CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Emery
By the third quarter, the noise finally fades into the background.
Not because it isn’t loud, it is, but because my brain won’t let it matter.
The Rebels are up. The offense is clicking. Lucas is calm in the pocket, decisive and confident. He’s throwing like the quarterback everyone knows him to be and has revered for years. He’s playing with clean spirals, smart reads, and controlled movements.
It’s a sight to see.
And still, every snap tightens something in my chest.
Because this is how it always goes.
Pain doesn’t announce itself. Damage doesn’t scream when it’s happening. It whispers later, when the adrenaline wears off and the inflammation settles in like a debt coming due.
Every throw he makes, I count what number repetition this is in my head.
Every hit he takes, I assess where the impact is so I can fear the damage.
Every time he rolls his shoulder between plays like he’s loosening it up, my stomach knots.
The fear has dulled enough that I almost let myself believe, that I almost doubt and question my own assessment.
Almost.
“Doc!”
I turn at the call from farther down the sideline, instinct snapping me back into place.
A receiver is on the bench, grimacing as the trainer removes his ankle tape. Knee or maybe ankle injury. I head over and kneel down to get a better look at it. Normally this falls to the trainers, but there have been a lot of injuries this game, and most of them are tied up.
I have the player’s ankle between my hands, watching his face as I palpate his ankle and check range of motion when the crowd groans.
The sound ripples through the stadium like a warning bell, followed by a sharp intake then, as I look up at the stands behind the bench, a collective flinch.
I whip my head toward the field, and through a tangle of legs and cleats and trainers rushing onto the field, I see Lucas on the ground.
My world narrows.
I don’t hear the whistle. I don’t hear the announcer. I don’t hear my own name being called again.
I just see him down on one knee, head bowed, left hand braced against the turf.
My body tries to move before my brain does.
Don’t run. Don’t react. You are not his girlfriend out here.
I force myself to finish what I’m doing—clearing the receiver. He’s done for the game. On automatic pilot, I get someone to help him hobble to the locker room. And once he’s set, my attention’s already torn somewhere else.
By the time I look back, Lucas is on his feet.
Walking very slowly.
Relief hits so fast it almost knocks me dizzy.
Then I see his expression.
Tight. Controlled. Too controlled.
He rotates his shoulder once. Twice. Too slow. Too deliberate.
This is not good. I can feel it somehow. Know it somehow.
He doesn’t look toward the bench as he crosses over into the sidelines. For a split second, he looks toward me.
And in that glance, everything inside me drops.
Because I know that look.
That’s not pain.
That’s realization.
That’s the moment the body tells the same truth as the scans.
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.