Chapter 49
BECK
Ishove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie as I walk through the automatic doors, my stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the guy I’m here to see.
Logan’s surgery is finally finished. ACL. MCL. Meniscus. Triple tear. They’d been waiting for the swelling to go down before they operated, and I haven’t seen him since it happened. He didn’t want anyone around before, but now that it’s over, I’m not staying away.
The orthopedic wing is quiet, my footsteps echoing down the hallway as I round the corner toward the waiting room—and then I stop dead.
Sitting there, leaning back in those awful chairs like they own the place, are Carter and Jaxon.
For a second, I think I’m seeing things.
Jaxon looks up first, his grin breaking wide when he spots me. “Harrison!”
Carter turns, too, that easy smirk sliding onto his face. “Well, look who finally showed up.”
I blink. “What the hell are you two doing here?”
Jaxon stands, pulling me into one of those quick, back-slapping hugs that guys like us do.
“Heard about Logan’s surgery. We were both off this week, so we hopped a flight. No way we weren’t showing up.”
Carter claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Kid’s family. We’re not missing this.”
I shake my head, still half-surprised. “You guys are insane.”
“Yeah,” Carter says easily. “And Logan’s ours. You think we’d stay away?”
Something warm settles in my chest despite the sterile surroundings. These guys graduated last year, moved on to the league, but right now they’re just…here. Same as me.
We grab a few seats near the corner, catching up while we wait for the surgeon to finish.
It’s easy, falling back into conversation with them.
They ask about the season, I ask about theirs.
Carter’s thriving, Jaxon’s as consistent as ever, both of them swapping road trip stories and game-day chaos like they never left.
Then Carter leans back, stretches his legs out, and eyes me with a grin. “So, Harrison. You ready for the draft? Pro Day? All that fun stuff?”
I let out a short laugh. “Define ‘ready.’”
Jaxon raises a brow. “You thinking about it seriously?”
“Yeah,” I say after a moment. “I’ve been talking to Coach. If things go well, I’ll declare. I think I’ve got a couple good years in me, maybe more if I don’t get wrecked in the process. Then figure it out from there.”
Carter whistles low. “Man, it’s wild. Feels like yesterday you were the quiet one at parties, watching everyone else get into trouble, including that time you called the cops for a noise complaint at your own house.”
I smirk. “Yeah, and now I’m the one dealing with everyone’s trouble.”
Jaxon chuckles. “You’ll kill it. Teams love linebackers who can lead. And from what I’ve heard, you’re already doing that.”
Their confidence in me hits harder than I expect. These two have lived what I’m just starting to consider, and hearing them say it like it’s a fact, not a maybe, brings me a sense of peace about my choice.
Before I can respond, a nurse pokes her head into the waiting room. “Are you boys here for Logan Brooks?”
We all stand at once, Jaxon taking the lead. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You can come back now,” she says with a small smile.
My pulse kicks up as I follow Carter and Jaxon down the hallway. I don’t know what shape Logan’s in, but I do know this: he’s not facing it alone.
The room is already pretty full when we step inside. Logan’s propped up slightly, his leg encased in a bulky brace and elevated on pillows. Coach is sitting in the corner, hands folded over his knee, eyes flicking up the second we walk in.
“Good to see you, Jaxon,” Coach says, his voice a mix of surprise and warmth when he spots Jaxon and Carter behind me. “And that other one with you. Didn’t expect this crew.”
Jaxon grins. “Couldn’t stay away.”
Carter smirks and shakes his girlfriend’s dad’s hand. “Someone’s gotta keep Matthews in line.”
Logan groggily turns his head toward us, his eyelids heavy from the meds. “I must be hallucinating,” he mutters, his voice scratchy.
Carter crosses his arms and smirks. “Nah, man. This is real. You just look like hell.”
Logan huffs a weak laugh, shaking his head slowly. “Good to know you’re still an ass, Hayes.”
“Consistency’s key,” Carter fires back without missing a beat.
The levity in the room settles some of the weight in the air. Even Coach cracks a faint smile, leaning back in his chair.
There’s a soft knock, and then the orthopedic surgeon steps in, flipping through Logan’s chart. She looks around at the collection of large football players filling the space. “Quite the audience,” she says mildly.
The doctor glances at Logan. “Do you want them to step out?”
Logan shifts on the bed, his gaze sweeping over us—me, Jaxon, Carter, Coach—and he shakes his head slowly. “Nah. They can stay.”
The doctor nods once and sets the chart down at the foot of the bed.
“All right. I’ll be honest with you, Logan.
The damage was significant. It looks like there were micro tears in the ACL and MCL before the full tear happened Friday.
That’s likely why the injury looked so bad on the field—it wasn’t just one tear.
It was multiple structures failing at once. ”
The air in the room tightens.
Logan swallows, eyes fixed on her. “And?”
She folds her hands, her tone blunt but not unkind.
“We repaired everything successfully. ACL, MCL, meniscus. The good news is, you’re young and in excellent shape.
