Chapter 15 #2
Her words are shaky but fierce, and they punch through the fog for a second, like only a younger sister’s could.
I wipe at my eyes with my good hand, blinking through the tears. “Can I see him?”
They don’t answer right away. My mom glances at my dad. He looks toward the closed door. There’s hesitation. Too much of it.
“Not yet,” my mom says softly. “They’re keeping him in intensive care. They’re monitoring everything closely. You need to rest and heal too.”
“No,” I say, but the word is weak, barely a protest. “Please.”
My mom takes my hand gently, her thumb stroking over my knuckles. “We know you want to see him, baby. But they’re not letting anyone in yet. Not even us.”
“Caden’s parents went straight to him,” my dad adds, voice low. “They were taken to the ICU as soon as they landed. He’s still being monitored. It’s serious.”
That knowledge shatters something deep inside me. The fact that they’re with him—where I should be—makes the emptiness in my chest crack wider. They’re at his side while I’m stuck here. We might as well be separated by miles even though we’re in the same building.
I nod, or I think I do. My body feels too heavy to be sure.
The pain in my ribs pulses with each breath.
My broken arm lies useless at my side, the cast a dull, throbbing reminder.
My numb fingers, though, still manage to keep a tight grip on the LEGO figure, which I found on the small table by my bed.
My head pounds with every heartbeat, but none of it compares to the ache in my chest.
The weight of knowing the person I love more than anything in this world is lying in a hospital bed just like me—only worse, so much worse—is almost too much. And there’s nothing I can do.
Not yet. Not until they let me.
Not until he’s ready. Not until someone says it’s okay.
And even then… even then, I don’t know how I’ll face him. What I’ll say.
How I’ll ever stop blaming myself.
There’s a beat of silence that stretches like pulled skin. My dad clears his throat gently, and I can tell it’s taking everything in him to keep it together. “The police are here, Theo,” he says carefully. “They’d like to speak to you. Just a statement.”
I blink at him. “Now?”
He nods. “They’ve been waiting a while, but your doctors asked them to give you some time.”
I nod absently, my throat dry and thick with guilt. “Okay.”
“We’ll stay with you,” he says quickly, and I feel my mom’s fingers lace through mine again.
I turn to her. “Do they know?” My voice is rough. “Caden’s coach—his team. Do they know?”
My dad leaves quietly to get the officer. My mom shifts to sit closer to me, brushing a hand over my hair like she did when I was a kid too feverish to sleep.
“Yes,” she says. “They were notified not long after the accident. I think his coach is flying out this morning with his agent. They’ll be at the hospital soon.”
Her voice tightens just a little. “They’ve been calling constantly. Checking on him. On you.”
I nod again, my eyes blurring. The Detroit Devils. I still can’t believe he made it there, even after everything. And now… now he’s lying in an ICU bed, missing part of his leg.
He wasn’t a starter, not yet. He was working his way in, part of a two-way contract—half in the league, half in the G League—but making waves.
Getting minutes. Gaining traction. His coach said he was a grinder, someone who could get under the skin of bigger players and force turnovers. He was fast, explosive, smart.
Now? Now it’s all over. At least professionally. And that’s if—if—he makes it through recovery. No one has said as much, but until I see him for myself, I can’t believe otherwise.
Some teams would offer support, I know. Medical care. Counseling. A chance to transition into another role. But I also know that contracts don’t mean guarantees. Especially not for undrafted players. It’s all too easy for someone like Caden to be quietly let go.
He’s not just injured.
He’s vulnerable.
He’s broken in a way that could define the rest of his life.
And I—
I was behind the wheel.
My stomach turns again. I was driving.
My arm curls tighter around my middle, cradling the pain in my ribs like I deserve it.
There’s a knock on the doorframe, and I look up to see a man in uniform step in, followed by my dad. The officer is tall, maybe mid-forties, with dark eyes and a kind, professional face. He holds a notepad in one hand but doesn’t open it right away.
“Theodore Brooks?”
I nod, my throat thick. “Theo.”
He glances toward my parents. “It’s up to you if you want them to stay.”
“They can stay,” I say, and I clear my throat. “It’s okay.”
He steps closer, pulling over a chair. “I’m Officer Keller. I understand you’ve just had surgery. This won’t take long. I’m just looking to clarify a few details about last night’s accident.”
I nod, suddenly lightheaded. “Okay.”
He gives me a small, reassuring smile. “Take your time answering.”
As he begins, my mom squeezes my hand again, and I try to breathe. Maybe—just maybe—once I say it out loud, I’ll start to feel something other than this endless, crushing guilt.
Maybe after this, I’ll be allowed to see him.
I’m not. I haven’t even seen his parents.
He’s awake and communicating, that much I know, but getting more information is like trying to dig through concrete with a spoon.
