Chapter Six
Cord
“How are you really doing?” Vincent's voice carried a weight that hadn't been there in Dr. Hart's office, stripped of the professional polish he wore like armor around The Ranch.
We were walking across the courtyard toward my suite, late afternoon shadows stretching long across the flagstones, and somehow the privacy made everything feel more real. More honest.
The question hit deeper than I expected.
How was I really doing? The automatic response—fine, good, managing—died on my tongue because Vincent deserved better than that.
He'd been nothing but straight with me since I'd arrived, and the way he'd handled the situation in the medical wing showed he actually gave a damn about what happened to me.
“I don't know,” I said finally, the admission feeling like stepping off a ledge.
“That's the honest answer. I wake up and for about thirty seconds I forget everything that's happened. Then it all comes crashing back and I…” I paused, struggling to find words for the suffocating weight that settled on my chest every morning.
“I feel like I'm drowning in my own life.”
Vincent nodded, not with pity but with understanding. The distinction mattered more than I could explain. We passed the pool where I'd met Danny Cross two days ago—was it really only two days? Everything felt compressed and stretched at the same time, like time itself had become unreliable.
“The pills help with that feeling?”
“They make it quieter.” I kicked at a loose stone, watched it skitter across the courtyard. “When I take them, the voice in my head that keeps cataloging everything I've lost gets turned down to a whisper instead of a scream.”
“And without them?”
The question made my chest tighten with anticipatory panic.
“Without them, I can't shut it off. It's like having a radio stuck between stations, just constant static telling me I'm fucked, that I threw away my entire life for nothing, that I'm never going to be anything more than the gay quarterback who couldn't hack it.”
We'd reached the entrance to my suite, but Vincent made no move toward the door.
Instead, he leaned against the wall, studying me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.
The scrutiny should have made me uncomfortable, but there was something in his expression, concern mixed with the kind of tough love that didn't bullshit around the truth.
“Cord, I have to ask this, and I need you to be honest with me.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Do you think you need to go to rehab?”
The question hung between us like smoke. I wanted to say no immediately, to defend myself against the implication, but something in Vincent's tone stopped me. He wasn't asking to judge me. He was asking because he genuinely wanted to help, and that made me pause and actually consider it.
“I don't think so,” I said slowly, testing the words as I spoke them.
“The pills… they're not why I'm falling apart.
They're just what I use to deal with falling apart.” I ran my good hand through my hair, feeling the familiar ache in my shoulder as the movement pulled at damaged muscles.
“Maybe that's just semantics, but it feels important.”
“It is important.” Vincent's response was immediate, certain. “There's a difference between addiction and self-medication. Both can be dangerous, but they require different approaches.”
“Yeah?” I felt something loosen in my chest, like he'd given me permission to be honest about something I'd been afraid to name.
“Because I'm pretty sure what's really happening is that I'm having the mother of all anxiety attacks that's been going on since the divorce and I'm too embarrassed to admit that maybe I need help for more than just a fucked-up shoulder.”
The words came out in a rush, like I'd been holding my breath for weeks and finally let it go. Saying it out loud made it real in a way that thinking it hadn't, made it something I could actually deal with instead of just endure.
Vincent's expression softened around the edges. “Depression and anxiety aren't character flaws, Cord. They're medical conditions that can be treated.”
“Tell that to an NFL locker room.” The bitterness in my voice surprised me. “Tell that to the sports media who are already questioning whether I'm mentally tough enough to handle the pressure of being out in professional sports.”
“Fuck the sports media.” The vehemence in Vincent's voice caught me off guard. He was usually so controlled, so measured. “And fuck anyone who thinks asking for help makes you weak. You know what takes real strength? Admitting when you're drowning and asking someone to throw you a rope.”
Something in his tone made me look at him more carefully.
There was a rawness there, like he was speaking from experience rather than just offering platitudes.
The late afternoon light caught the lines around his eyes, and for a moment I saw past the polished exterior to something that looked like old pain, carefully managed but never quite forgotten.
“You sound like you know something about dark places,” I said quietly.
“We all have our stories.” He was quiet for a moment, then seemed to make a decision.
“Mine involved a bottle of bourbon and a hotel room in Vegas about five years ago.
I woke up days later with no memory of how I'd gotten there and about six missed calls from Ibrahim wondering why I'd disappeared.”
The admission hit me like a physical blow. Vincent—successful, put-together, unflappable Vincent—had been where I was now. Maybe not exactly the same circumstances, but that same drowning feeling, that same desperate need to make the noise in his head stop.
“What happened?”
“I got help. Therapy, medication for a while, a complete restructuring of how I approached stress and pressure.” He straightened up from the wall, and when he looked at me, there was something fierce in his expression.
“It wasn't fun, and it wasn't fast, but it worked.
I'm still here, still running this place, still figuring out how to be a whole person instead of just a collection of achievements.”
The parallel wasn't lost on me. A collection of achievements. That's exactly what I'd been: Cordero Morales, quarterback. Take away the football, and what was left? Who was I without the thing that had defined me since I was eight years old?
He studied me a beat longer. “Success is the best accessory. Just make sure it fits the person you are, not the persona you built.”
I huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh.
“So, if what you need right now is a few days away from people and pressure, somewhere you can fall apart safely and put yourself back together…” He gestured toward the hills beyond The Ranch.