That gives you an edge. But this will be a long rehab—nine to twelve months, minimum.
Maybe more. There’s no guarantee you’ll get back to full playing strength, but it’s possible with commitment and patience. No shortcuts.”
No one says anything for a beat.
Logan’s jaw clenches. Even groggy, I can see the moment the reality hits him like a linebacker. This isn’t just a few missed games. It’s a year, maybe more, and potentially his chances of playing in the NFL.
Carter shifts against the wall, the smirk fading into something more serious. Jaxon leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. Coach stays quiet, but takes off his hat, running a hand over his balding head before putting it back on, his tell tale sign of stress and nerves.
Logan finally nods once, his voice rough. “Okay. Tell me what I need to do.”
The doctor’s expression softens slightly. “That attitude will help you. We’ll get physical therapy started as soon as you’re cleared to move. The first few weeks are about range of motion and controlling swelling. It’s not glamorous, but it’s very important.”
She goes over a few more instructions, checking his brace and explaining post-op care before heading out.
The silence she leaves behind is heavier than before.
Carter lets out a low whistle. “Damn, man. You’ve got a mountain ahead of you.”
Logan exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. I know.”
Jaxon leans over and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Good thing you’ve got a team that doesn’t go anywhere.”
Logan’s gaze flicks to each of us. There’s fear in his eyes, but something else, too. Determination.
I pull my chair closer. “We’ve got you,” I say quietly.
As the room falls into silence again, I glance at Logan. He’s quiet, but there’s a new kind of steel in his eyes. He knows what’s ahead, it’s brutal, but he’s already squaring his shoulders against it.
And as I look around at the people in the room, Coach, Carter, Jaxon, I realize he’s not the only one who’s ready. We all are.
I’ve faced down roaring stadiums packed with tens of thousands of people. I’ve stood on the goal line, helmet in hand, seconds ticking down, the entire game balanced on whether I can make the right call.
None of that compares to the weird, crawling nerves currently running up my spine as I stand at the front of a classroom with Sophie.
It’s not even a big class. It’s finals week, so the only people here are our professor and three faculty members sitting at a long table, notebooks open, pens ready. No stadium. No crowd. Just a small room, too-quiet air, and the weight of months of work.
Sophie clicks to the first slide, her confidence effortless.
“Good morning. I’m Sophie Prescott, and this is Beck Harrison.
Today, we’ll be presenting our research project on the clinical presentation and diagnostic process for schizophrenia, along with the long-term realities faced by patients and their families. ”
Her voice sounds calm and collected as she continues, just like it always does.
I glance at her as she talks through the opening framework, and some of the tension in my shoulders eases. We’ve practiced this. We know our material inside and out.
When she nods toward me, I pick up right where we rehearsed.
“Diagnosis is typically made through clinical evaluation, psychiatric interviews, ruling out other causes, and longitudinal observation of symptoms. There’s no single blood test or scan that gives a definitive answer.
It can take months, sometimes years, before a patient receives an accurate diagnosis.
And that delay can impact not just the patient, but their entire support network. ”
The words come easier than I expect. We alternate seamlessly, Sophie walking them through case studies while I break down diagnostic criteria, treatment protocols, and challenges in access to care.
By the time we reach the final slide, it doesn’t feel like a performance anymore. It feels like telling the truth.
When we finish, the room is quiet for a moment before the professor smiles. “Very thorough, both of you. Thank you. We have a few questions.”
One of the faculty members leans forward. “You mentioned the realities of growing up around mental illness and how diagnostic delays affect families. That was a particularly compelling section. How were you able to present that so authentically?”
I can feel Sophie’s eyes on me. We talked about this possibility. She told me it was my call.
I clear my throat and shift my weight slightly, but I meet the question head-on.
“I grew up with it,” I say simply. “My mom was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was young. It wasn’t straightforward.
For a long time, people thought it was something else, stress, depression, bad luck.
It took years before anyone really understood what was going on.
And by then, a lot of damage had already been done. ”
The room goes still, not uncomfortably, but with the kind of quiet that means people are truly listening.
“I watched my family navigate misdiagnoses, hospitalizations, the stigma,” I continue.
“I saw firsthand how my mom struggled to hold on to pieces of herself while the system tried to figure out how to help her. So, when we talk about delays, or lack of resources, or how critical early intervention is…it’s not hypothetical for me. ”
The faculty member nods slowly, their expression softening. “Thank you for sharing that.”
Sophie steps in smoothly, building on what I said, tying it back to our research and recommendations for early intervention programs. She’s brilliant at this, taking something raw and anchoring it in data without losing the heart behind it.
When it’s all over, the panel thanks us, compliments our structure and delivery, and dismisses us with smiles.
As we step out into the hallway, I exhale slowly, like I’d been holding my breath without realizing it. Sophie’s hand slips into mine, warm and grounding.
“You were incredible,” she says softly.
I glance down at her, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “We were.”
And for the first time in a long time, talking about my mom doesn’t feel like ripping open an old wound. It feels like claiming my story.