Page 128 of Hometown Halftime

“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously while he takes both my hands.

“Come on, dance with me, Kinsey.”

“I haven’t had coffee yet.”

“I’ll make you seventeen pots of coffee if you just dance with me.”

Before I can argue further, Riley spins me gently into him, one hand settling against my waist while he holds the other. I laugh again because he’s completely ridiculous, swaying us slowly around the kitchen while looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“You are in an alarmingly good mood this morning,” I tell him.

He looks down at me with absolutely no shame. “Again. Had sex.”

I bury my face against his chest while laughing.

“You're going to be unbearable for at least a month, aren't you?”

“Minimum.”

God help me, I’m smiling so hard my face hurts. And my heart beats dangerously in my chest, telling me I am, in fact, absolutely falling for him.

Chapter fifty-two

Kinsey

Riley went to the gym before I left this morning. Now, I sit in the rheumatologist’s waiting room, trying not to let my nerves take over while flipping through the same three pages of a magazine for the fourth time. Around me, people scroll through phones or quietly watch the television mounted in the corner.

The nurse eventually calls my name, leading me down a hallway before taking my vitals and settling me into an exam room. A few minutes later, Dr. Hernandez walks in carrying my chart and MRI images.

She smiles warmly while we go through the introductions. She asks me the same twenty questions that the doctors before her did. Then she turns from her computer to speak.

“So,” she says gently, “I’ve reviewed your bloodwork and imaging.”

My heart sinks and I feel anxious.

“There’s definitely inflammation in your sacroiliac joints,” she explains calmly, pointing toward the familiar images on her screen. “Combined with your symptoms and the positive HLA-B27 marker in your bloodwork, this confirms ankylosing spondylitis.”

Confirmed. Not maybe or possibly. I stare at the screen while my stomach slowly drops somewhere near my feet.

The doctor keeps talking gently, explaining the diagnosis. How catching it earlier gives us a much better chance of slowing progression. How treatment has improved dramatically over the years. But the only thing my brain fully latches onto is the fact that the pain has a name. My throat tightens hard enough that swallowing suddenly feels difficult.

“Will it get worse?” I interject.

Dr. Hernandez’s expression softens. “It can progress over time, but many patients live very full, active lives with proper treatment. The goal now is managing inflammation before joint damage occurs.”

I nod slowly, barely able to keep up with all the information.

The doctor walks me through treatment options carefully before recommending something called a biologic inhibitor injection to help suppress the inflammation. She explains potential side effects, immune suppression, monitoring appointments, and bloodwork.

Then she explains the injections.

A specialty pharmacy will ship the medication to me every month. The injector pens come preloaded. I’ll do an injection every two weeks.

Simple, clinical, and terrifying.

“You’ll probably feel overwhelmed for a while,” Dr. Hernandez says gently, as if she’s had this conversation a thousand times before. “That’s normal.”

“Yeah,” I say with a sarcastic laugh. “I think overwhelmed might be an understatement.”