The sight of him like that nearly buckles me.
A doctor is at his bedside, flipping through a chart on a tablet, murmuring instructions to a nurse. He looks up as I rush in, my heart pounding. His gaze quickly assesses me. “And you are?”
I swallow hard, struggling to get the words past the lump in my throat. “His wife.”
The doctor nods, accepting it without question, then gestures toward the chair beside the bed. “Sit down. I’ll explain.”
I sink into the seat, my knees trembling, my hand already reaching for Maverick’s, wrapping around his fingers even though it’s limp.
The doctor exhales, his tone calm. “Mr. Hayes sustained a significant concussion. That much was obvious the moment he went down on the field. But his seizure complicates things. This wasn’t his first head injury, was it?”
My chest tightens. “No,” I whisper, guilt crawling hot up my throat. I’ve heard the stories. Seen the way he brushes off headaches. The way he hides the pain with humor.
The doctor nods grimly, as if confirming what he already knows. “That doesn’t surprise me. From his history, it’s clear he’s endured repeated trauma over the years. Football players are highly susceptible to chronic traumatic encephalopathy. CTE. It’s a degenerative brain condition caused by repeated head injuries.”
I look at the doctor wide-eyed, my lips parting, but nothing comes out.
The doctor continues, voice steady. “Symptoms can develop gradually—memory loss, mood swings, difficulty concentrating—but repeated concussions speed up the process. The brain becomes more fragile with each impact. Tonight’s hit may have triggered a seizure because the cumulative trauma has reached a tipping point.”
I press my free hand to my mouth, choking on a sob. My other hand grips Maverick’s limp fingers.
The doctor continues, his voice gentle yet heavy. “We’ll be running more tests—an MRI, EEG monitoring—to rule out any acute bleeding or swelling. But I won’t lie to you. The risk is real. Each time he takes the field, each time he absorbs that kind of impact, he’s increasing the likelihood of permanent damage. CTE doesn’t go away. It doesn’t heal. It only progresses.”
His words echo through me, louder than the monitors and my heartbeat.
Permanent. Degenerative. Progressing.
I glance at Maverick’s face, so pale and still, and my chest suddenly feels like it’s breaking apart. I thought I was afraid of loving him and losing myself. But this, this is so much worse.
Because loving him means one day, no matter what, I might losehim.
The doctor closes his chart with a soft click. “He’s stable for now. Rest is critical. The seizure has passed, but we’ll need to keep him under close observation.” He pauses, his eyes steady on mine. “Prepare yourself, Mrs. Hayes. Football may not be an option anymore.”
I nod, but I can’t find the words. My throat feels raw, and my chest feels hollow.
The doctor hesitates, just for a beat, before stepping closer. His hand rests gently on my shoulder, the weight warm and steady against the tremor running through me.
“You’re here,” he says softly, his voice free of medical formality. For a moment, it’s not a doctor speaking—it’s a man who has been in too many rooms like this. “That’s what matters most right now.”
I swallow hard, my throat constricted with tears, but I nod. It’s all I can do.
He pulls back, his hand sliding away. The door opens with a soft hiss, and he slips out; the latch clicks shut.
And just like that, I’m left alone with him.
The silence presses down, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor and the hiss of the oxygen line.
I pull my chair closer until the metal legs scrape against the tile, the sound jarring in the quiet. My knees bump the edge of the bed. Maverick’s hand lies limp on the blanket, palm open, calluses rough even at rest. I slide my fingers over his, curling them into mine, trying to hold on as if I can anchor him here with me.
His skin is warm, but his face is pale, lacking the sun-kissed color I know. Sweat beads form at his hairline, blond strands sticking to his forehead. He appears too still, too different from the Maverick who fills every room he enters.
“I should’ve been there,” I whisper, my words trembling. “I saw it happen, Mav on TV. I saw you go down, and my heart just—” My chest tightens, the sob rising before I can finish. “I thought I lost you.”
The monitor maintains a steady rhythm, unaffected.
I press his hand harder between mine, desperate. “I’ve been so fucking stupid. Letting Jax’s voice stay in my head, letting fear make me believe that running was safer than staying. That pushing you away would hurt less than lettingyou love me.” Tears blur my vision until his face becomes a smear of pale and shadow. “But the truth is, it hurts more. So much more.”
A tear slips down my cheek and splashes onto his wrist, forming a dark dot on his skin.
