Chapter 20
Operational Status: Fifty-Fifty
Finn
Now, climbing toward our cruising altitude over the Rocky Mountains, I finally opened the message.
Primary hypogonadism. Testicular dysfunction secondary to traumatic brain injury.
I read through the endocrinologist’s notes the same way I used to review technical specifications on aircraft.
Pituitary disruption from head trauma—common in TBI patients.
Hormonal failure cascading through multiple systems. Fertility implications significant.
Recommend consultation for treatment options.
Treatment options. Like there was a maintenance manual for this type of equipment malfunction.
Dom sat across from me in the cream leather seat, script pages spread across the small table between us.
Every few minutes he’d glance up, catching me staring at the screen or rubbing my brow—responding to his earlier observations about the flight or the ranch with single-word acknowledgment instead of actual conversation.
The numbers kept cycling through my head in loops as if they were pre-flight checks.
Two-eighty-five testosterone when I should be producing at least three hundred.
Biochemical markers that put me just under normal range and trending downward.
The kind of numbers that meant my body was struggling to stay operational.
Another system compromised. Another future lost to eighteen weeks in a hospital and a brain that had been shaken up like an Etch-a-Sketch full of nails.
I caught my reflection in the small window—scars visible along the left side of my face, the slight asymmetry in my left eye that most people never noticed.
How many other things were failing that I hadn’t discovered yet?
How many more ways would my body find to remind me that Steady was gone, replaced by someone who couldn’t be counted on for basic biological functions?
The phone dimmed and I locked it, watching my reflection in the darkened screen now. Crooked nose. Burn scars down the left side of my neck that continued over my back and the left side of my body. Dom’s pages rustled as he marked dialogue with a pencil—the sound sharp in the cabin’s quiet hum.
Finally, he lowered his script, his full attention shifting to me. “You’ve been staring at that thing since we took off. Bad news or just interesting news?”
The direct question caught me off guard. Dom usually let me process in silence, trusted me to share what I wanted to share when I was ready. This felt different—more pointed. The confined space of the charter cabin made avoiding his gaze impossible.
“Medical stuff,” I responded at length. “VA follow-up.”
“Everything okay?”
I huffed. When was the last time anything had been okay? When was the last time I’d felt like a complete person instead of spare parts held together with desperation and stubbornness?
Alex’s voice echoed in my memory. “It’s not like this is real anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.
” She’d said it about our fake relationship, about the baby conversation with her family, about us.
Like whatever was happening between us was just the performance—easily dismissed when it became inconvenient or complicated.
And maybe that was for the best. Maybe she was protecting herself from getting involved with someone who was slowly falling apart at the cellular level.
“Define okay,” I watched the clouds pass beneath us.
Dom set his script aside completely, leaning back in his seat and crossing one knee over the other. “That’s not really an answer, Finn.”
“It’s not really a simple question.”
“Try me.”
I rubbed my temple where a low-grade headache was building—stress, altitude, or just another reminder that my brain didn’t regulate itself properly anymore. Dom waited patiently.
The truth was I’d spent months compartmentalizing every physical setback, every cognitive limitation, every reminder that the life I’d spent over thirteen years building was permanently off the table.
Adding fertility problems to the list shouldn’t have felt like such a devastating blow.
It was just one more mechanical failure, one more thing to adapt to and work around.
Except it wasn’t just about me anymore. For the first time since my discharge—maybe since I’d left home—I’d started imagining a future that included someone else. Someone who might want the kind of life I wasn’t sure I could provide.
“Hormone levels are shot,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Common head trauma complication.”
Dom’s casual expression sharpened. “Shit, Finn. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not unexpected,” I shrugged. “TBIs often affect the pituitary gland, which regulates hormone production. Standard complication for guys with my type of injury.” The clinical explanation came easily, creating distance between the facts and their implications.
“But treatable?”
“Maybe. Depends on the underlying cause and how well I respond to hormone replacement therapy. Fifty-fifty chance of maintaining normal function long-term.”
Dom nodded slowly, processing the information. “How are you doing with all this?”
The question was asked carefully, like he knew it was loaded territory.
How was I doing with all this? I was sitting on a private plane across from my successful, happily engaged, happily whole brother—reading test results that confirmed I was broken in yet another fundamental way, while the woman I’d fallen for reminded me our relationship was just pretend and our connection was built on nothing more than pretense.
How was I doing?
“Fine,” I said automatically, jaw ticking slightly. “Just more information to factor into future planning.”
“Finn.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to handle this alone.”
Before I could respond, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent into Jackson Hole. Should have you on the ground in about ten minutes.”
Dom glanced toward the cockpit, then back at me. “We should talk more about this. When you’re ready.”
I nodded, grateful for the interruption and the reprieve it offered from this conversation.
Through the small cabin window, the Teton Range rose ahead of us like jagged teeth against the sky—familiar peaks that should have felt like coming home but instead felt like returning to another life that no longer fit.
The plane banked left, beginning its approach, and I closed my eyes against the dizziness and nausea—more pressure building behind my eyes that had nothing to do with the medical report now.
Dom’s hand landed briefly on my forearm across the table—a gesture of support that said more than words could. I appreciated it, even as I wondered how long it would be before everyone else figured out that the man they thought they knew was mostly just clever camouflage over damaged goods.
The landing gear engaged with a mechanical thump that I felt in my chest, and Jackson Hole’s runway rushed up to meet us, reminding me of how I felt whenever I executed a perfect landing—back when I could trust my body to perform the functions it was designed for.
Back when I was Steady.