“Dusty's right. My cabin's a good place to start.
No audience, no expectations. Just space to breathe.
We'll keep Dr. Hart looped in. Twice-daily phone check-ins. I'll handle Ibrahim.”
Relief flooded through me so fast I had to lean against the wall. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and Dusty's putting himself in a complicated position to help you.” Vincent's expression turned serious again. “Don't make him regret it.”
“I won't.”
“Good.” He pushed off from the wall. “Go pack. Light—you're not moving in permanently. And Cord?” He paused at the entrance to my suite. “Whatever happens out there, remember that this is temporary. You're not broken, you're just bent. There's a difference.”
“Sí,” I said, surprising both of us.
Inside my suite, I moved on autopilot, throwing clothes into the same duffel bag I'd brought from Denver four days ago. Four days. How was it possible that my entire life had shifted so completely in less than a week? I'd arrived here as one person, bitter, medicated, barely holding on.
Now I was about to disappear into the hills with a man who'd somehow become essential to my breathing.
The thought should have terrified me. Under normal circumstances, the idea of being isolated with someone I'd known for four days would have set off every self-preservation instinct I had.
But these weren't normal circumstances, and nothing about my reaction to Dusty fell into any category I recognized.
I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror as I grabbed my toiletries.
The face looking back at me was thinner than it had been a month ago, stubble covering a jawline that looked sharper than it should.
But for the first time in months, my eyes didn't look dead.
There was something there. Fear, maybe, but also hope.
When had I last had hope about anything?
My phone buzzed with a text from Ruben: How's the vacation going? Ready to talk surgery dates yet?
I stared at the message, then turned the phone off and shoved it into the bottom of my bag. Whatever decisions I needed to make about my future could wait. Right now, all I could handle was the next few hours.
Vincent walked me out to the lobby where Dusty was waiting, a small duffel slung over his shoulder.
He looked different outside of the studio setting, more casual in worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, his blond hair pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck.
When he saw me, his expression shifted from anxious to relieved.
“You ready?” he asked, voice soft like he was afraid speaking too loud might spook me.
“As I'll ever be.” I adjusted my shoulder brace, already feeling the familiar ache starting to build. How long before it became unbearable? Six hours? Less?
Vincent walked us to the door, handing Dusty a set of keys. “There's food in the fridge. Call if you need anything.” He clasped my good shoulder. “Remember what I said, Cord.”
Outside, an ancient Ford pickup waited, its blue paint sun-faded to the color of a desert sky. It looked out of place next to the luxury of The Ranch. Dusty tossed our bags in the back and helped me into the passenger seat. The interior smelled of leather and dust and something green. Sage, maybe.
We drove away from The Ranch's manicured grounds onto an unpaved road that meandered through scrubby hills. Dust billowed behind us as we bounced over ruts, each jolt sending a stab of pain through my shoulder. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing the way Dusty had taught me.
The truck slowed, and I opened my eyes to see a small wooden cabin nestled among cypress trees beside a narrow creek. It looked like something from another time, simple and sturdy, built to last rather than impress.
I climbed out slowly, taking in the absolute quiet broken only by the burble of water over stones and the whisper of breeze through leaves.
The air smelled clean in a way city air never did, and I was ten years old again, camping with my parents and Maria in the mountains outside Santa Fe.
Dad teaching me to fish while Mom sketched the landscape and Maria collected “treasures” from the forest floor.
“No neighbors for miles,” Dusty said, misreading my silence for concern. “The Ranch is about twenty miles back if we need it.”
I stretched carefully, rolling my neck. “That's not a bad thing.”
When I turned to grab my bag, I caught Dusty looking at the cabin like a man who'd just agreed to hold lightning. He nodded anyway.
“Having second thoughts?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
He shook his head quickly. “No, I just… I want to help. I'm just not sure I know how.”
That made two of us. I rubbed at my temple where a headache was already starting to form. “I should apologize in advance for what's probably going to be a pretty shitty attitude. I'm not great at being vulnerable.”
“Yeah,” Dusty said with a small smile. “I never would have guessed that about a professional football player.”
I glanced at my phone—4:18 PM. My stomach growled, a painful twist that matched the throbbing in my temples. No wonder I felt like garbage. Between the medication drama and packing, I'd completely forgotten to eat.
I followed Dusty up the worn wooden steps, hefting my duffel with my good arm. The strap dug into my palm, another small discomfort piling onto the growing collection.
The door creaked open to reveal an interior that bore zero resemblance to The Ranch's polished luxury.
Rough-hewn log walls surrounded a single open space with a kitchenette in one corner and a threadbare couch facing a stone fireplace.
A narrow hallway led to what I assumed was the bedroom.
Everything looked clean but worn, like a place built for function rather than comfort.
No plush king bed. No rainfall shower. No room service.
My stomach lurched again, this time from anxiety rather than hunger. Spending days in this isolated box with a man I barely knew, facing down the demons I'd been medicating into submission. The walls felt too close, the air too still.
“I know it's not what you're used to,” Dusty said, watching my face. “But sometimes simple works better than fancy when you're trying to heal.”
I dropped my bag, forcing down the panic. Simple. Basic.
Maybe that's exactly what I needed.