Page 161 of The Backup Plan

He turns away and heads toward the tunnel before anyone can stop him. No argument. No hesitation.

It takes everything in me not to run after him.

Instead, I grab my tablet from one of the PT assistants, my fingers shaking as I secure it under my arm.

“I’m heading inside,” I say, already moving. “Need to check on Hale.”

I don’t wait for a response. As it is, the walk down the tunnel feels endless.

The noise of the stadium dulls with every step until all that’s left is the echo of my shoes against concrete and the pounding of my heart in my ears.

I push through the door into the trainers’ room to find him already on the table.

His helmet’s off, and his pads have been unbuckled and are off his shoulders. His jaw’s clenched like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

For half a second, I’m not a doctor. I’m just a woman watching the man she loves come apart.

Then instinct takes over.

I’m at his side, hands already working, voice steady even as something inside me fractures.

“Tell me where,” I say.

He doesn’t look at me. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters.

It matters.

Everything matters now.

I begin the exam, already knowing what I’m going to find, already loathing myself for pretending this would end any other way.

And as my fingers press into familiar landmarks—too tender, too reactive—I feel the full, crushing weight of the choice I made.

Sure, it was his decision to play, and it was his choice to chance the consequences.

But hell if that makes me feel any better about it.

Especially when this is the version of broken I know I can’t fix.

Lucas

My eyes are closed as I lie on the MRI machine’s motorized table.

I focus on breathing through my nose like that might keep everything from splintering apart as Clark adjusts my shoulder into the proper position.

Pain sears. It’s sharp and deep and wrong. The angle is unnatural—arm rotated, elbow angled just so—and my teeth grind together as heat radiates through the joint.

“Try not to move,” Clark says.

I almost laugh. “What’s a little more pain, right?”

I’ve built an entire career on ignoring it.

“Okay. Let’s get this started,” Clark says and pushes the button for the table to slide into the machine. He moves into the other room, and within seconds the machine begins to hum and scan.

I keep my eyes shut and try not to picture Emery standing in the other room, staring at the screen and watching the images come to life. Images that will end my career.

I focus instead on the concrete. The sounds around me. The pressure in my chest. The way my arm feels like it’s no longer entirely mine.