Unbroken (The Ranch US #2)

Prologue

Cord

“The snap's a little wide, but Morales catches it, steps back into the pocket. On the left, Gunnerson's heading his way—no, Morales sees him and dances to the left there.”

“Fast on his feet, Cordero Morales, in his fourth year out of Arizona State. Former Heisman finalist. He spots Simmons downfield and yes, throws a perfect spiral for a first down.”

The TV flickered in the dark living room, the only light source in my apartment. I stepped back on screen, almost life-sized on my giant flat screen, and launched the ball downfield.

The crowd exploded into chaos.

“Still think he was robbed for the Heism—NO!”

I barely felt the cold glass of my breakfast beer as I watched the hit play out in slow motion.

I winced, slumping deeper into the leather couch, my heart clenching every time I saw myself on screen, right shoulder battered under the crushing blow, pain blooming across my face even through the helmet as the commentators' raised voices talked over each other, detailing the late hit.

A shudder ran through me, reliving the agony of torn muscle and shattered dreams each time I watched.

“Why are you still watching this?” Ruben's voice cut through the darkness.

I paused the video, grimacing as it froze on a close-up of my twisted face. The hit that changed everything, replaying in my living room for the hundredth time.

“Fuck off, Ruben,” I muttered, not looking away from the screen. “Leave me alone.”

That didn't work. Instead, Ruben Bernard marched toward me, standing over me with arms crossed. The familiar weight of his disappointment filled the room like smoke.

“C'mon, Cordero. That hit was three weeks ago. Time to move on.”

Three weeks since my shoulder got crushed under a deliberate late hit. Since my career potentially ended on national television while Kris Lowry smiled about it.

But who's counting?

“I really don't need this right—ow, fuck...” Pain shot through my shoulder as I shifted on the couch.

Ruben walked over to the window, pressed a button and raised the floor-to-ceiling blinds.

Sunlight flooded my penthouse apartment, chasing away the shadows I'd been hiding in.

I squinted against the brightness, watching my agent, impeccably dressed in an Italian suit as always, survey the wreckage of empty beer bottles and takeout containers.

Once, this place had been magazine-worthy. Perfect for hosting teammates, impressing journalists, maintaining the image of Denver's rising star quarterback.

Now it looked like a frat house after a bender.

“Tell me what the doctor said,” Ruben demanded.

I rolled my eyes. “You know what the doctor said.”

“I know what he said.” Ruben shoved aside an empty pizza box and sank down on the sofa beside me. “Tell me anyway so we're on the same page.”

I slumped back against the cushions, wincing as my shoulder pressed against one of the pillows. “Therapy's not working. It's surgery to fix the torn rotator cuff, or I'll never play again.”

Ruben shook his head. “I don't see what the problem is. Then you get the surgery. Isn't that what you want? To play again?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Play again? The standard protocol gets me to maybe eighty percent. Eighty percent doesn't cut it in the NFL, Ruben. Not at my level.”

“What about the other option?” Ruben leaned forward, his voice dropping.

“I've been making some calls. There's a surgeon in Istanbul—Dr. Arslan.

He's been pioneering a new technique with stem cell integration and advanced microsurgery.

It's experimental, but the results I've seen...” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through something.

“Cord, he's gotten athletes back to ninety, even ninety-five percent.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Istanbul? Seriously?”

“He trained at Johns Hopkins, and did a fellowship in Munich.

This isn't some back-alley operation. The European sports medicine community is watching him closely.” Ruben paused, his expression growing more serious.

“But I have to be straight with you. There's risk. If something goes wrong, if your body rejects the treatment or there are complications... you could lose more range of motion than you have now. Maybe permanently.”

“How much more risk are we talking?”

“The standard surgery has about a five percent complication rate. Arslan's procedure?” Ruben grimaced. “Closer to fifteen, maybe twenty percent. But if it works, and it works for most of his patients, you could be throwing like you never got hit.”

I stared at him, my mind racing. Eighty percent guaranteed, or gamble everything for a shot at being whole again.

“How much time do I have to decide?”

“Your window for optimal surgical intervention is about six weeks from the injury date. After that, scar tissue makes everything harder.” Ruben met my eyes. “You've got a few more weeks to make the call.”

