CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
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.
When the machine finally powers down, relief rushes through me so fast it makes me dizzy.
Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.
I don’t open my eyes, because I know it’s her. Her perfume . . . her presence. It’s simply Emery. My sanctuary.
Clark clears his throat as he fiddles with the machine, but that’s the only other sound in the room.
“You can sit up now,” he says as he exits the room.
I open my eyes. It’s now I take in Emery’s profile, the tablet she’s staring at that’s gripped in her hands, and the tears she’s blinking away.
“Dr. Porter,” I say quietly.
Nothing.
She continues trying to snap her professionalism into place like armor as she stares at a tablet that’s screen isn’t even on.
“Dr. Porter,” I say again, louder this time.
Still no response. My chest tightens—not from pain, but from the sight of her holding herself together with determined will.
“Emery.”
She freezes for a second, but then she turns.
Fuck.
Her hands are shaking. Her face is pale. Her eyes are glossy and red-rimmed like she’s been fighting to hold in her devastation. Like she’s been bracing for impact, and the crash finally came.
“This isn’t on you,” I say before she can speak.
Her breath hitches.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, the words tumbling out like they’ve been clawing at her chest. “Lucas, I—I’m so—”
“This isn’t on you,” I repeat, firmer now. “I made the call.”
Her lips tremble and she presses them together to keep herself from falling apart.
“You warned me,” I continue. “You told me the risks. You didn’t lie. You didn’t force me. You let me choose.”
A tear slips free and tracks down her cheek.
“I will always be grateful that you let me choose,” I repeat.
“I thought—” Her voice cracks. She shakes her head. “I thought I could—”
“You gave me one last shot,” I say softly. “And I needed that. I needed to know.”
The truth settles heavily in my chest.
I don’t need the radiologist to read the scans.
I don’t need the clinical diagnosis or to hear the words that will destroy my career.
I’m already hollowed. I already know.
This isn’t a setback.
This can’t be cured with surgery and another nine months of grueling rehab.
This is the end of my career.
I swallow hard, my throat tight, my heart beating too slow and too fast all at once.
“I don’t blame you,” I say, needing her to know. “Not for a second.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and the pain and the self-doubt in her eyes almost undoes me.
All I want is to pull her into me, to feel her heartbeat against mine. To anchor myself to the one thing that still feels real.
But I can’t. Not here. Not like this.
So I stay still.
I let the reality settle.
Football gave me everything.
And now it’s gone.
But the last thing I see before the grief fully takes hold is her standing there, loving me enough to let me fall on my own terms.
And I finally understand what selfless, sacrificial love truly looks like.