what it's worth
Sophie: i think you'll make the right choice
Sophie: you usually do
Me: how do you know?
Sophie: because i pay attention
Sophie: goodnight evan
Me: goodnight sophie
I fall asleep thinking about attention, about being seen, about the difference between people who want to use your story and people who want to be part of it.
And maybe, just maybe, about someone who's becoming both.