To play or not to play—that was the question, wasn't it? Jamal Jackson, three-time Super Bowl MVP, was retiring next year, and I'd been waiting in the wings for my turn at the starting position.

And now this injury.

“I was supposed to be the one, you know?” The words came out rough. “Ever since I got drafted, the coaches have been grooming me to take over when Jamal retired.” Bitterness crept into my voice. “All that talk about me being the future of the franchise, the next big star quarterback.”

Ruben furrowed his brow. “That can still happen, Cord. With either option.”

I shook my head. “I don't care what the docs are telling you, or me for that matter.

You didn't see their faces, Ruben. Yeah, I might be able to throw a ball again. But the NFL? Starting quarterback?” Maybe I was being pessimistic, but from where I sat, I didn't see a way back to the big leagues, not at that level.

Not at eighty percent, and not if I gambled on Istanbul and lost.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Even if by some miracle I make it back, it won't be the same. I won't be the star player everyone is looking to. I'll just be that faggot trying to make a comeback.”

Ruben's face hardened. “Don't talk like that. You don't know what will happen until you at least try. I thought you loved playing football, not just being the star.”

My eyes narrowed. “Ruben. Of course, I love playing. But I'm not na?ve, and you're not stupid. My moment was right there—” I snapped my fingers, “and now it's gone.”

Ruben leaned forward, his eyes boring into mine. “It's not gone yet. Not if you don't give up. You heard about the suspension, right? Kris Lowry got suspended for four games for that hit on you. The coaches and owners know it was targeted because you're gay. They're on your side, Cord.”

Bisexual, I thought, but this wasn't the time for lessons in sexual preferences and gender politics. My face darkened at the mention of Kris Lowry, the linebacker who'd taken me out with a late hit because of my sexuality. “Remind me of that when he's playing at the Pro-Bowl in February.”

“Forget about Kris,” Ruben said. “He'll get what's coming to him.

But you can't let him derail everything you've worked for.” He sighed, running a hand down his face.

For a moment we just sat there in silence.

Then he met my eyes again. “I can't make this decision for you, Cord.

Not about the surgery options, not about your career.

But I think you should take some time, clear your head, before you do anything drastic.

Don't throw away your whole career over one setback.

And don't make a choice about Istanbul versus the standard procedure until you've had some space to think.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe some time away would be good.” At least it would delay the inevitable a little longer.

Ruben clapped me on my good shoulder. “Take all the time you need.

Just promise you'll call me before you make any big choices about your future, alright?

I'm Team Cordero, whatever you choose, but the right choice will keep you in this penthouse for the rest of your life. The wrong choice will have you back in Santa Fe running your own Toyota dealership.”

Toyota, interesting choice. Not Mercedes or Lexus.

I met his eyes again and gave a small nod. “I'll let you know when I get back.”

He stood up to leave, and I followed him to the door. As he walked out, he turned back with an encouraging smile. “We'll figure this out, Cord.”

We'll figure this out.

I stared at the TV, not really seeing the frozen image of my own crumpled body anymore.

Maybe it was time to walk away. But to what? What came next if I hung up my cleats for good at twenty-seven?

I sighed and tossed the remote onto the coffee table. I didn't want to watch this again. But I also didn't want to think about surgery that might get me to eighty percent of where I'd been before.

Fuck, I didn't want to do anything but sit here, and that wasn't getting me anywhere.

What had Ruben said? Yeah, maybe I deserved a break, to get out of this penthouse and out of my own head. I could go back home. Mom had called every day since the hit, offering to come help me.

Then it hit me. The Ranch.

Yes, that was it.

Texas was calling. A few days of mindless fun before I had to face reality again. I owed it to myself, some place warm and sunny where I could just wallow in self-pity with a dick or two shoved up my ass.

That's the kind of rehab I need now.

I grabbed my phone to call Gracie, my personal assistant. “Book me a flight to Austin, please.”

Her response was quick, if not surprised, at hearing from me. “Will do. Business or pleasure? Need a hotel or car?”

“Just a car. Thanks, G. Oh, wait—” I stopped. “I'll need a refill of my pain pills.” Can't forget the Percocet, not right now.

With that, my mood lifted. Maybe that's all I needed—the promise of self-care in a way that only The Ranch offered.

For the first time in two weeks, I smiled.