I just sit there, numb and breathing wrong, while Jade and Blakely fill the room with noise so I don’t have to hear the silence.
And somewhere in the back of my mind—like a distant lighthouse—I know Logan will be here soon.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with that.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with any of it.
But the thought of him walking through the door is the first thing in days that feels like a thread I might actually be able to hold onto.
42
LOGAN
The PCU training facility smells like rubber and protein powder and somebody’s bad decision to microwave tuna in the staff kitchenette.
It’s familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. Not comfort—memory. A place where I used to belong without thinking about it. A place where my body used to be an answer instead of a question mark.
Now I walk in, and every step feels like I’m asking permission.
Coach’s office is down the hall. The indoor turf is to the left. Weight room behind glass. All of it humming—barbells clanging, whistles, music thumping in the distance, the kind of energy that used to light me up.
Today it just…stares at me.
“Brooks!”
I glance up and spot Trent, one of the sports med guys, jogging over with a tablet in his hand and that always-on grin like he’s trying to convince me this is fun.
“Please don’t say anything encouraging,” I warn.
Trent laughs. “I was gonna say you look great.”
“I look like a man who’s been humbled by the concept of stairs.”
“Fair.” He points at the table near the turf. “Come on. We’ve got you for an update today.”
Update.
That word should feel neutral. Clinical.
For me, it’s a verdict.
Four months post-op. Triple tear. December surgery. Now it’s nearly mid-April, and the draft is in two days, which means the NFL is a loud presence in my life, even though I’m not invited to the party.
Trent guides me to the mat area, where Dr. Mercer is already waiting with Mara, who looks like she could bench press my entire existence.
Dr. Mercer gives me a nod. “Logan.”
“Doc.”
Mara gestures at my leg. “No brace today?”
“No,” I say. “Haven’t worn one in weeks.”
“Good,” she says, like she approves. “Let’s see what you’ve earned.”
That’s the thing about rehab. It’s not given. It’s not granted.
It’s earned, rep by rep, through boredom and pain and swallowing your pride until it sits in your stomach like a rock.
