CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Emery
We’re lying side by side, fingers loosely linked, and staring at the ceiling.
The room is quiet as we sink into our thoughts. It’s neither awkward nor empty. Just full of what we said. Full of what we didn’t say.
The day.
The aftermath.
And trying to figure out where we go from here.
Lucas’s chest rises and falls evenly beside me, and every now and then his thumb brushes against mine like he needs to reassure himself that I’m still here.
I love you.
The words echo in my head, incredible and terrifying all at once.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this—since someone said it like it wasn’t conditional. Like it wasn’t a bargaining chip or placeholder or something they’d take back later when it wasn’t inconvenient.
And of course, it happens now.
Of course, it happens wrapped around the worst possible circumstances.
I’m still processing all of it when Lucas exhales slowly.
“Can I tell you something without you trying to fix it or explain to me why I’m wrong?” he asks.
I don’t look at him. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll say the wrong thing. Or the right thing at the wrong time.
“I’m a good listener,” I say.
“I know it won’t make sense to you, but this sport . . . it’s not just what I do. It’s how I know who I am.”
My fingers tighten around his without meaning to.
You’re so much more than football.
And I know I’m not the only one who thinks that.
“Walker made a good call getting Hale here,” Owen says.
“Fuck, yeah. You noticed how much the team respects him in the locker room? On the field?” Brian adds.
“In PT too,” Owen says.
“I’ve never come across such a talented QB who’s just as equally humble. Solid. Rare.”
“Agreed. I hope he makes the team for that reason alone.”
How many conversations have I heard Lucas’s name mentioned that have been full of praise for his character?
The man is an incredible human.
But I close my parted lips and do what he asked—listen.
“I told you about my parents, about how nothing I did mattered to them. Because of that, right or wrong, I looked elsewhere for affirmation of my worth and my value. And that came with football. I was good at it and people noticed. Parents pulled me aside and patted me on the back. Coaches asked me if I wanted to play for their teams. Teammates invited me to their houses because they wanted to be associated with the kid their parents talked about. At home I was just Lucas—not enough for my parents to stand up and pay attention. On the football field, I was Lucas—the star player who everybody admired. The leader who knew his role and played it damn well. It was the only place life made sense for me when everything else felt like chaos or failure.”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur so he knows I’m still listening, but Jesus Christ. His parents sound ghastly.
Not like I’m super close to mine, but they at least encouraged me to pursue my dreams and goals.
“If that’s taken away from me, Emery, I don’t know what’s left. I don’t know who I am without it. I know you’ll say that’s okay, I can figure it out . . . but I’m not ready to find that out yet.”
The words are even. Well-thought-out. Honest. His truth.
He turns his head toward me. “The decision to play or not is mine. I get to decide whether I’m willing to risk not having a bum arm someday or not.”
“And that’s the dilemma,” I say, my chest aching.
“I get paid to tell the truth about the athletes. Whether their injury is detrimental or innocuous. What the risks might be to other players by putting an injured teammate on the field. The team is paying you for your arm. They’re paying me to be honest about the condition it’s in. ”
“And right now it’s not in any condition. It’s playing perfectly well—hitting marks, getting the job done. I shouldn’t be held back because of what might happen in the future.”
“There is no might about it.”
“Okay. Fine. What will happen in the future. But why does that get to restrict me now?”
My sigh is as heavy as the topic of conversation. “While you’re making valid points, it’s still my job to report on their athletes’ health and status.”
“Do you know how many guys in the locker room are playing hurt? How many walk around being held together by pre-wrap and tape, numbing their shit with cortisone injections, and pretending it’s fine?
You know I’m right.” His voice hardens just a touch.
“No doubt if they had a strain and you put them in that MRI, you’d see something in their scans too that would concern you.
I don’t understand why you get to be my judge, jury, and executioner when they get to be their own. ”
The comment hits harder than expected.
“Lucas . . .”
“This is why guys lie about their injuries. Why they lick their wounds at home or in private facilities.”
I don’t respond right away, because since those scans loaded, since I told Lucas it was in his and the team’s best interest for him to stop playing, I’m not convinced that is true.
I know morally and ethically what I’m supposed to do—inform the team—but what if I delayed informing them of the magnitude of the results?
Or simply didn’t tell them at all?
The thought feels like stepping on thin ice. Terrifying. Irresponsible. Human.
“I just need one more season,” he says, softer now. “One more so I can go out on top instead of the man limping away injured. Just one. Let me have that. Then I’ll walk away. I swear.”
“I don’t know if your shoulder will hold that long.”
“Fine. But that’s my decision to make.”
The worst part? In some respects, his point is completely valid.
The Rebels offered Lucas a contract and then finalized him on the roster without consulting me for scan results or future issues.
Is the situation as cut and dried as Lucas is suggesting?
If he’s playing well enough that he was selected, does it matter about the ticking time bomb beneath the skin and muscle?
But just because they didn’t ask you, doesn’t mean you’re not bound by your own employment contract not to say anything.
Probationary contract, actually.
Would a permanent offer be pulled if they found out I wasn’t completely forthcoming?
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything I know. With everything I’ve been trained to do. Every protocol. Every oath to do no harm. Every line I’ve sworn I’d never cross.
And every part of me that loves the man beside me.
I stare at the ceiling until it blurs, while my mind runs in circles I can’t escape.
When I finally speak, my voice is barely audible. Almost like I’m afraid of the ramifications from any words I do say.
“I can’t lie,” I say. “I can’t pretend the scans say something they don’t. I can’t promise you something I don’t believe in.”
He moves his hand out of mine, but I reach for it, grab it back, and turn on my side to face him. We’ve spent this whole conversation staring at the ceiling, almost as if it’s easier to be honest that way. Now, he can’t escape me.
Now he’s forced to hear what I have to say.
“But,” I continue as his eyes meet mine.
My chest aches with love and conflict. “I also don’t have to relay what the long-term ramifications are just yet.
” Because he’s also right. It is his choice what he does with his body, and his skill ensured he was drafted.
While those words might feel like triumph to him, they feel like betraying my moral code to me.
“I can do everything in my power to make your shoulder hurt less, to manage what I can. To protect you as much as possible while you make your choices.”
That’s all I can give him.
Even if it eats me alive inside.
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “This is on me, Emery. I’m the one choosing to do this. I’m the one asking for your help. Whatever happens—the burden is mine to carry.”
I close my eyes and draw in a shaky breath.
My oath is to do no harm.
And yet here I am, standing in the space between truth and love, knowing there is no version where one of them doesn’t destroy me.
Fuck.