It’s been three days since the accident.
Three days since I destroyed his life. Three days since my heart shattered into something sharp and unrecoverable.
I don’t know how it’ll ever repair itself.
Not if I can’t see Caden for myself. Not until I can check with my own eyes that he’s out of ICU and truly okay.
Okay.
The word sticks in my throat, too bitter and wrong. There’s nothing okay about this. Not even close.
What’s worse is I’m being discharged today.
My parents are finalizing the paperwork, organizing aftercare at home, and making sure I have the pain meds and follow-up appointments lined up like good, responsible parents do.
They’ve already contacted the university, filed for medical leave on my behalf. Everything’s lined up so neatly.
But I don’t care.
None of it matters if I leave this hospital without seeing Caden.
Fuck it.
I slip away while they’re distracted, ignoring the stabbing ache in my ribs and the heavy fog behind my eyes. The pain is a good thing—it keeps me grounded, reminds me why I’m doing this. I deserve every twinge, every throb, every bruised breath. I almost killed the person I love most.
I creep down the corridor, one hand pressed lightly to the wall for balance. Nurses pass by, a few glancing my way, but no one stops me. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I find a staff board listing patients by wing, and I scan it, eyes locking on his last name like it’s screaming at me.
Room 417.
Private.
Of course it is. He’s a professional athlete. Or… was.
The thought makes my stomach cramp. I swallow hard and move, dragging my battered body to the elevator. Every second feels like it takes a minute. Every footstep adds another brick to the weight pressing down on my chest.
When I finally reach his floor, I pause. The hallway is quiet. My breath rattles in my chest as I inch toward his door. It’s cracked open just slightly. No nurses are in sight. There’s no noise but the soft beep of machines from inside.
I rest my hand against the door, fingers trembling. Then I push it open.
Caden’s in the bed, propped slightly on pillows.
His hair is flattened on one side, his jaw dark with a few days of scruff.
There’s a thick bandage on his forehead.
The moment I see it, a vivid flash of memory hits me like a sucker punch to the chest—blood streaking down his face, the way his eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness, the helplessness in his expression as the world went sideways.
My knees nearly buckle. But I’m here now. And he’s breathing.
I let my gaze drift down, seeing past the blanket draped over his body. I take in the curve of his chest, the rise and fall that confirms he’s alive. That he’s really here.
And then I see it.
The dip in the blanket.
The place where half of his leg used to be.
Reality slams into me, and my chest squeezes so tightly it feels like my ribs might crack all over again. My vision blurs, and I can’t look away.
Then his voice slices through the silence like a blade. Low. Tired. Sharp. “You shouldn’t be here.”
My gaze snaps up. His eyes are open, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, but focused on me. “I—” My voice is sandpaper. “I just needed to see you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. “Well, now you’ve seen me.”
I flinch. “Caden….”
“Don’t,” he says, his tone flat. “Don’t pretend this doesn’t change everything.”
“What does that even mean?”
He shifts, and the slight movement pulls a groan from him. But he doesn’t stop. He’s pushing himself up a little straighter, grimacing through the pain like he’s daring me to challenge him. “It means I don’t need your pity, Theo.”
I stumble back a step like he’s struck me. “Pity?” My voice breaks. “Jesus, Cade, that’s not what this is.”
His eyes flash. “Then what is it? Guilt? Responsibility?”
“No!” I close the distance, stopping just short of the bed. “It’s love, you idiot. I love you.”
His jaw works, but he doesn’t speak.
“I love you,” I repeat. “And I’m so sorry. I know that doesn’t change anything. I know what I did—what I didn’t do—cost you everything.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. His eyes flick away from mine, toward the window. “I don’t want you here,” he says quietly.
The words tear through me like glass. I nod, swallowing past the lump forming in my throat. “Okay,” I whisper. “I get it.”
He still won’t look at me.
I back up a step, blinking fast, heart thudding like a war drum in my ears. “I’m heading home. With my parents.”
He nods, barely.
“I’ll give you space,” I say, fingers squeezing closed over the yellow firefighter I keep in my grip. “However much you need. But… I still love you.”
He’s silent for a beat. Then, bitterly, he says, “Lucky you. You get to leave.”
My breath hitches. “I’d stay,” I offer desperately. “If you wanted me to. I’d stay and be here for you. Help you through this. Anything, Caden. Anything.”
His eyes meet mine, finally. But there’s no warmth, just exhaustion and pain. So much pain. “I don’t want you here.”
The finality in his voice cuts deeper than anything else has. I nod once, then turn. The door closes softly behind me. As soon as it does, I collapse against the wall. My legs give out, and I slide to the floor. My cast bumps the linoleum. My ribs scream. But none of that matters.
Because nothing will ever be the same again.
Not for him.
Not for me.
Not for us.