Chapter Eighteen
Braden
Trauma impacts everyone differently.
I learned this at too young of an age, when I’d watched my parents go from slightly concerned over my sister being ill on vacation to full-on panicking when they realized she couldn’t move her body.
For some, everything is bright and crisp and clear, every action that needs to be taken written out in front of them like red neon lights against a black sky. That was how it was for my mom. She was on the move before any of us.
For some, there’s a calmness that washes over, like we realize we’re the anchor in a storm and that’s our only job — to keep things steady. That was my dad. He was there to anchor my mom, to hold my sister’s hand like he wasn’t worried at all, to hold me like everything was fine.
And for some, it’s a fog — a thick, heavy, and suffocating thing that paralyzes. It’s this realization that you’re powerless and stuck, that you can’t see or feel anything clearly because the only way your body knows how to protect you is to shut down.
That was how it was for me.
I’d felt it with my sister, when Mom had climbed into the ambulance with her and Dad and I had followed behind. When we got her diagnosis. When I heard the words paralyzed and rare disease and no cure.
And it was all rushing back to me again now as I watched training staff rush out to Emily, knowing I couldn’t do a damn thing but stand here and watch and wait.
It was a good thing my body had this reaction. It was a good thing the chemicals rushing through my brain made my feet feel like concrete blocks, that a fog so dense I couldn’t see through it had moved in and rendered me immobile.
Because if I had my mother’s instinct, I’d be running out there, too.
And I couldn’t do that — not without raising every eyebrow on this sideline and up in the box, too.
So I stayed.
Or… my body stayed.
I wasn’t sure I was still inside it.
Everything beyond the fifty-yard line blurred, like someone had smeared the edges of the world with their thumb, but I could see her.
I could always see her. Emily was on the ground, curled in on herself, clutching her arm, and there was a part of me that registered it clinically — trainers moving in, teammates stepping back, the routine dissolving into controlled mayhem.
But the rest of me was screaming.
Go.
Just go.
Run to her.
Fuck what anyone thinks.
Fuck what happens next.
It would take five seconds to cross the field. Maybe less. I could already see it, the path between bodies, the way I’d drop to my knees beside her, the way I’d ask her where it hurt, how bad, if she could move her fingers. I’d carry her off myself if I had to.
My weight shifted forward.
I took a step I didn’t actually feel. I couldn’t feel anything except the pull toward her, like something in my chest had been hooked and reeled in.
Go.
I took another step, this one registering.
Someone said something near me — my name, maybe — but it sounded far away, distorted, like I was underwater.
I was just about to run when it felt like a hand slammed against my chest to stop me.
It wasn’t physical. No teammates had come over to me. No one noticed the internal battle I was currently fighting for my life in.
The version of me that had been built for this, trained for this, conditioned for this exact kind of moment snapped into place like a seatbelt locking.
Do not move.
Do not react.
Do not make this about anything other than the game you are about to play.
You have responsibilities.
You have a job to do.
And this is exactly why you never should have gotten mixed up with Emily to begin with.
My jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as the two instincts collided, one trying to drag me forward, the other holding me in place with a grip just as strong.
If I ran out there, it wouldn’t be perceived as normal concern. None of my teammates were moving. The trainers had it handled. There was no reason for me to go.
It would lead to questions.
To attention.
Possibly, to headlines.
And neither of us needed that.
My job was to stay put. Emily would have told me as much if she could jump across that field and into my brain.
And still…
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms as I forced myself to stay rooted, to let the fog do what it did best — dull the edges, mute the impulse, keep me from doing something I couldn’t undo.
Across the field, she started to move.
The trainers helped her sit up first, one of them talking to her, checking her, hands careful as they assessed whatever damage had been done. She nodded at something they said, her face tight, and even from here I could see the way she was trying to hold it together.
She pushed to her feet.
Relief hit fast and sharp when she stood on her own, when she didn’t collapse again, when her legs held steady beneath her.
But her arm—
Her right wrist was cradled close to her body, the other hand wrapped around it protectively, her fingers pressing in like she was trying to contain the pain. One of the trainers stayed close at her back, guiding her, another just in front, clearing the path as they started toward the sideline.
Toward me.
Every step she took looked controlled, careful, but her face betrayed her. She winced, just slightly, with each movement, her lips pressed thin, her brows drawn together in a way that made something in my chest twist hard.
I couldn’t breathe correctly.
Not with her getting closer.
Not with the distance shrinking and every instinct in me clawing to close it faster.
And then her eyes found mine.
Everything else dropped out — the hum of the stadium, the sun peeking through the clouds above — all of it faded until it was just her and me and the space between us.
The fog cracked, and that other instinct took over.
I stepped toward her quickly — one, two, three.
I didn’t even remember deciding to do it, didn’t remember overriding the mental part that had locked me down just moments before. All I knew was that I was closer now, close enough to see the shine of pain in her eyes, close enough to see the way she swallowed like she was trying to stay strong.
Close enough to go the rest of the way.
And then, like she sensed me, Emily’s eyes cut through the crowd of dancers and players giving way around her and those deep brown eyes locked right on mine.
She shook her head.
It was small. Subtle. Anyone else might have missed it, but I didn’t.
It hit like a wall.
You can’t.
The words weren’t spoken, but I heard them anyway, loud and clear.
You can’t.
My body obeyed before my mind caught up, stopping mid-stride like I’d been yanked back by a rope. My arms fell uselessly at my sides, my hands opening and closing like I didn’t know what to do with them now that I couldn’t reach for her.
Couldn’t help her.
Couldn’t do a damn thing.
My breath came out rough, uneven, like it didn’t belong to me as I just stood there and watched.
She tried to give me a smile, like it was her job to reassure me when she was the one injured.
But that smile was small and weak and nothing like the ones she usually gave me, nothing like the ones that lit up her whole face.
This one barely made it past her lips before it faltered, before the pain pulled it back down again.
It gutted me.
And then she was turning away.
“Hey.”
The word came from Kyle, his hand finding my shoulder. He frowned at me, looking from me to Emily and back again.
“She’ll be all right,” he promised me. “Relax, man. Trainers got her.”
He gave me a little shake, but I could see it in his eyes.
He was wondering why I cared so much.
He could see right through the bullshit.
The trainers guided Emily toward the tunnel, their hands steady at her back, their voices low as they talked her through it, and I stood there like I was anchored to the turf, like if I moved now I might shatter completely.
She didn’t look back again, and she didn’t need to.
I stayed right where she left me.
Helmet in my hand. Heart tripping in my chest.
And when the whistle blew and the team started moving, when it was time to lock in, to focus, to do the one thing I’d built my entire life around—
I didn’t know how.
Not when it felt like the most important part of me had just been walked off that field.